Momma Mondays - Pull up!

My mother-in-law visited this weekend and not only spoiled her grandson, but also her daughter-in-law. I could really get used to having someone with her energy around, doing our laundry, fixing home cooked meals, and cleaning my kitchen. Also, I got to get a mani/pedi with my good friend Becky because Knox's Grannie stayed home and offered free babysitting!

But the best thing that happened this weekend was that she got to see a milestone: Knox pulled up for the first time! He stood all by himself, looked at us with a huge smile, and then plopped back down on his bottom. But it was a fabulous moment and one I'm glad she got to experience. Just like I wrote recently, it kills me that he doesn't get to spend more time with his grandparents, so when moments like this happen live - right before their eyes - it really brings me joy.

Here's a little video for those who, like me, doubted it would ever happen:

Kimpossible (Grannie) hollered, "Can he do this?" from the living room as I was doing the dishes, so I ran in wondering what he was eating/playing with/destroying. What I actually saw was his fascination with Excedrine and to just what lengths he'd go to get a bottle. 

Momma Mondays - Cheerio!

My son has always been big for his age. He was 21 pounds by the time he was 9 months, had a bountiful head of hair, and he had 8 glorious teeth as well. He was in the 90th percentile for height and 75th for weight. This 9 month old was often mistaken for being at least one year.

Although he grew quickly and sturdily, he lagged behind in other developmental areas. He didn't crawl til he was 10.5 months, is still not standing, and has not shown interest in solid food unless it is of the finely pureed variety.

Now, my friend Ellen has a daughter who's been eating Cheerios by the handful since she was 7 months old. I'm not saying that Knox should compete; I'm just saying that he has twice as many teeth as she does and is three months older. I don't care that he didn't eat Cheerios at 7 months, but at one year? Come on.

So I've been working with him. At his 9 month check up, the doctor said we should be thickening his food and I should be offering him O-cereal, banana, toast, crackers, pieces of fruit, etc. He didn't believe me that Knox gagged the minute I forced a Cheerio into his mouth. He had never seen a baby clamp his lips closed tightly and jerk his head from side to side the minute he saw a Cheerio headed his way. The doctor couldn't believe that a baby Knox's size and age was that big under the simple diet of breastmilk and Stage 1 jarred baby food three times a day.

After this check up, I rolled up my sleeves and set to work. Every day, I attempted to give Knox three Cheerios. I forced them into his mouth or broke them into thirds and sneaked them into his food. The moment Knox felt the crunchy object on the tip of his tongue (the tip!) he would gag as if it were all the way back in his throat and unless I scraped it off, he would make himself throw up. So then we would both take a break. Give it a day or two and try a graham cracker or banana instead, which he also denied. If it didn't come from a blender, he hated it all.

And during this solid food boot camp, I ate this stuff, too. With gusto! I would chomp down on a Cheerio like it was a four star meal. I would dramatize the biting so he could see my teeth chomping. I would give myself high praise, clapping for myself, and mmm-mmming like it was super delicious. After a month of this, Knox started to open his mouth when I would offer him a bite... and then he would spit it out immediately. By 11 months, he was showing interest in the food, touching it and throwing it on the ground. (He really hates when the cereal gets soggy and sticks to his fingers.)

And finally, last week, he opened his mouth and allowed me to give him a Cheerio. He bit down, worked it around in his mouth, and I gave him oodles of praise. I yelled, danced, cheered, and clapped. "Go Knox! Momma's so proud of you!" And then he giggled and spat it out.

But today - oh glorious today - my son ate a Cheerio. Not only did he eat it, but he fed himself! Not only did he feed himself a Cheerio, he popped 'em in one after another like a starving man! I am so happy. He is one year and one week old and finally eating Cheerios like his other baby pals. I know this milestone isn't walking, or talking, or anything huge to most folks, but I'm the proudest woman on the planet. And although I realize that this is his moment, I feel like a huge success myself.

Momma Mondays - A Regular Guy

First let me start by saying that every time I try to write a quick blog post, my 10.5 month old ends up scooting over and getting trapped under the desk. For example, at the present, he is already poking my toes with his index finger, the little E.T. in training that he is.

Second, brace yourself for this post. If you're not a parent, you may not want to read ahead. And even if you are, you may find the subject a little hard. I have to tell you that this little whippersnapper still has the worst constipation known to man. Yeah, I went there. I'm sorry, but listen, it's been 3 months now and we're starting to get worried. He associates going to the bathroom with pain, so we see him trying his hardest to hold it in. When I see that red face and hear that grunting, I swoop in and rip off his diaper faster than you can say, "Is this blog post going to get graphic?" (it's not, btw)

People say, "Wow, he's already potty trained? That's amazing!

