One Huffman daughter accused me of wanting to get a cat so I’d have something to pick up and cuddle.
Hey, if certain teenagers let me pick them up and hug them, I would. It’s not my fault they don’t want to sit on my lap anymore.
The
Huffman cat talk got real after a visit to the animal shelter where we
clamped eyes on a black kitten with white paws, white whiskers — and get
this — a little white mustache. Nothing is cuter than a cat with a mini
mustache.
On her first day in her new home, the kitty took
tentative steps and slowly inched her way around the floor of the girls’
bedroom.
Oh she’s shy, I thought. How cute.
The whole “I’m so shy” thing didn’t last long.
About 12 minutes later the cat figured out she had the whole house to conquer, which she immediately did, to the dog’s distress.
She bounded up the stairs like a kitty version of Mount Everest. She climbed the screen door like Kitten and the Beanstalk.
She used dad’s beard as a grooming tool. She scaled the pant legs of one Huffman daughter like a ladder.
She
also spent a fair amount of time chasing her own tail, randomly
scurrying from room to room and walking on keyboards while humans tried
to type.
It’s been two weeks since the kitty, now named Inky,
became a part of the family. Even the dog is semi-tolerating her
cuteness, although usually while attempting to sniff her butt.
Sure
there were some wrong turns. The kitty pooped in some wrong places. She
peed in another wrong place. She almost gave the dog a heart attack
when she tried to eat the dog’s food.
Apparently it is very hard
work being a kitten and frequent rest breaks are needed. The kitty has
napped on laps, on iPads, on shoulders and in a squished up cardboard
box.
She napped with her head upside down, hidden under a pillow
and all four paws in the air à la “dead cat.” She does not seem to do
much napping at night, which lead to some serious strategizing of where
the cat should sleep. As in, alone.
Before we got our kitten, cats were pretty much off my radar. Not anymore.
YouTube cat videos? Hilarious! Kitty pictures on Facebook? Can’t get enough of them! Cat toys at Target? Buying them! All!
I
believe Inky approves of her new home because she purrs. A lot. There’s
nothing like a purring kitten to make a grown-up go all gushy inside.
A
purring kitten is like Valium for the ears. It puts you in a purring
trance. This could be useful for the next time the girls break out in a
fight. I’ll just pass them the purring kitten and see how long the
battle lasts.
I knew a cat would be good for something.
Monday, March 03, 2014
Monday, February 17, 2014
First pet
A lot of couples test the parenthood waters by getting a pet. I guess
we figure if we can keep an animal alive, we might stand a chance at
keeping a baby human alive.
This explains how my husband and I, newlyweds in the ’90s, ended up with our first pet, a gray and black striped tabby cat.
We found our cat stashed in a little cage at a plant nursery near our home in West Des Moines, Iowa. My husband walked by and the cat reached its paw outside the cage like it was trying to grab him with his claws. It worked because we came home with our kitten that day. First we named her Jezebel, but after our new vet pointed out that our new cat was a “he” instead of a “she,” he became Desi.
Desi was with us for all the highlights of our expanding family. He’s in the videos of us bringing home our first baby, then the second and the third. I had wanted a lap cat, but Desi was not the lap type. He’d hang out nearby, but not on top of you. He had all of his claws and he was not afraid to use them.
We have a lot of Desi stories — like the Christmas when he sliced his belly open on something in the basement. He’d catch flies and let them buzz around inside his mouth before opening up and letting them go. One time he let us know he was locked in our car by turning on the turn signal switch with his paw. He also did his fair share of annoying cat stuff like clawing new furniture, barfing on the carpet and peeing in a basket of clean laundry.
He made the move with us back to California, barely. On the day my husband left Des Moines in the U-Haul, Desi was nowhere to be found. I guess he figured this packing up stuff had nothing to do with him. A day later, when the cat finally decided to come home, I had to persuade the new owners of our house to put him on a plane to ship him our way. The cat never knew how close he came to becoming a permanent Iowa resident.
Back on the West Coast, Desi was with us for another handful of years until he died of old age in 2007. I think he was 13. When I took off his collar for the last time, I rubbed his soft little nose, something he would never have tolerated when he was alive. I clipped a little bit of his fur, too, and put it in a little bag to keep. For a long time I missed him every day, even his claws.
