Newlywedded

The Zen Mom

As most working moms, I live with my head perpetually in my ass. Today, January 2nd, I have it marked on the family calendar (see, we have one of those--I'm so organized, don't you just want to shoot me?) "Alexis goes back to work." But, because I'm an idiot mother who also holds down a job, I didn't realize that today is a national holiday so here I am. Not at work and reflecting on what I like to call "working mother syndrome," which, in my weaker moments, does things like make me want to subscribe to Working Mother magazine and go on the View to talk about "balancing it all." 

Let's be honest. Men don't have this issue (and don't get all "pc" on me because it's true...they don't). People don't walk around saying, "my husband's a working father." No, he's just a father. No one cares whether he works or he doesn't work, but whenever I'm catching up with someone, they always ask me "are you working?" I usually feel very comfortable in my role as a working mom, except when people ask if I'm working because it insinuates that there's another option...which there isn't..so it kind of makes me want to scream back, like a psychopath, "are YOU working ?!?! " But, I don't because, like most working moms, I keep my aggression completely bottled up inside so I can appear to be a Zen mommy, moving through the working mommy days as if it were some kind of Zanex induced twilight sleep...no guilt...no confusion...just acceptance. 

I actually thought I was doing quite well managing my "condition." I had the schedule completely down, Max was happy, Mike was happy and I felt like I had the "balance" that every parenting magazine and stupid Angelina Jolie-esque celebriparent with too many kids drones on about.

Until...the day I was served a bad margarita.

Yes, you see, one of the things no one really talks about is the importance of alcohol in a working mother's life...we momaholics are the types who come home from work and must have a glass of wine or we'll combust. If we're with our children, we look at the clock as it ticks closer to the bedtime hour just so we can pop open that glass of Ramona Pinto Grigio and start swigging. Many of us don't even wait until bedtime and that's just fine too. A drunk mom does things with her own panache.

Anyway, it was a Sunday night and Mike and I had been out with Max for several hours and it was getting late. Max had fallen asleep in the stroller and we decided to pop into a Mexican restaurant for their Sunday night happy hour. Nothing like having a cocktail under the "I really f-ing hope my kid doesn't wake up" umbrella. It's either a seize the moment moment, or it's the dumbest thing you've ever done. The thing is, when mommy orders a cocktail, it had better arrive fast and it had better be delicious. Now, my Zen self didn't realize how much of a momaholic I actually was until I took a sip of the worst margarita I'd ever tasted. Chock full of triple sec and sour mix and yuck. The minute I took that sip, I thought of how hard I work (yeah that's right...how hard I work...I'm no martyr...I'm bitching it like it is). I thought of that f-ing balance...the timing, the scheduing, the endless packing of snacks and lunches and the guilt and the worry and the....oh that waiter was so sad he came up to our table to ask me how my drink was. 

I looked at Mike and he stared at me with those big brown eyes all awash in "please don't...I cant watch..."

"Aaaand how's that drink for ya?" the just off the bus from Indiana to get an acting job waiter chirped.
"Let's talk," I groan.
"Oooohkay...."
"Heres the thing. I ordered s spicy jalapeño cucumber margarita..."
"Yes..."
"First of all, it doesn't taste spicy. It doesn't taste ccucumbery. It doesn't even taste tequila-ish...it tastes like fake lime juice and triple sec and that's about all and I'm sorry sir, I know you didn't make it so I guess...I'm really talking to your bartender through you but in any case it's bad. Also, you served this drink up, without ice, and quite frankly, if I order a margarita, I want it to be ice cold, on the rocks, and if you're going to serve it to me up, it should be advertised that way. Otherwise, I'm really drinking a semi cold, soon to be semi warm drink that I'll have to pour on the rocks anyway and I'd rather just save everyone the time and trouble and..."
"Miss? Would you like me to get you another drink?"

And like any working mother, like any nagging wife, I slipped back into Zen mommy mode and said, passive aggressively and with enough guilt inducing saccharine that this guy was probably going to go cut himself after his shift was over:  "No...no thanks. This is just fine. I...I just thought you should know that it's not what everyone says it is. It's not..what I expected."