Well, yeah, since he's been 8.5 months, he's gone number two on the toilet. (He even has his own little seat.) But it's not a good thing. He is in no way potty trained. I think to be potty trained, children are supposed to let you know when they have to go and you help them go on the potty. In this case, he tries stealthily to hold it in, wiggling around so that the floor and diaper help push it in; but I intervene and force him to sit on the pot and rub his tummy so he can't fight it. He cries and holds onto my neck, pushing those little fingers into my skin, and bounces up and down. He wants to withhold, but gravity wins. It's awful. I hate it for him. (Also, I don't exactly have the best seat in the house for these movements, considering where one's face ends up in a poo-time hug.)

The poor guy empties his entire intestines and then doesn't go again for five days. The last time he dropped a hard-as-a-rock load, his papaw said in amazement, "Man! Looks like the boy lost a few pounds."

There are a few reasons I'm sharing. One, we've been to the pediatrician four times and they keep telling us to give him more fiber. Knox gets a spoonful of Benefiber, a bottle of prune juice and water, homemade veggies, organic baby food (fruits and veggies only), and breastmilk every single day. His system refuses to react to such remedies as Karo syrup or suppositories anymore. (It's almost as if he's built up an immunity to these things now.) The only thing that makes him go is an enema, which was a last resort we finally took after 2.5 months of watching him suffer and trying everything else.

Which leads me to the second reason I'm sharing: If you're a parent out there that's struggling with this same issue, you're not alone. And if you have struggled and have answers, please feel free to share them with me. But please don't be like the model who saw/heard Knox going in the stall the other day after my audition. He was crying, had snot running down his nose, belly hurting and mood foul. My heart was breaking for him. It was the craziest poo I'd ever seen - like twice an adult's in length - and this skinny blond twenty-something said quite judgmentally, "Why don't you give him prunes?" (Because, you know, I'm such an idiot and such a bad person that I relish the current state of affairs, love watching my son suffer, and wouldn't have thought of prunes.)

(side note - Incredibly, Knox just interrupted my writing by scooting under my desk and letting out a strong shout. Seriously? He just made a poo in his diaper and it was too painful to sit on, therefore interrupting his playing. I changed him and took a pic, but won't post it here. Let's just say... baseball.)

And now I tell you, this is why we have an appointment with a gastroenterologist this afternoon. Although I am uplifted by the fact that his bowels moved without my assistance just now, he still doesn't fill his britches with soft squishy baby poo, and that's a problem. Please pray for little Knox and hope that we get some answers today. We hope it's nothing serious, but while we're happy to see our son thrive in unique ways, this is one area of his life where we wish he were a regular guy.

Momma Mondays - My Infant, My Little Man

Sarah Mlynowski with me & Knox

 So yesterday after church, my husband and I strolled into Manhattan, baby in tow, and hit up young adult author Sarah Mlynowski's publishing event for Ten Things We Did at Books of Wonder. She's an author whom I admire and I was thrilled to see her tweet about it, so our little family made a last minute dash into the city. First of all, if you haven't read her books, you should. Bras & Broomsticks made me a fan, so the Magic in Manhattan series is one I recommend. But I digress...

Sarah's two year old daughter was running around "helping." She brought books from fans to her momma for her autograph, a really sweet little go-between to be sure. This little curly blond head could be seen bobbing around the folding chairs and under tables, her father following a few steps behind just to keep the mayhem to a minimum. She was very sweet, getting close to Knox as he sat on the floor, chewing on the cover of her momma's new book. Watching her squat next to him curiously, and watching Knox reach toward her sweet face, it all made me nostalgic. But how? Knox is only 10 months? Can you be nostalgic in the future? (much like London in like Cat Patrick's debut novel Forgotten)

I don't know if it sounds crazy, but that's what happened. I saw myself this time next year, maybe at a signing or my own event, and imagined my own little guy running around the bookstore. I'm sure he'll be way more of a terror than sweet Chloe was, especially if the pushing, biting, and squealing we're seeing at 10 months is a sign; but he'll be there "helping" his momma work her hustle.

Knox, an early reader

He's just growing like a weed. His head is completely covered with thick light brown hair and his face is settling into that of a toddler... already! He has these deep blue eyes and a beautiful smile full of eight teeth. I look at this (very) young man and wonder, "Where did my baby go?" My baby couldn't clap his pudgy paws together and squeal in delight when he garnered his own applause. My baby couldn't use his index finger a la E.T. to knock down block towers or touch strangers in the cheek or grab their hair (apologies to Susane Colasanti, btw). My little baby couldn't scoot all around the room on his butt or try with all of his might to pull the Safety First outlet covers off the wall.

But at the same time, my little baby couldn't hug my neck tight or pat me on the back.

I guess there are trade offs, but I'm thoroughly understanding the old cliché, "They grow up so fast." I'm trying to hold on to my baby, but even as I watch him right now, struggling on the floor at my feet to push himself into a crawling position, I know he's gaining more and more independence every day. He's learning, growing, turning into a little man right in front of my eyes... and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

(Or is there? I mean, when he first tries to stand up, would it be wrong of me to push him back down?)