I think we went a little pet crazy after that. Dad got a dog. The littlest Huffman started a rabbit breeding business. The oldest brought home a guinea pig and f-e-r-r-e-t-s. There were fish and turtles. Mice. Some kind of lizard thing.
The girls learned how to be “responsible” pet owners. Not every pet was a success — I refer to the infamous “ferrets in the closet” incident of 2012. Today, I’m happy to say that they do a good job of taking care of our animals. There’s even talk of getting a goat for a 4-H project.
But now I think it’s Mom’s turn to pick out a pet. And I know exactly what I’m going to get.
This explains how my husband and I, newlyweds in the ’90s, ended up with our first pet, a gray and black striped tabby cat.
We found our cat stashed in a little cage at a plant nursery near our home in West Des Moines, Iowa. My husband walked by and the cat reached its paw outside the cage like it was trying to grab him with his claws. It worked because we came home with our kitten that day. First we named her Jezebel, but after our new vet pointed out that our new cat was a “he” instead of a “she,” he became Desi.
Desi was with us for all the highlights of our expanding family. He’s in the videos of us bringing home our first baby, then the second and the third. I had wanted a lap cat, but Desi was not the lap type. He’d hang out nearby, but not on top of you. He had all of his claws and he was not afraid to use them.
We have a lot of Desi stories — like the Christmas when he sliced his belly open on something in the basement. He’d catch flies and let them buzz around inside his mouth before opening up and letting them go. One time he let us know he was locked in our car by turning on the turn signal switch with his paw. He also did his fair share of annoying cat stuff like clawing new furniture, barfing on the carpet and peeing in a basket of clean laundry.
He made the move with us back to California, barely. On the day my husband left Des Moines in the U-Haul, Desi was nowhere to be found. I guess he figured this packing up stuff had nothing to do with him. A day later, when the cat finally decided to come home, I had to persuade the new owners of our house to put him on a plane to ship him our way. The cat never knew how close he came to becoming a permanent Iowa resident.
Back on the West Coast, Desi was with us for another handful of years until he died of old age in 2007. I think he was 13. When I took off his collar for the last time, I rubbed his soft little nose, something he would never have tolerated when he was alive. I clipped a little bit of his fur, too, and put it in a little bag to keep. For a long time I missed him every day, even his claws.
I think we went a little pet crazy after that. Dad got a dog. The littlest Huffman started a rabbit breeding business. The oldest brought home a guinea pig and f-e-r-r-e-t-s. There were fish and turtles. Mice. Some kind of lizard thing.
The girls learned how to be “responsible” pet owners. Not every pet was a success — I refer to the infamous “ferrets in the closet” incident of 2012. Today, I’m happy to say that they do a good job of taking care of our animals. There’s even talk of getting a goat for a 4-H project.
But now I think it’s Mom’s turn to pick out a pet. And I know exactly what I’m going to get.
Sunday, February 02, 2014
Tattoo U
I think oldest daughter is either planning to or has already gotten a tattoo.
Why?
Number one, she’s a 19-year-old college student. Two, she already got her nose pierced. Three, she lives in Boulder, the Berkeley of the Rockies. Four, she’s an artist. Five, did I mention she’s a 19-year-old college student?
Do I want our girl to get a tattoo?
No.
Will I tell her this?
No way.
We moms of 19-year-olds know that the more we protest against something, the more likely it is that said 19-year-old will up and do that very thing anyway. Tonight.
If you have a teenager who’s even remotely inclined to get a tattoo, the worst thing you can do is tell them what a “bad idea” that is.
You might as well buy the tattoo gun yourself and hand it over to them. With a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some sterilized cotton balls, of course.
I don’t have anything against tattoos. I just don’t want any on my body or any body of any child of mine.
Our girls have wrinkle-free, primarily pierce-free and ink-free skin. Let’s keep it that way.
No offense Kat Von D, supermodels and famous musicians with tattoos. You’re rocking that tattoo look. You also don’t have day jobs with bosses.
Sure, our girl just got her nose pierced. No big deal. Nose studs can be removed one day. Tattoos, not so much.
The few times I have said anything to our girls about tattoos, I’ve used the My Little Pony analogy.
Remember how much you loved My Little Pony when you were in second grade?
What if you got a My Little Pony tattoo back then? Now that you’re in college would you still be loving that tattoo of Sparkle Fluttershy?
(Parents, substitute your own Hello Kitty, Polly Pocket or Taylor Lautner analogy here.)