And I drank the entire thing and then I was drunk (because working mommy really only needs a splash of triple sec to be wasted) and then max woke up and it was time to leave and contemplate Monday, work, packing and it's back to hoping that I'm doing something right and that I have enough wine in my fridge for when I get home...and for the next 363.5 days of 2012.

Ommmmmm ommmmmm ommmmmm

Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet, Give Me a Tequila Shot

Fall is in full force as any parent who braved the trick or treat would know. This was our first year taking Max out on the official costume wearing binge and I found that, like most holidays, it was somewhat about the little ones and then again, a whole lot about us. Let's be honest...do these kids really like wearing polyester Yo Gabba Gabba costumes, itchy hats and walking up to houses with frightening talking skeletons and fiery pumpkins? Like most anything that's supposed to be fun, it's a bit of torture for them and a lot of vicarious living for us..or maybe it's a whole lot of torture for us and whole lotta livin' for them. Either way, it goes a little something like this.

1) Race home from work at 5pm

2) Feed Max dinner

3) Change his diaper

4) Fight him into his costume...and I mean fight...he was Elvis and that polyester suit was TIGHT

5) Run around the house like a lunatic combing for his felt kitty kat candy bag as he screams "Meow" "Meow" all around the house

6) Jealously watch my father and Mike take shots of tequila in celebration of...uh...Halloween...as I scramble around making sure everything is in order (welcome to being a wife and mother)

7) Gather the 10 pounds of candy we bought for the 11 trick or treaters we get and make sure everything is displayed for when we race home to feed the remaining 6 of the trick or treaters who will be there when we get back all the while obsessing over what the hell to do with the leftover candy and hoping that it doesn't all end up in my freezer and imagining what I'd look like 40 lbs heavier after I've eaten a handful of Snickers a day...oh wait...that was me pregnant...not ready for that again.

8) Display pumpkins outside of the house

9) Attempt to get Max and his cousin, Lyla, to pose for some kind of picture as Lyla runs in circles screaming and Max does nothing more than squat and look down at the ground...great photo op

 After it took twelve minutes for Mike, my parents, Max, Lyla, Jenna, my mother in law, Jenna's brother in law, Jenna's in laws and me to make it all the way across the street to our neighbor's party...we proceeded to take another ten minutes for more mediocre photo ops with miserable children and then shove them into our neighbor's way too fabulous party...and I mean...they went all out...which of course made me wonder what I'm doing wrong. As I watched Max shuffle his way through their hay covered backyard replete with gorgeous Martha Stewart-esque homemade Halloween decorations, mini cupcake tower, and movie set worthy costumes, I was trying to figure out why I could barely manage to carve a pumpkin or two and they had bales of hay. Then it was off to another friend's house where we gathered the troops for the end all and be all of the evening...TRICK OR TREAT.

The one thing that Mike and I forgot in all of this was that our son is 15 months old. So, despite the fact that I shopped for two days (on Amazon, but still) for his Elvis costume, Trick or Treat was going to mean that Mike and I essentially would get to pick out the candy that we like from six of our neighbors' houses. And we had to make it snappy before meltdowns ensued. Each time a neighbor would hold their candy bowl out to us, we'd sift through it as if we were shopping for artisanal cheeses.

MIKE: "Oooh...they have peanut M&Ms."

ME: "We have a lot of chocolate stuff already. Grab the Starburst."

MIKE: "Hmmm...take the Almond Joy also because we don't have any of those at home."

And, fickle customers that we are, we left with quite a fine assortment of diabetes inducing treats and a son who took half of a Reese's cup, squashed it in his right hand, had a tantrum and threw himself on the sidewalk when we tried to take it away from him. We looked at each other...

MIKE AND ALEXIS: "It's over."

As we headed home, I noticed that Max had a nice brown smattering on his pristine, white and red sequined bell bottoms. "Shit...I think he shat," I grumbled. I ran after him and like any decent, self respecting mother, I shoved my nose right in his butt. "Nope, just chocolate!" I announced with glee.