YA authors at Sarah's event

Momma Mondays - Nursery Anxiety

When Knox was almost 6 months old, my BFF was in town visiting and stayed home with the baby while Jerrod and I went to church. For the first time since giving birth, my husband put his arm around me during the service, kissed me on the cheek a few times, and took communion with me. We actually listened to the sermon and even followed along with the message notes our church provided, filling in the blanks and reading the scriptures aloud with the rest of the congregation. We weren't rocking the baby, fiddling with the stroller, sneaking out to feed him, or being generally distracted by his utter and all-absorbing cuteness.

Since that day, I have been a broken record:  "It's time to put Knox in the nursery."

But my husband wouldn't hear of it. While I'm home with the baby all day every day, the weekends are 48 hours that Jerrod gets with Knox and he doesn't like to be away from him for a second. So as the baby has grown, gotten bigger, louder, and much more mobile, we have gone through sermons with the little guy squirming on our laps. With each squeal and gurgle, members of the church sitting close enough to us would turn and smile... or just turn... and I hated distracting them from a message that God could really be trying to apply in their lives. "We've got to start putting him in the nursery," I kept saying.  "They like it," he would reply.

A few weeks ago, the pastor was preaching on asking God to use us in powerful ways, but said that we need to be sure that's what we really want because God will answer. So, for example, if you pray for patience, God doesn't just magically make you a patient person; instead, He puts obstacles in your path so that you might exercise patience, to which 9 month old Knox loudly yelled, "WHOA!" (thus, providing me with an opportunity to practice patience as everyone looked around).

So yesterday, my husband surprised me by saying, "Are we putting Knox in the nursery today?" I couldn't believe it. I had been wanting to for a while and he was actually suggesting it!

Confidently, I marched down the hallway to the nursery with the baby on my hip. As the girl started to fill out a name tag to stick on Knox's back, I felt my confidence falter, but only a tad. We were given a number that corresponded to Knox's so that, in an emergency, it would flash on the screen behind the pastor and we could be notified to report to the nursery. I glanced at the number and tucked it into my front pocket where I was sure not to lose it, then walked to the nursery room for drop off.

At the door, I saw a very sweet and very pregnant woman watching over six babies under the age of 2. My confidence, once again, slipped a bit. I had left Knox with a babysitter a handful of times (4, but who's counting?), but those were one-on-one situations where he was given 100% attention. How will this girl wrangle all of them? What if they all dirty their diapers at the same time? What if they all start crying at the same time? What if Knox needs a hug and she's busy? (ahhh, yes, the Crazy seeped in)

"Do you need some help?" I asked her, Knox still firmly on my hip.
"Well, another girl is here but she just took her daughter to the bathroom," she answered, looking toward the door, overwhelmed. A one year old boy on the floor started to cry. "She'll be right back."
"Maybe I should stay?" I offered.
"Yeah, could you?" she asked, "I mean, just til she gets back."

I plopped Knox down on the foam tiles and (ashamed to say so) I felt better that I'd be staying with him. Maybe nursery baby steps were what I- uh, er, Knox- needed.

Just then, the other girl showed up. "Oh here she is. Thanks, but we've got it." They both smiled at me and Knox reached for a rattle. He clapped his hands and ignored me.

"Okay," I said, inching out of the room. I just knew that Knox would realize that I was leaving and lose his mind. I just knew with each step that he was about to go berserk. He's almost 10 months old - all the emails say he should be experiencing separation anxiety; yet rather than sneak out, I said loudly, "Okay, I'll just go then."

Knox heard me and turned. Then, he smiled up at me, a big toothy care-free grin. Without missing a beat, he then turned toward a baby girl beside him and made a grab for her ruffled sock.

So he's fine, I thought to myself. Totally fine. We're late, I should get in there. I turned away and forced myself to walk out of the room, but before I could leave, one of the girls got up from her folding chair and I saw it crash onto the head of the baby boy who was already crying earlier. She rushed to lock the chair and scooped up the baby, obviously feeling terrible. Every reflex in my body caused me to turn back toward my own child, but I forced my brain to win out over my heart: accidents happen, these are good girls, Knox is fine, go to church, meet your husband, step away from the baby.


I hurriedly left the room, a la ripping off a band-aid, and walked quickly to the lobby. When my husband walked in, he headed toward the nursery.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To check on Knox," he said.
I laughed.

And then started to cry.
"Oh, no!" he said, stopping in his tracks. He was on a mission to check on Knox, but when he saw the tears streaming (seriously, it was ridiculous) down my face, he paused to wrap both arms around me. Of course when I pulled away and seemed to have it under control, he made a beeline toward the nursery to peek in.

So yeah, at 9 months, there is separation anxiety. We just thought it would be the baby, not us. We've seen babies cling to their mothers' necks, cry and cry when left alone, be peeled off their daddy's legs; but Knox was fine. We were the ones that were a mess.

During the service, things were actually really nice. Jerrod put his arm around my shoulders, we whispered to each other about verses we like, we had a semblance of lives before the baby. Okay, we're figuring this out. We're getting into a new life rhythm.

Then this message flashed up on screen: PARENT OF CHILD 659 REPORT TO NURSERY.