Faded Winnie the Poohs on ankles, droopy butterflies on saggy thighs, tramp stamps, ’80s-style Pamela Anderson barbed wire armbands, “The Hangover Part II.” We’ve all seen “good” tattoos gone bad.
What if our girl has already gone and gotten her tattoo?
Nothing I can do about it. I don’t want details. Keep me in the dark, please. I’m doing just fine here with my head firmly buried in the sand.
I don’t need any real or imagined tattoo translated, explained or pointed out. I don’t need to picture an ink-covered tattoo artist jabbing tiny needles into my daughter’s tender arm and offering a discount on a second tattoo. I want to remember her skin in mint condition.
I could try a little Mom-style reverse psychology. I could tell our girl that I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo. Maybe we should get matching mother/daughter tattoos! Wouldn’t that be fun?
Actually, there is one tattoo that I would approve of.
It starts with an “I,” ends with a “Mom,” and has a heart in the middle of it.
Why?
Number one, she’s a 19-year-old college student. Two, she already got her nose pierced. Three, she lives in Boulder, the Berkeley of the Rockies. Four, she’s an artist. Five, did I mention she’s a 19-year-old college student?
Do I want our girl to get a tattoo?
No.
Will I tell her this?
No way.
We moms of 19-year-olds know that the more we protest against something, the more likely it is that said 19-year-old will up and do that very thing anyway. Tonight.
If you have a teenager who’s even remotely inclined to get a tattoo, the worst thing you can do is tell them what a “bad idea” that is.
You might as well buy the tattoo gun yourself and hand it over to them. With a bottle of rubbing alcohol and some sterilized cotton balls, of course.
I don’t have anything against tattoos. I just don’t want any on my body or any body of any child of mine.
Our girls have wrinkle-free, primarily pierce-free and ink-free skin. Let’s keep it that way.
No offense Kat Von D, supermodels and famous musicians with tattoos. You’re rocking that tattoo look. You also don’t have day jobs with bosses.
Sure, our girl just got her nose pierced. No big deal. Nose studs can be removed one day. Tattoos, not so much.
The few times I have said anything to our girls about tattoos, I’ve used the My Little Pony analogy.
Remember how much you loved My Little Pony when you were in second grade?
What if you got a My Little Pony tattoo back then? Now that you’re in college would you still be loving that tattoo of Sparkle Fluttershy?
(Parents, substitute your own Hello Kitty, Polly Pocket or Taylor Lautner analogy here.)
Faded Winnie the Poohs on ankles, droopy butterflies on saggy thighs, tramp stamps, ’80s-style Pamela Anderson barbed wire armbands, “The Hangover Part II.” We’ve all seen “good” tattoos gone bad.
What if our girl has already gone and gotten her tattoo?
Nothing I can do about it. I don’t want details. Keep me in the dark, please. I’m doing just fine here with my head firmly buried in the sand.
I don’t need any real or imagined tattoo translated, explained or pointed out. I don’t need to picture an ink-covered tattoo artist jabbing tiny needles into my daughter’s tender arm and offering a discount on a second tattoo. I want to remember her skin in mint condition.
I could try a little Mom-style reverse psychology. I could tell our girl that I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo. Maybe we should get matching mother/daughter tattoos! Wouldn’t that be fun?
Actually, there is one tattoo that I would approve of.
It starts with an “I,” ends with a “Mom,” and has a heart in the middle of it.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Werk it
I’ve been running for almost a year now, but when it comes to
workouts like yoga, Zumba and Pilates, I’m totally out of the loop.
The last group exercise class I did was aerobics … in 1997.
I’ve heard of “downward dog” but I couldn’t tell you what one is or how the “dog” gets down. The only thing I know about Pilates is that Pilates People Like It Spelled With a Capital P. And “Zumba”? It makes me think of some kind of Brazilian scooter.
But since the end of daylight saving time robbed me of my after-work running time, I figured I’d try a group workout again.
I started with a ballet barre-style group class at a local fitness studio.
We did a lot of squats in the barre class. We did squats with our right foot on tippy toes. We did squats with our left foot on tippy toes. We did squats on top of squats. I’m sure my thighs were wondering why they were being picked on so much, but it was for their own good.
It wasn’t all ballet moves at the barre class. We also got out a big rubber ball and did situps while lying backward on the ball. Well, everyone else was doing situps. I was just trying not to roll off the ball.