So let's review:

1 $55 Amazon.com costume+10 bags of candy for 6 trick or treaters+2 tequila shots+1 felt kitty kat candy bag+2 discerning parental candy palates=A successful Halloween

Elvis has left the building.

The Family Pool

A few weeks ago, Mike and I went on our first family vacation with Max. 

When parents go to a resort with their children it's a mixed bag of emotions. You're so happy to be away from work and from the stresses and headaches of home, you're so happy that your child has a change of scenery and that he'll swim in the pool until it's dark and his head turns into a raisin, but you're also looking at all of the couples (sans children) at the resort and thinking...F-CK YOU. 

Yeah, remember those times? Remember being able to leave at the drop of the hat and go to Vegas or Palm Springs or Target? Remember being able to throw a bathing suit and flip flops into a bag and go? Remember not having to remember EVERYTHING? Packing Max up for a trip is a three day process and involving a myriad of lists on the Blackberry, the iPad, the fridge, the nightstand...

DON'T FORGET: sippy cups (2), bottle (1), shorts, t-shirts, sweatshirts, socks, shoes, swim trunks, swim hat, swimming "rash guard" (don't even get me started on that business-whatever happened to the days when we'd all go to the beach and let our skin become a handbag...I miss that), swimming diapers, overnight diapers, regular diapers, wipes, Desitin, Aquaphor, baby tylenol, baby ibuprofen, baby thermometer, nose frida (yeah...google that one...it involves sucking your kids snot out of his nose), sunglasses, toys, books, and my personal favorite...FOOD. 

He has to eat? Really?

So you get to the resort with fifty bags and you're staying for two nights and when the bellman offers to help you, you're like, "Honestly? If you take one bag from me, you'll f-ck up the balance and I'll fall over so I'll just be a pack mule. It's fine." You walk to the room and you pass the "adults only" pool(s), the adults only golf course, the adults only spa area. Oh, you mean, you want to lie in the sun and read your New York Magazine without the screeches of Marco Polo around you? You're an assh-le.

But, you know your life's changed when you arrive at said resort and you're THRILLED that they have so much kid sh-t to do. You're ecstatic that your kid's ecstatic. "There's so much for him to do here!" you exclaim to your spouse as you walk by the adults only lawn and the adults only snack bar and the adults only breathing zone. 

After we check in, we get to the room where Max immediately goes insane over everything simply because it isn't his. New drawers to pull and try to kill myself. New bathroom to run around in and try to kill myself. New closet to destroy. New bed to fall off. And we take forty five minutes to get him ready to go to the pool (you'd think we were waterboarding this kid by putting sunscreen on his face). 

With push car, stroller, floaty device, hats, sunscreen, lunch bag, snacks, etc. we're off to the FAMILY POOL.

And as we make our way there, we walk past the stunningly beautiful, newly renovated spa pool that boasts strawberry water, cabanas and a lavender garden replete with surround sound bossanova tunes. As we make our way through the, you guessed it, "adults only" area, I ask (beg) the attendant, "S'cuse me. If...if my son were...let's say...asleep...you know, like, completely passed out in the stroller and I was completely certain that he wasn't going to be waking up...would it be a possibility to...and, I know the sign says 'no children' but he's really not a 'child' he's a 'baaaybee' and so...if he were passed out which would be like he wasn't really even here...would it be possible to, you know, hang out at this pool?" 

And...you can guess what she said.

And...you know you're officially a parent when having places that are off limits to kids kind of pisses you off. You completely get why it is the way it is...you completely get that if you were lying at the spa pool and say a kid, a baaaybee, rolled up in his stroller, you'd think to yourself, "Goddamnit. That kid is going to wake up and ruin this entire experience for me." But you're a parent and you've lost all perspective on what is decent and lovely for couples and what is to be left at the FAMILY POOL.