Jerrod's hand tensed up on my shoulder. I dug into my pocket and held up our number: 669.
Whew, not us. Knox is fine. 

"Maybe I should go check on him, just in case," Jerrod said.

"No," I answered, holding his hand, determined to fight against the cliches of first-time parents and emotional irrationality. "Knox is fine. His is 669."





"Or wait. Is it 699?"


Oh no. Our confidence faltered... again. I shook my head. Either way, Knox is fine. The number that flashed up on screen was... wait, what was that number?




Then the pastor showed a clip from one of the many Rocky movies where Sly is talking to his son. It's a passionate scene in the street, looks cold or rainy, and father and son stand there facing off. Sly tells his son that he is the best thing in his life, his blood, his heart. Tells his son how much he loves him.

When the clip ended and the lights came up, Jerrod turned to me again. "Maybe I should go check on Knox."

"Absolutely," I said.

Of course, Knox was fine. If anything, he was embarrassed that his folks ruined his cred in front of the other babies. Next week, he's gonna have to knock over somebody's block castle or swipe a toy and not share, just to restore his reputation as a tough guy.

Momma Mondays - Roll over, Roll over

There were two in the bed and the little one said, "Roll over, roll over." 

So momma rolled over and got out of bed,

"The baby's too sick, I can't go out," she said.

And in that one little minute, the baby kept with the song,

Just the one in the bed and the little one said, "Roll over, roll over."

Which is just what he did - rolling out of the bed - 

A thud sounded through the house as he landed on his head.

Crying face down with a busted lip

Momma scooped him up and put the baby on her hip.

And she's never felt worse.

Okay, so that's not exactly how the children's song goes, but it's pretty close to what happened last Thursday night while visiting my family on vacation at the Poconos in Pennsylvania. Knox was up all night Wednesday with cold-like symptoms, but seemed to be in a better mood throughout the day Thursday. I was hoping it was just the pollen that had gotten to him, but then that night, he was once again warm and had developed a cough, thus momma-dependent and disinterested in his pack n play, opting rather to sleep with me in my bed.

As usual, I prepared what my husband and I call "Fort Knox" - lining the edges of the bed with pillows - because the last thing I ever wanted to happen to my baby was for him to fall out of bed. He was so sick and cranky (therefore whiny and clingy), so I was lying in bed on my side next to him singing, playing with his hair, and allowing him to breastfeed when he wanted to help soothe him. My sister was patiently waiting for me to make a McDonald's run with her (we were craving milkshakes); but Knox had been fighting falling to sleep for over an hour and I realized that our dairy dream was not to be. As he finally drifted off, I slipped out of bed to tell her that I was going to have to stay.

I grabbed my toothbrush off the dresser and checked the bed. Knox was all the way over to one edge, but the pillows next to him would protect him. I thought about lining the other side too, where I had been lying, but he would have to really roll to get over there which seemed unlikely seeing as A) he was dead asleep (finally), and B) I would be right back. 

Having reenacted the night multiple times out of shame and self-loathing, I can now tell you that I took exactly four steps to the balcony in the hallway outside my room to tell my sister in the den below, "I can't go to McDonald's, Bobbie Jo. He's too sick." To which she replied, "Okay." There. The whole conversation. Succinct. Quick. Non-negligent.

I then took another four steps, peeked in the bedroom where all was well, and took six steps to the bathroom for a quick brushing of the teeth, (which yeah, in hindsight, was pushing it). I got about three back n forths of the brush across one side of my teeth when I heard the sickest, loudest, most shuddersome THUD of my entire life. I knew. I just knew.

I ran to the bedroom with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, the gel paste not even dissolved into that nice foamy lather you really look for when aspiring for fresh breath and a plaque free teeth. There on the thin carpet next to my bed was my nine month old baby, face down, hoarse from bout two of the croup, crying. He had rolled over twice, avoiding the fort like barrier of pillows on 3/4 of the surface area of the bed, and working his way over to where he must've assumed his mother to still be. Alas, she was not. 

I scooped him up, my heart racing. He was still half asleep, eyes puffy and nose running, crying softly in a half sick / half "what just happened" way. He seemed more startled than anything. He clung to me, hugging fiercely, his little hands wrapping around those super tender baby hairs at the back of my neck that always escape my ponytails. I shushed him, rocked him, rubbed his back. I ran downstairs with him to my own mother, explaining what happened, and allowing myself to be soothed by her.

"It's okay," she kept saying. "You're not a bad mother. This happens to everybody." She was saying all the right things, but the bruise on his lip was heart-wrenching. "I'll never forget the first time you fell off the bed."

And that got my attention. My sister and I looked at each other, eyebrows cocked.

My mom continued, "Yeah, all of you all fell off the bed."

And I'm pretty sure that's when I was able to start laughing about it. Cause you know, if it's not one thing, it's ten. And I was so tired and so exhausted and so shaken, that if I didn't laugh, I would surely cry. 