Another week I tried something called piloxing — or Pilates/boxing.
I’ve never boxed before, which was probably obvious when I put my special piloxing gloves on backward.
But it turns out that boxing is kind of fun, especially when you think of people you wouldn’t mind knocking out — like mouthy teenagers, backseat drivers or uncooperative journalistic sources.
During piloxing, we jabbed right. We jabbed left. We jabbed double time and super double time while running in place. I felt like a very sweaty female Rocky Balboa.
I took a Zumba class next.
Zumba is like aerobics and dancing to Latin-inspired music.
Sounds doable, right? Yeah, if you’ve got rhythm. And coordination.
I liked the Zumba music. It’s too bad my arms and legs didn’t like working as a team.
There were two other things that I realized didn’t go together — this 40-something mom and Zumba’s hip-hop dance moves.
At one part of the class, we bounced back and forth doing a kind of a “fling your arms in the air like you just don’t care” move while pogo-ing from one side to another.
“Pop your booty,” yelled the instructor, as she twisted and shook her fat-free behind.
“Pump it, pump it!”
Am I twerking? If only my teenagers could see me now.
My booty popping was so bad, Miley Cyrus’ grandma could probably twerk better than me.
I had been keeping up with my Zumba teacher about 75 percent of the time ... until she introduced a new dance step combination. She started out in slo-mo and then she kicked in into high gear, leaving me in her Zumba dust.
But I’m not quitting. I’m going to twerk on it.
The last group exercise class I did was aerobics … in 1997.
I’ve heard of “downward dog” but I couldn’t tell you what one is or how the “dog” gets down. The only thing I know about Pilates is that Pilates People Like It Spelled With a Capital P. And “Zumba”? It makes me think of some kind of Brazilian scooter.
But since the end of daylight saving time robbed me of my after-work running time, I figured I’d try a group workout again.
I started with a ballet barre-style group class at a local fitness studio.
We did a lot of squats in the barre class. We did squats with our right foot on tippy toes. We did squats with our left foot on tippy toes. We did squats on top of squats. I’m sure my thighs were wondering why they were being picked on so much, but it was for their own good.
It wasn’t all ballet moves at the barre class. We also got out a big rubber ball and did situps while lying backward on the ball. Well, everyone else was doing situps. I was just trying not to roll off the ball.
Another week I tried something called piloxing — or Pilates/boxing.
I’ve never boxed before, which was probably obvious when I put my special piloxing gloves on backward.
But it turns out that boxing is kind of fun, especially when you think of people you wouldn’t mind knocking out — like mouthy teenagers, backseat drivers or uncooperative journalistic sources.
During piloxing, we jabbed right. We jabbed left. We jabbed double time and super double time while running in place. I felt like a very sweaty female Rocky Balboa.
I took a Zumba class next.
Zumba is like aerobics and dancing to Latin-inspired music.
Sounds doable, right? Yeah, if you’ve got rhythm. And coordination.
I liked the Zumba music. It’s too bad my arms and legs didn’t like working as a team.
There were two other things that I realized didn’t go together — this 40-something mom and Zumba’s hip-hop dance moves.
At one part of the class, we bounced back and forth doing a kind of a “fling your arms in the air like you just don’t care” move while pogo-ing from one side to another.
“Pop your booty,” yelled the instructor, as she twisted and shook her fat-free behind.
“Pump it, pump it!”
Am I twerking? If only my teenagers could see me now.
My booty popping was so bad, Miley Cyrus’ grandma could probably twerk better than me.
I had been keeping up with my Zumba teacher about 75 percent of the time ... until she introduced a new dance step combination. She started out in slo-mo and then she kicked in into high gear, leaving me in her Zumba dust.
But I’m not quitting. I’m going to twerk on it.
Monday, January 06, 2014
Take a break
Jennifer Huffman is on vacation.
Her column will return in two weeks when a number of Christmas/end-of-2013 questions could be answered.
For starters:
Did College Girl’s flight home arrive on time and was the airport reunion like what mom and dad imagined?
Did all family members, including grandparents, get enough face time with College Girl during her visit?
Did mom get her fill of hugs from College Girl?
Did her younger sisters get their fill of big sister? Or were they happy to wave goodbye to College Girl so they could take over her room again?
Did middle daughter clean out her bedroom closet like mom hoped she would?