So we get to the family pool and we sit down for lunch and Max is an absolutely angel. He's enjoying his meal with us, chatting away, eating everything we give him to try and enjoying all of the sights and sounds of his vacation. In fact (and this is something that, as a parent, you know you're never ever ever supposed to do...it's a cardinal sin...), we (I) remark that "He's such a wonderful baby. He'd be amazing at that spa pool. They'd love him." And as Mike lifts my delicious baby out of his high chair and leads him back to a pool chaise, I think, "I have the cutest baby in the world. He...."

He...oh God. He has a giant, wet, green spot on his adorable new seersucker bathing suit. That spot can only mean one thing...

"Mike!" I shout. "Don't let him sit on the..."

And I watch as Max plops onto the tan chaise lounge with poop seeping out from the now, five pound swim diaper, onto the cushion, leaking all over the pool area where, some kid playing Marco Polo will undoubtedly slip and break her neck.

"Mike!" I shout louder as I leap over the seemingly endless trail of shredded cheese, peas and other goodies my son seems to have thrown out of the high chair as I was lauding him for being such a little "adult." 

"Mike...Mike...he has a giant poop!" 

At the adults only pool, this would have stopped time, but at the FAMILY POOL, no one raises an eye brow. In fact, no one even looks up as we run to the grassy area, stripping Max down at the same time, letting chunks of poop dump to the ground all the while shielding out faces hoping we don't get hit. No one even skips a beat as we wipe our naked child down screaming "more wipes! more wipes! one more...yup, get me another one!" and as I pick up stray poop with a plastic bag all over the area surrounding the pool, no one blinks. In fact, most of them look up and make comments about how cute Max is. Most of them are thinking, "Been there. Done that." 

"I'm pretty sure this is why they don't want us at the spa pool," Mike enlightens me. "I don't think this would have gone over so well." And as one of the servers comes by with popsicles to everyone, I hand one to Max who procees to devour it with utter delight.

"And I bet they don't give out popsicles at the spa pool either," I remark over the hollers of Marco and Polo.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

Yeah...I know. Mother's Day was a while ago but I have a baby for God's sake! I don't even know what time it is. Plus, shouldn't Mother's Day be every day? Well, if it's anything like my Mother's Day was, I'd want it to be every hour!

As much as mothers want to be pampered on Mother's Day, some of us just want to...well...some of us just want to get sh-t done. I'm sorry, but most women would tell you that they'd love to have a day to cross 50 things off their list. That's sexy to a mom. That makes a mom relaxed. My Mother's Day started off at 5:30am...as almost every one of my days does. And every day, I greet the morning the same way. I pry my crusty eyes open, stare at my husband and in unison, we mutter...F-CK. And then, a little louder...F-CK!

I get up and get the kid out of his crib and again, let's be honest, they make them cute for a reason. At 5:30am I'm grinning like a moron, chirping and squeaking and coo-ing over a poopie diaper. And, as anyone in their right mind, at the crack of dawn, would...we get dressed and decide to go to Dupar's (our local 24/7 old school eatery that makes the greatest pancakes ever). What the hell else is there to do with a baby on Mother's Day at 6:30am? Anyone? Yeah. Didn't think so.

So we walk into Dupar's, which, incidentally, happens to be one of my favorite places to go with our son. It's a place where he can toss a plate of eggs and pancake remnants all over the floor and no one cares. Why is that? Because we're just one table of twenty tables with children under the age of two. We're just one table of twenty tables with bleary eyed, haven't showered in three days, no clue where the giant stain on their t-shirt came from...parents. We're all in this together and that's what I love about it. 

So we eat our breakfast, and walk around the Farmer's Market. At this point, it's 7am and while twenty somethings around Los Angeles are puking up the last bits of their Skinnygirl Margaritas from the night before, Mike and I are making friends with other cracked out parents who can't help but think...in the dark corners of their foggy foggy minds...as their child screams bloody murder...how it's possible to lose another sippy cup. We make eye contact with these people. We smile and nod at them with a tacit understanding that we're all in the same boat. We're all dying to know how we're going to occupy our kids for the next twelve hours before their mid afternoon nap. There's only one thing to do.