Because, let's be honest. At Christmas, when Knox was really just learning to roll over, my dad said to me, "Just wait til the first time he rolls off the bed." And I said to him, "The first time?" amazed not only that he thought there would ever be a time, not to mention that if there were, I would allow it to happen again.

And it's just funny. I mean, because unbeknownst to me, the early 80's were apparently filled to the brim with several instances of baby-Whitaker nose dives off the couch and bed. It's not enough that it happened to me (more than once), but my brother and sister suffered similar launches. At Christmas when my dad told me that, I remember thinking, "Should I really let them babysit? I mean, what were my parents doing? Why'd they keep putting us up on the bed once we'd rolled off? Just seeing how well we were made?" 

And now, I have become my parents. As my BFF Whitney said, "cut from the same cloth." But truly, I have awesome parents!

So it's a rite of passage. Knox has superhuman healing powers because his busted lip is already a memory, and something he didn't seem to notice while it was there. And although I think I should, I just don't have the energy to beat myself up for it. So I've decided to adopt his daddy's attitude, that falling off the bed will "make him tough."

Okay, bloggies, what's the good word? Any little monkey in the bed stories of your own? Comment here! Make me feel better. :)

Momma Mondays - My First Mother's Day!

Okay, so a big ol' load of bossomeness happened to me today. First, today was Knox's baby dedication at church and he was dressed to the nines! I don't need to tell you how adorable he was... (but I will)... The little man was decked out in a blue and yellow plaid button up with a blue sailboat vest on top and khakis. Can you say, Polo model? It was a gift from Gramma and Granddad, who drove up from Kentucky with my sister for the special occasion. And special it really was. The pastor asked us to pray for our son daily and guide him in his spiritual walk and set a Godly example. Whoa. Talk about feeling like a grown up! But seriously, it was a simple yet important family moment.

Second reason today was killer: I wore a pre-pregnancy dress to church today. Woo-hoo! I filled it out differently than before, (no, my hips are no longer lying), but I felt great. After I gave birth, my acting agent told me, "Nine months up and nine months down." Well, I'm not fit or in shape, but the little tyke is 9 months 2 weeks, and I'm squeezing back into the pre-Knox era clothes and feeling good about it.



Third thing that made today dope was my Mother's Day gift. Knox and his dad got me a Coke and bag of Snickers (my favorite snacks), about 15 new gel ink pens (cause Jerrod always steals mine), and best of all, a really nice card. I have to admit it, right here and now I'll tell you, I love words and I love compliments. Yes! Tell me I'm great and I'll love you forever! No, I know that may sound bad, but sometimes you just want to hear that the work you do every day is noticed. So it was nice to read a sweet note from my guys saying how much they love me and appreciate the little ways that I take care of them (and the big ways, too).  Did I mention the card was in Spanish? My infant is a genius.





Lastly, the day was gorgeous. 70 degrees, my husband grilled out for us on the patio (bone-in pork chops, corn on the cob, steamed broccoli, biscuits, and fresh strawberries), and a nice walk to the park so we could take turns pushing Knox in the swing and riding down the kiddie slides with him in our laps. The definition of greatness was May 8, 2011.

 (Also, I'm a mother. How is that possible? Like, seriously, I'm allowed to raise a child. Is that okay?)

Momma Mondays - Mr. Hyde

Well, well, well. Look who's got an attitude.

His name? Knox Pace

Relationship to the prosecution? Son

Age? 9 months

Granted, the little fellow has been sick for the past two weeks. It should also be noted that he was on steroids for his swollen voice box and windpipe. And I'll concede that he was so stuffed up, that he could hardly breathe. But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: are these just causes to twirl his stuffed animals above his head and launch them out of his crib in a fit of frustration? Do these reasons justify the defendant's blatant use of fists and teeth (punching and biting, respectfully)? Should this child continue to wreak havoc on his family while providing none of the financial or household support, yet contributing with glee to the sleep deprivation and random sprays of urine on all members present?

I suggest that you look past his Dr. Jekyll facade when determining your verdict in the case of Tired Momma vs. Strong-Willed Infant. Look past his mesmerizing blue eyes that sparkle when his father walks in the door after a long day of work. Try to see beyond a dimpled, wide-stretched smile that flaunts five glorious tooth buds and is flashed to family and strangers alike. I urge you to beware his chunky little cheeks and meaty little thighs, take caution from that round squishy belly and those little bubble toes. When he says, "Da-da," and coos, "Ma-ma," close your ears to such sweetness, block out the squeals of delight as he learns to clap his hands and practices an awkward, yet certain wave. Do not succumb to his precious giggle, and the adorable babbling he mutters as he plays contentedly by himself.

Oh wait. Where was I? The baby just stopped playing and twisted around with both arms up, held them there and fussed until I reached down and allowed him to give me a hug and let him gnaw on my cheek with a slobbery open-mouthed kiss. Then he let go and smiled before turning back to his blocks again.

All charges are dropped. He is innocent when guilty, perfectly imperfect, and incapable of being culpable. Humbly, I rest my case.

Momma Mondays - "Tylenol?!"