As the foster parent of College Girl’s ferret, did the two sisters fight over the pet?
And did anyone bother to clean out the ferret’s cage?
Did the Huffman girls see their out-of-town cousins for Christmas and did all cousins return to their respective homes lice-free, unlike a previous visit that someone has been forbidden to write about?
Did all Huffmans make Santa’s “nice” list this year?
Was Santa able to find the Huffman house on Dec. 25?
How many times did mom have to invoke “the meaning of Christmas” during the past two weeks? How many times on Christmas Day itself?
Is dad happy with the new power tools that mom picked out at Home Depot?
Is he impressed that mom now understands the difference between 18-volt and 20-volt DeWalt cordless impact drivers?
Is mom happy with her Christmas gifts? Translation: Is she wearing a new pair of Uggs today?
Did mom find time to make the Christmas cookies she bought all the ingredients for or did someone just eat all of the semisweet chocolate morsels straight out of the bag?
Do her pants still fit after two weeks of pumpkin pie, cookie and chocolate eating?
Which of the following movies did the Huffman family watch over Christmas: “The Polar Express,” “The Sound of Music,” “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Anchorman 2’’?
Did the family’s 16-year-old couch with the broken springs finally succumb over the holidays and if so, has dad’s new Barcalounger been delivered yet?
How many times did mom have to ask the girls to write their “thank you” notes and have they actually been mailed yet?
Did mom manage to read that new Stephen King novel or is it still on the floor by the bed?
Did mom catch up on her sleep?
Is she ready for 2014?
Jennifer Huffman is on vacation. Her column will return in two weeks.
Her column will return in two weeks when a number of Christmas/end-of-2013 questions could be answered.
For starters:
Did College Girl’s flight home arrive on time and was the airport reunion like what mom and dad imagined?
Did all family members, including grandparents, get enough face time with College Girl during her visit?
Did mom get her fill of hugs from College Girl?
Did her younger sisters get their fill of big sister? Or were they happy to wave goodbye to College Girl so they could take over her room again?
Did middle daughter clean out her bedroom closet like mom hoped she would?
As the foster parent of College Girl’s ferret, did the two sisters fight over the pet?
And did anyone bother to clean out the ferret’s cage?
Did the Huffman girls see their out-of-town cousins for Christmas and did all cousins return to their respective homes lice-free, unlike a previous visit that someone has been forbidden to write about?
Did all Huffmans make Santa’s “nice” list this year?
Was Santa able to find the Huffman house on Dec. 25?
How many times did mom have to invoke “the meaning of Christmas” during the past two weeks? How many times on Christmas Day itself?
Is dad happy with the new power tools that mom picked out at Home Depot?
Is he impressed that mom now understands the difference between 18-volt and 20-volt DeWalt cordless impact drivers?
Is mom happy with her Christmas gifts? Translation: Is she wearing a new pair of Uggs today?
Did mom find time to make the Christmas cookies she bought all the ingredients for or did someone just eat all of the semisweet chocolate morsels straight out of the bag?
Do her pants still fit after two weeks of pumpkin pie, cookie and chocolate eating?
Which of the following movies did the Huffman family watch over Christmas: “The Polar Express,” “The Sound of Music,” “It’s a Wonderful Life” or “Anchorman 2’’?
Did the family’s 16-year-old couch with the broken springs finally succumb over the holidays and if so, has dad’s new Barcalounger been delivered yet?
How many times did mom have to ask the girls to write their “thank you” notes and have they actually been mailed yet?
Did mom manage to read that new Stephen King novel or is it still on the floor by the bed?
Did mom catch up on her sleep?
Is she ready for 2014?
Jennifer Huffman is on vacation. Her column will return in two weeks.
Monday, December 23, 2013
The return
Five months after leaving town, College Girl is coming home for Christmas.
“Coming home” — moms of college kids love to hear those two words. Add the word “Christmas” and we fall onto the floor in a frenzy of motherly delight.
Of course, there were a few things to be done before we could roll out the red carpet.
First, her room needed to be cleaned out. In a small house with five people, an empty bedroom doesn’t stay that way for long.
Over the past few months, middle daughter had been found lounging on her sister’s bed, scavenging old art supplies, and smuggling the ferret into the room for “secret” ferret videos that can probably be viewed on something like iluvferrets.com.