GO TO BABIES 'R' US.

When all else fails...when you have no clue what to do or where to go...GO TO BABIES 'R' US. It's an oasis for all parents from all walks of life. You know if you go there, you'll spend $188.50 on shit that you most likely need (even though you forgot the list that you never actually wrote in the first place). Shit that will probably feed your baby or keep your baby from pooping everywhere or shit that lights up and plays music and will keep your baby occupied for the next five minutes and for that, you'll pay $188.50. There are times when you'll pay $1188.50. It depends on how desperate you are.

And apparently, there are people out there as desperate as we are. As we pull into the Babies 'R' Us parking lot at 8am on Mother's Day, we see a line of people waiting to get into the store. 

ME: "Um...I think it's closed."

MIKE: "No, that's not possible. It's 8am. Every parent in this city has been up for six hours already."

I'm not going to lie. I kind of start to panic. Here we are. We need formula. We need diapers. We need toys. Our baby's asleep. We have a window. IT'S MOTHER'S DAY AND I WANT TO CROSS THINGS OFF MY LIST GODDAMN LIST! 

It's definitely closed and there are definitely people standing out there like it's 1980 in Soviet Russia and they haven't eaten bread in two weeks. They look like they want to cross things off their list too. They look like they're missing their window and it's sad. So sad. And as if just seeing their faces wasn't pathetic enough, the manager peeks his head out the door and hollers...

"We don't open until 9:30! Don't you people have anything better to do?!"

And all we want to shout back is, "QUITE FRANKLY? QUITE FRANKLY SIR? NO! WE DON'T HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO! THERE! WE SAID IT! WE DON'T! AND GUESS WHAT?! NEITHER DO YOU SO OPEN THE F-KING DOORS SO WE CAN BUY OUR ORGANIC SPINACH APPLE PUREE AND OUR VALUE PACK OF ONESIES F-KER!!!!!!!"

MIKE: "What should we do now?"

We both look at the baby, who's sleeping so beautifully in the back seat that we would be the biggest morons on the planet if we were to do anything but continue driving. So we do.

All the way to Bed Bath and Beyond. 

Which is open.

And we spend $188 dollars on new trash cans and Sham Wow. And I cross those items off my list and head into brunch and the rest of Mother's Day feeling accomplished and relaxed and like the multitasker mommy that I am. 

Ah yes. If only Mother's Day could be every day. 

 

 

 

 

 

Inflexible Mommy Doll--Glass of Wine and Laptop Sold Separately

A few weeks ago, Mike and I were invited to a daytime party...seems simple, right? A party? You know what that is. It's a gathering of interesting (hopefully) people who stand around, sipping Pinot Grigio and grazing on hummus (at least that's what it usually is in Los Angeles. I'm not sure what parties are like in other parts of the world where I'm sure they indulge in carbohydrates). In my old life, Mike and I would drop absolutely anything to go to a party. If we were on The Real Housewives of West Hollywood, our fellow castmembers would say that we'd "attend the opening of an envelope." Where there's free booze, good music and fun people, we're sold.

So when the invitation for the, oh wait, did I mention that this gathering was a crawfish boil? A daytime, "celebrate the fact that it's almost summer, red and white checkered tablecloth decorated, bonafide Southern afternoon"...just south of Sunset Blvd. Okay, so when the invitation for the crawfish boil bumbled our way, I reminded Mike of an important fact. "We have a baby," I grunted. And Mike, in his "nothing really fazes him and what's really the point of thinking ahead about how annoying it is to have a baby at a party with a gazillion people during naptime way" replies with, "So?" I actually think that this conversation sums up our entire relationship.

ME: "But we have a baby."

MIKE: "So..."