Oh dear blogsphere, I have been dying for today to roll around so that you can share in another jaw-dropping moment of My Life As A Queens Momma.

As you know, my 9 month old son has been sick for over a week, but the blog post du jour goes way back to where it all began last Monday evening. Knox started feeling rotten Sunday night and neither of us got much sleep. I was worried and took him to the doctor Monday afternoon, but the pediatrician said he only had a cold and sore throat and that there wasn't much I could do except to give him the generic brand of Tylenol if he felt warm or maybe to help him sleep. It was a virus, not infection, so he'd have to let it run its course.

When my husband came home, we decided to take the little sick patient for a walk around the building. This is always a welcome distraction. A jaunt through the halls and down the elevator helps Knox get his mind off of his runny nose and aches. He loves watching the bright red elevator numbers move as we climb floors and he could watch the fountain in our front lobby for an hour if we'd let him.

So after a while, he started rubbing his eyes and whining a pitiful little whine. He had started to develop a deep cough and clearly felt just awful. We agreed to give him a steam bath and start his bedtime routine, hoping that he could get a little rest. The feeling of helplessness we had as parents was overwhelming, and as the baby started to cry, we headed back upstairs.

And that's when we shared the elevator with Bulgarian Woman Upstairs (BWU).

"Oh, is the baby sick?" BWU asked.

"Yeah, he's got a cold," I said.

"Are you going to medicate him organically?" BWU asked, nodding her head and pushing up her glasses. She wrinkled her nose and tried to get close to Knox, but my husband ran block pretty well. She straightened up and looked down at me. "Non-traditional medication is the best way to help them," she said in her thick and accusatory accent.

"Um, well, we'll probably give him some Tylenol before bed," I said, wondering how an elevator ride to the first floor from the lobby could possibly take that long.

The doors opened and our family stepped out as BWU exclaimed, "Tylenol?!" I turned back to see her cock her eyebrows and shake her head.

"That's what his pediatrician recommended," I said from the hallway, desperate for some reason to defend myself.

As the elevator doors closed, she clenched her teeth and sharply inhaled. "Tylenol," she repeated as if the word alone had a sour taste. And then she was gone.

My son's cry from our doorway was the only thing in the world that could have squelched the impulse I had in that moment to tear through the STAIRS doorway and race the elevator up to her floor. This woman, this insane, trouble-making, selfish, and idiotic woman had the nerve to judge my parenting.

Let's go back... back back back in time... to previous encounters with Bulgarian Woman Upstairs:

Encounter #1.
The first time I met BWU was over 2 years ago. The elevators were being replaced so the whole building had to use the stairs. I had just gotten back from Manhattan and headed upstairs to my apartment, when I was suddenly shocked to find a blond little toddler in the middle of the dimly lit concrete stairway. She was on all fours trying to crawl up the stairs. I supposed she could walk, but she was obviously still young enough to be wearing a diaper and she was alone.
"Where's your mommy?" I asked her, bending down to spot her in the case of a stumble.
She pushed her hair out of her face and continued to crawl upward, shaky but determined.
"Come on, baby!" BWU shouted from above. Annoyed at having to wait, she finally stalked down the stairway and found her child with me, a stranger. "She's taking forever, right? I just needed a cigarette, you know? And the baby takes forever. I couldn't carry her and the laundry, so I went on up. I need another one already."

Encounter #2.
"Hi," I said to BWU and baby one afternoon a few weeks later.
"Listen," she said. "I need to go back to school so I was thinking that you could babysit the baby 3 times a week for me. I can't afford to get a nanny, but you're already at home so it's perfect."
(Do I even need to comment here readers? She wants a stranger to babysit her daughter, not to mention that my time isn't of value.)

Encounter #3
Last spring, Jerrod and I were preparing our patio for company.
"When are you going to make me a steak?" BWU asked from the clouds.
We looked up and see her perched on the fire escape, (against bldg. policy), smoking a cigarette.
We laughed her off, she wrinkled her brow in confusion (def. not joking), and went back inside. Better to wait her out than engage in conversation.
A few minutes later when the coast was clear, we resumed setting up. When we uncovered the patio table and pulled it out, we saw that the chairs behind it were covered in ash and cigarette butts. BWU, apparently, felt that such items organically evaporate into the air rather than succumb to gravitational pull and litter up her neighbor's property.

Oh, how the list goes on, but for today's purpose:
the chain-smoking Bulgarian Woman Upstairs finds second hand smoke and leaving her baby in the care of strangers perfectly acceptable, while doctor prescribed Tylenol for a baby with a temperature of 101.7 bad parenting.

Comment away!

Momma Mondays - Sick Baby Boy

I am so blessed with a child that rarely cries. He has been known to fuss. He will also occasionally complain. But the few times that I've heard him really cry have always been due to pain. That's why I was so alarmed last night when he screamed out around 6pm and why I continued to worry all through the night.