She also raided the closet for any leftover ugly sweaters that oldest daughter is so fond of.
Someone rifled through her nail polish collection and old makeup stash.
Another someone “borrowed” books from her room.
Everyone felt free to pilfer at will, yet oddly enough no one felt compelled to vacuum or dust the room. I had to put a stop to some of the invasion when I found myself repeatedly cleaning up a room no one was living in.
I take some of the blame. During November, I realized Oldest Daughter’s bedroom would make an excellent temporary gift storage and wrapping room. Shopping bags gathered on her dresser and desk. I could have turned her room into my private scrapbook den, but I didn’t want our girl to think she’d been replaced by a Martha Stewart craftland.
As her return date gets closer, I’ve turned into that kind of mom who goes around announcing to random strangers the number of days until our daughter comes home for Christmas, including the flight number (#2769) and arrival time (10:40 p.m.).
I may also issue a press release: MEDIA ALERT — HUFFMAN DAUGHTER RETURNS TO NAPA.
Note to self: contact advertising staff at Register to arrange for half-page “welcome back” ad. Correction — full page. They don’t call me the Most Embarrassing Mom Ever for nothing.
No visit home is complete without a fridge full of favorite foods, so I made a special trip to the grocery store to stock up. Our little carnivore must be living on Top Ramen and cereal because when I asked her what she wanted to eat, she asked for meat, meat and more meat.
B.C. (Before College) there were no special trips to the grocery store to buy pounds of bacon and steaks. But A.C. (After College) a mom will kill and butcher the cow herself if it means College Girl wants a hamburger for dinner.
I’ve also come up with a theme song for her visit inspired by “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” It’s called “College Girl Is Coming to Town.” I’m making a list and checking it twice. And it’s got bacon, ham and pork on it.
“Coming home” — moms of college kids love to hear those two words. Add the word “Christmas” and we fall onto the floor in a frenzy of motherly delight.
Of course, there were a few things to be done before we could roll out the red carpet.
First, her room needed to be cleaned out. In a small house with five people, an empty bedroom doesn’t stay that way for long.
Over the past few months, middle daughter had been found lounging on her sister’s bed, scavenging old art supplies, and smuggling the ferret into the room for “secret” ferret videos that can probably be viewed on something like iluvferrets.com.
She also raided the closet for any leftover ugly sweaters that oldest daughter is so fond of.
Someone rifled through her nail polish collection and old makeup stash.
Another someone “borrowed” books from her room.
Everyone felt free to pilfer at will, yet oddly enough no one felt compelled to vacuum or dust the room. I had to put a stop to some of the invasion when I found myself repeatedly cleaning up a room no one was living in.
I take some of the blame. During November, I realized Oldest Daughter’s bedroom would make an excellent temporary gift storage and wrapping room. Shopping bags gathered on her dresser and desk. I could have turned her room into my private scrapbook den, but I didn’t want our girl to think she’d been replaced by a Martha Stewart craftland.
As her return date gets closer, I’ve turned into that kind of mom who goes around announcing to random strangers the number of days until our daughter comes home for Christmas, including the flight number (#2769) and arrival time (10:40 p.m.).
I may also issue a press release: MEDIA ALERT — HUFFMAN DAUGHTER RETURNS TO NAPA.
Note to self: contact advertising staff at Register to arrange for half-page “welcome back” ad. Correction — full page. They don’t call me the Most Embarrassing Mom Ever for nothing.
No visit home is complete without a fridge full of favorite foods, so I made a special trip to the grocery store to stock up. Our little carnivore must be living on Top Ramen and cereal because when I asked her what she wanted to eat, she asked for meat, meat and more meat.
B.C. (Before College) there were no special trips to the grocery store to buy pounds of bacon and steaks. But A.C. (After College) a mom will kill and butcher the cow herself if it means College Girl wants a hamburger for dinner.
I’ve also come up with a theme song for her visit inspired by “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” It’s called “College Girl Is Coming to Town.” I’m making a list and checking it twice. And it’s got bacon, ham and pork on it.
Monday, December 09, 2013
Sleep on it
Three co-workers have recently had babies, which means I now have a self-inflicted case of baby fever.
And there’s nothing cuter than a newborn baby. Especially one that goes home with someone else and wakes up in the middle of the night with that someone else.
I was the mother of all amateurs with our first baby. It was a rude awakening, literally. Out she came and boom, next thing you know, a thing that I am very fond of called sleep was sorely missing from my life.