Yeah, so? So, we have a baby who needs to nap, who needs to crawl, who can't sit still for five f-ing seconds, who freaks out in large crowds, who....Oh. My. God. It's happened. I've become the "inflexible mommy." A person I NEVER EVER want to be. Inflexible mommy is ruled by "the schedule." Inflexible mommy is dominated by all things naptime, food time, what's right for baby and who gives a sh-t about me? Needless to say, inflexible mommy is not fun at parties. Inflexible mommy isn't fun anywhere. 

So, Mike and I have a fight during which he reminds me of who I'm becoming and that if I don't relax, I'm going to have an inflexible offspring who isn't fun either. Good talk. Good talk.

But as with most things in our almost 10 year relationship, Mike can't deny the fact that I'm right about almost everything. We'll probably be the only people at this party with a baby. This house will be a death trap. There will be no place to put him (bring the Baby Bjorn). He'll probably get really cranky and we'll have to leave. And, my personal favorite, he can't deny that our party life has been drastically altered. A baby is a buzz kill--let's just call it like it is.

So we show up and, of course, I'm right. The party is so lovely. The decor is lovely. The crawfish are a boilin' and the baby is ready to spring out of his stroller and crawl all over anything that will give Mike and me a heart attack. We weave through the crowd and find a seat at the edge of the crowd like a couple of pariahs (Guess what? We have a baby. That's how that works). Mike assures me that Max is having a great time (which he is--he's smiling at everyone and everyone is loving him). I grab Max and introduce him to all the non-baby peeps. I spy a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, grab it and head back to the table. Now that should be the image that sums up my version of motherhood. A baby on one arm and a bottle of Chardonnay in the other. 

But all in all, inflexible mommy starts to chill out and we're having a grand time. Why would I ever worry about taking him to a non baby daytime extravaganza? We should do this all the time. Gee, I stress myself out about a lot of things that...and in slow motion...I watch as Mike gives Max a sip of what he things is water from a red cup, but what I know is a margarita. I watch as Max takes a slug of it, wrinkles his entire face, and then proceeds to smack the bottom of the cup, spilling the entire contents of the cocktail on his head, all over his outift and all over Mike. He's sobbing and inflexible mommy kicks into high gear.

MIKE: "Don't worry! It's just water."

ME: "Um...it's not just water. It's just tequila!"

We rip the baby's clothes off and it occurs to me that this is his Will Ferrel in Old School moment. Max is a party animal and I was going to rob him of his first real party foul. It was a messy mazel tov moment. After Max was all dry in his soft baby skin deliciousness, Mike and I smelled his head (something that everyone does with babies) and grinned--not because he smelled like "baby" but because he reeked of margarita. 

"Yum" I hummed, and took a swig of my Chardonnay. 

This is HILARIOUS. Can't get your baby to bed? Read this and you won't feel alone.

http://moms.today.com/_news/2011/04/26/6534646-want-another-bedtime-story-sweetie-heres-one-go-the-fk-to-sleep?GT1=43001

Welcome to Motherhood

Max is nine months old. Nine months. And in nine months, I've come to the realization that all parents must come to--that nothing...nothing...works out that way that you plan for it to. Now, I didn't say that nothing works out, I just said that nothing works out the way it was PLANNED to. On the days when I'm not working and I'm in charge of Max, I have my fantasy "being with baby" day all laid out in my mind. We'll go for a walk, take a nap, have some lunch at a small quaint local restaurant, go to the park, take another nap, play, read, and in general, we'll be so cute it'll seem like we should be on the cover of Parents Magazine. 

Instead, it goes something like this. 

I run around our house frantically trying to get Max ready for the day as he crawls all over everything he's not supposed to, attempts to jam his fingers into every light socket, suck on every wire, climb on every metal railing and poke his eyes out on every sharp corner. Once I've changed his diaper while he's standing (an artform, I assure you), I manage to put a bra on and brush my teeth. What I'm wearing is meaningless. We then head to our local taco place because it's, of course, too late for me to head home and feed him and he likes rice and guacamole...has he ever had guacamole? Well, he will today. 