Just got back from the doctor and Knox has a cold. A sore throat and a cold. I figured as much, but am so unaccustomed to him crying so hard and for so long that I thought I should go and ask the guy with his M.D. to be certain. We can't stop his nose from running like a faucet. We can't make it easier for him to breathe so that he can sleep longer than one hour at a time. We can't force him to eat, which he won't do because he's cranky and because his throat hurts. Doc says there is nothing I can do for him, which is the worst part of the whole thing.

He's almost 9 months old. He's been a healthy little guy and really, is still pretty healthy. The cold will run its course as these things do and I will just have to keep rocking him and singing to him and shushing him and loving him until it does. I wish I could Green Mile that cold right out of his little body. I wish I could kiss it away and love it away. I wish I could do anything to make him feel better.

But what I can do is count our blessings. It's just a cold. Thank the Lord.

And as for the Momma part of this whole thing: this job is 24/7, y'all. I'm tellin' ya. So stop what you're doing and call your own momma. Say "thank you." Cause for all the long nights and runny noses and crying spells and feelings of helplessness, it's a nice thing to hear.

Momma Mondays - Stranger Danger!

For the past 8.5 months, I've become a magnet for strangers. Once they see my baby, they are drawn to me. Sometimes it looks as if they try to fight it, but the infant magnetism is so great that they cannot. It is a force beyond their control. They must see his face, must work for a smile, must try to grab tiny fingers or toes, must take just a quick peek, must speak to him in high pitched tones, and must - MUST - give me advice.

I'm not a know-it-all. I will go on record as saying that there is much I do not know. For this reason, I make lists of questions for my pediatrician. Yes questions, for my child's DOCTOR. However, I've found that many a random person on the subway or the street are so brilliant and so well educated in children's health that they cannot keep themselves from imparting their wisdom on me. I am nothing but the child's mother, a person who must seem to the outside world as completely incapable of providing adequate care to this sweet baby whom they have encountered.

Were it not for the interference of strangers, would Knox:

- be comfortable?
Knox is 6 weeks old and cuddled up against my chest in the baby carrier. His face rests against me so that he can smell the milk he is now hungry for. It's been two hours since he last ate. This must be torture for him, and as he starts to fuss, then cry, I know that it is indeed. But we are only two stops away from our neighborhood. I rock, I shush, I stroke his small head, I give him a pacifier and hope for the best. I stand up and pace the aisle. We are almost home, I keep whispering.
"It's his leg," a woman says to me, grabbing my elbow and then pointing at him. "His leg is hurting him," she says again, gruffly, as if I should be sent to child services. With a disapproving glare, she exits the train and I stare, mouth agape.
I look down at my child's leg, these sweet little legs that have been curled up in my womb for the last ten months, and are now tucked neatly against my belly. They are flexible and small; positioned in the exact same way they always are. But because my baby is crying and this type of stretch seems impossible to adults, a complete stranger has the gumption to solve what must have seemed to be the obvious problem.

-be developing?
Knox is a laid back guy. He didn't roll over consistently til about a month ago, around the same time he started sitting up well on his own. He doesn't crawl, nor try to. Does not pull up, attempt walking, wave, clap, or eat finger foods. He takes things at his own pace and cannot be rushed.
"Oh, he's 8 months old and not crawling?"
"He doesn't like Cheerios?"
"You should be feeding him meat, anything from your plate."
"She started walking at his age."
"Really? Nothing? But he's so big!"
These comments are not innocent. They are loaded. They are followed by suggestions for my husband and me to try with the baby at home. Obviously, we are not spending enough time with our child, not coaching him enough, not holding him up, not feeding him enough solid food, not making it happen. Our thoughts are that he has his whole life to sit, crawl, eat, walk, etc. What's the rush? 
I just smile and say, "Oh, but look how well he drools!" 
Yep. They want to take my baby away.

-be alive?
Knox is 6 months old and we are navigating post-blizzard streets to go to Manhattan. The wind is fierce, so I have put the clear plastic rain/wind guard over his stroller. This thing keeps him so warm that he doesn't even need a coat. He can see where he's going, can smile at his many admirers, and dodge any harsh elements or dangers. I call it the Pope mobile.
While Knox and I are on the train, I usually pull the plastic cover up a little to give him some fresh air. Now this cover has loads of holes in it and also doesn't velcro all around, so it's totally safe and breathable; but I always lift it a tad on the train anyway so I can reach him easily if he loses a paci or something. 
As we near our stop, an older woman approaches with her finger pointed at me. "You take that thing off and get him out of the stroller as soon as you get home!" she demands. Again, I am so amazed that she thought I would need this advice that I can only stare (and almost miss our stop). Were it not for her, Knox might still be in his stroller right at this moment, two and a half months later.

Advice is great - when asked for. I honestly think that most people mean well. My theory is that they are so unconsciously drawn to the child that once they are near to him, they realize that they are in also near to me. Problem is, they came toward the baby without preparing something to say to the momma, which leads to awkward and sometimes harsher-than-meant comments.

What's your opinion? Have any crazy stories about stranger danger?