As if channeling her future teen self, our newborn adopted the “You Are Not the Boss of Me” philosophy when it came to sleeping.
She was determined not to sleep. And when she was sleeping she was determined not to stay asleep for more than two hours at a time. I guess she figured, “Why sleep? I’ll miss all the action.”
On top of no sleep, emotions had their way with the new Mom me, causing many tears at many random moments.
I cried when the baby woke up right when we sat down to dinner.
I cried when I pulled up to Starbucks and the drive-through line was too long and our new baby couldn’t wait 10 minutes for me to get my mocha.
I cried in the middle of the night when she was wide awake and wanted to party.
They say to nap when your baby naps. You try sleeping in two-hour stints for about 13 weeks. You become a zombie. A zombie that can change a diaper in the dark and unsnap a onesie one-handed, but a zombie.
Another thing I figured out after weeks of only napping is that without a good five to six hours of sleep in a row — at night — the day feels like it never ends. It’s just one endless cycle of feed, burp, change, rock, nap, wake, feed, burp, change, rock, etc. Insert random shower every three days or so. Such a marathon will crush even the most Zen of moms.
Even when a new mom does sleep, she’s still on alert. The sound of your baby’s cry quickly imprints on your brain.
You hear it even when she’s not crying. You listen for it, because you know it will come again. And probably right when you’ve just sat down for that dinner.
It probably didn’t help that at the time we were living six states away from our family. It was just me, my husband and our new baby, who I knew would never sleep through the night. Ever.
This was pre-Facebook and almost pre-email, so the only way to share pictures or baby updates was the old-fashioned way, by snail mail or telephone.
I’m thinking I might have felt less alone if I’d had a few hundred Facebook friends I could share photos with like new moms today. Where were you in 1994 when I needed you the most, Mark Zuckerberg?
And then one night it happened. Our baby slept for six whole hours in a row. I woke up confused.
What happened? Where was I? I felt funny. Alert. Awake. That’s when I knew I was going to make it. I would survive motherhood.
And there’s nothing cuter than a newborn baby. Especially one that goes home with someone else and wakes up in the middle of the night with that someone else.
I was the mother of all amateurs with our first baby. It was a rude awakening, literally. Out she came and boom, next thing you know, a thing that I am very fond of called sleep was sorely missing from my life.
As if channeling her future teen self, our newborn adopted the “You Are Not the Boss of Me” philosophy when it came to sleeping.
She was determined not to sleep. And when she was sleeping she was determined not to stay asleep for more than two hours at a time. I guess she figured, “Why sleep? I’ll miss all the action.”
On top of no sleep, emotions had their way with the new Mom me, causing many tears at many random moments.
I cried when the baby woke up right when we sat down to dinner.
I cried when I pulled up to Starbucks and the drive-through line was too long and our new baby couldn’t wait 10 minutes for me to get my mocha.
I cried in the middle of the night when she was wide awake and wanted to party.
They say to nap when your baby naps. You try sleeping in two-hour stints for about 13 weeks. You become a zombie. A zombie that can change a diaper in the dark and unsnap a onesie one-handed, but a zombie.
Another thing I figured out after weeks of only napping is that without a good five to six hours of sleep in a row — at night — the day feels like it never ends. It’s just one endless cycle of feed, burp, change, rock, nap, wake, feed, burp, change, rock, etc. Insert random shower every three days or so. Such a marathon will crush even the most Zen of moms.
Even when a new mom does sleep, she’s still on alert. The sound of your baby’s cry quickly imprints on your brain.
You hear it even when she’s not crying. You listen for it, because you know it will come again. And probably right when you’ve just sat down for that dinner.
It probably didn’t help that at the time we were living six states away from our family. It was just me, my husband and our new baby, who I knew would never sleep through the night. Ever.
This was pre-Facebook and almost pre-email, so the only way to share pictures or baby updates was the old-fashioned way, by snail mail or telephone.
I’m thinking I might have felt less alone if I’d had a few hundred Facebook friends I could share photos with like new moms today. Where were you in 1994 when I needed you the most, Mark Zuckerberg?
And then one night it happened. Our baby slept for six whole hours in a row. I woke up confused.
What happened? Where was I? I felt funny. Alert. Awake. That’s when I knew I was going to make it. I would survive motherhood.
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