Momma Knows Best

My most recent Ah-ha moment happened Sunday afternoon. The University of Kentucky Wildcats were playing in Newark, NJ in the Elite 8 game of the NCAA Tournament. My husband and I, both graduates of UK and quite separated from our team because we now live in New York City, were very excited for the opportunity to watch the Cats play. Newark is just two stops away from the heart of Manhattan via train and we couldn’t pass up the opportunity.

The thing is, we have a baby now. Jerrod hasn’t “felt comfortable” leaving our son, Knox, with anyone yet. I’ve suggested date nights, movies, Broadway shows, etc, but he just couldn’t bring himself to leave the baby because he really misses him at work and treasures spending his free moments with his family. That’s sweet, but this stay-at-home momma needs a night out every now and then.

If only I’d known sooner that I was dangling the wrong carrots! Absence makes the heart grow fonder and ever since we moved to New York, Jerrod’s passion for college basketball (UK in particular) has increased 100 fold. He watches every game on TV or live streaming on the computer, then records and posts videos of the games on YouTube, and follows the players on Twitter. He’s a fanatic and over the weekend, had his chance to see them play live.

“Let’s get a sitter,” he said when our team advanced in the tournament.

Shocked, I replied, “Deal!”

I’ve never been the hesitant one to leave the baby with a sitter because I feel like that every time I take a girls’ night or a mommy moment. Leaving the baby with my husband already feels that way. Maybe because he feeds Knox on his lap instead of in his high chair, or maybe because he never records nap or feeding times and relies on me to tell him, or maybe because he would rather throw Knox’s onesies away than rinse them out when a dirty diaper knows no bounds; but since Day 1, I’ve adopted the mantra, “Daddy’s way is different, not wrong.” I repeat it often… quite often.

Because otherwise, I would kill him.

So one of our dearest friends offered to watch Knox Sunday night. She hadn’t babysat in at least 10 years; thus, she had a small amount of anxiety. That afternoon, to help ease her of any nerves, I typed up all of the important information that I could: naptimes, bottle amounts, bedtime routine, etc. But as soon as she walked in the front door, my husband nearly assaulted her. Keyed up about the game, and his own anxiety about leaving the baby, I watched him drag her all over our one-bedroom apartment.

“Now, when I watch the baby,” he said, “I like to warm a bottle in the sink and then have another one ready just in case.” Or “When I watch the baby, I like to take a walk around the building if he gets fussy.”

I finished getting ready as this went on.

“When I watch the baby, we take a bath before bed. He likes his hair spiked up, and I did oil yesterday so use lotion tonight, and these are the easiest pj’s to put him in, and I like to use this piece of cardboard as a fan to let him get a little air down there before slapping on the diaper, you know what I mean?”

I smirked. The look on her face was priceless.

“When I watch the baby,” he continued, overwhelming our poor friend, “I bounce this blue ball and build a block tower for him to knock over. That’s key when you need a go-to mood lifter.”

I felt like popping popcorn as I watched this scene unfold.

“When I watch the baby,” he pulled her close and whispered, oblivious to the fact that I could still hear them through the baby video monitor. “I sometimes skip that third nap. Alecia says he needs it, but I think he’s growing out of it. Just watch for the sleepy signs, but if he’s happy and having a good time, don’t sweat it.”

I saw them both smiling as they stood over Knox’s crib. Was that a fist pound?

Knox needs a third nap. I’m telling you. I know this kid. Otherwise it’s all toothy smiles and giggles one minute, but total meltdown the next before you can blink an eye. I wanted to interrupt, but they were so chummy and I was pretty amazed that Jerrod was taking charge, and although I really wanted to encourage that third nap, I didn’t want to step on my husband’s toes.

“Daddy’s way is different, not wrong,” I said to myself. After all, he is Knox’s dad – he wants what’s best for his son – and my way is not always the right way. I was feeling very mature.

So I let him finish, gave our friend some emergency contact numbers, and off we went to watch the Cats make it to the Final Four.

We came home on top of the world, but our friend was completely pooped, sprawled out on the couch.

“Are you guys hungry?” she asked first thing. “Because I don’t know how you all do it. I’m exhausted. We played, we laughed, we danced. I didn’t even have time to eat!”

“Why didn’t you order something during his third nap?” I asked, taking off my coat.

“I couldn’t get him down for the last nap!” she cried. “He wanted to play! And then, he just lost it. Lost it. Totally went berserk. Crying and rubbing his eyes and, oh man, he was just so overtired! He never cries! I’m the worst.”

I started to speak, when Jerrod cut me off, “I know, dude! That third nap is killer! Alecia has no trouble, but it’s hard for us outsiders!”

‘Outsiders?’

Seriously?

And that’s when it hit me:

Even my husband thinks of himself as a babysitter.

So yeah, we parent differently. My mantra is nice and peacekeeping and loving and a way to keep me sane when they’re making a mess. And listen, most of the time, Daddy’s way is okay. But because of Sunday night, because of my Ah-ha moment, I can now affirm and be boldly confident that when in doubt, Momma knows best.