Oh..another thing...on the way to this taco place, I lamented (out loud to my sister in law who was driving) that I didn't bring any Boogie Wipes with me (if you're a mom reading this and you don't have boogie wipes, buy them NOW) and I was bummed because he was starting to get such a crusty nose that I was beginning to be "that mom with the baby who always has a crusty nose." That mom you want to stay away from. 

Uh huh. 

So anyway, we get to the taco place and I sit Max down and get really overzealous with his food options. He tries queso fresco, guac, a little bit of chicken, some rice and just as I'm marveling at what a fantastic eater I have, he projectile vomits all over the table and himself. 

Boogie wipes? No, I need a shop vac.

My sister in law and I grab Max, rip off his clothes, I literally have to take him outside and shake the rest of the vomit remnants off of him. We pack up, leaving a very unhappy taco place staff to sweep up rice and a whole bunch of other things Max managed to toss on the floor, and head out to do the rest of our errands with a half naked baby. Of course, prepared mommy that I am, I have a change of clothes for Max but I figure there's no point in putting new clothes on him because he's just going to keep getting disgusting and guess what? I'm now the crusty baby mommy. Crust baby mommies have known something all along, they've figured out how to de-stress themselves by not worrying about having a perfectly clean baby. It's genius. 

Jenna and I head to Borders where I then have the privilege of running into someone I know. Now, in normal world (i.e. I don't have my dirty baby who's just vomited all over himself with me world and/or I'm not wearing a t-shirt with three stains on it world and/or I brushed my hair in the last two days world), running into someone I know would be no problem, even pleasurable. In this case, not so much. 

Not only am I now crusty baby mommy, I'm "let your kid play with anything disgustingly dirty just so he'll be happy and occupied mommy." 

In the midst of my conversation with the person I've run into, I become so fed up with my child's incessant squirming that I place him on the floor of Borders (a Borders, mind you, that is going out of business so I'm pretty sure it hasn't been cleaned in the past three months) and let him crawl around, touch things, chew on random books for sale. I let him. And I don't give a shit. 

And I'm sure she was thinking "wow, that is one crusty ass baby, and one crusty ass baby mommy." That's what I would have thought a year ago. Now, I just think..."guess her day didn't turn out as planned. Welcome to motherhood." 

 

The Pleasure and the Pain

One of the reasons that I married Mike is because I knew he'd be a great father. I saw it the day we met--It was on the beach in Malibu and he was throwing the ball to his (now our) dog, Louie and when Louie ran up to him and tried to pummel him, disgustingly droolie, wet and sandy, Mike promptly disciplined him, grabbed a towel and threw it over Louie while the dog rolled through the terry cloth in ecstasy. It was cute in a "I have boundaries" kind of way and I just knew...

What I didn't know was that Mike would take fatherhood and run with it so seriously that he puts me to shame...literally.  If I don't do things exactly the way he wants me to do them--bedtime routine, bathtime routine, from the way I buckle Max in the car seat to the way I change the kid's diaper--I'm in trouble. 

The other night, I had the privilege of being in charge of bedtime-which I never am (working mommies, let's commiserate). We did the bath, the playing the changing the eating and it was all deliciousness. And, at 7:10pm, entirely self satisfied, I closed the door to Max's room delighted that he would be settling in for a solid 12 hour rest. 

I should have known that any time, as a parent or a married person, you think you're right. You're not. And it's definitely your fault. I'm now knowing what it's like to be a man, or a boyfriend or a husband, and I'm not liking it. 

2:30am rolls around and I have a screaming baby. Screaming. Baby. 

MIKE: "We're not going in there. Don't even think about it."

ME: "I know. I know. It's just...uggh...he sounds SO pathetic."

MIKE: "Get over it. He'll be fine. He'll be passed out again in no time."

3:20am

Mike's asleep, of course and I'm staring at the monitor willing this child to go to sleep. I'm ESP-ing him, telling him all of the things he'll get when he graduates from preschool, elementary school, high school, when he turns 16, when he has a bar-mitzvah...I'm mentally bribing my 6 month old and it's 3:30 am and I'm convinced it's going to work.

MIKE: "What happened when you put him to bed?"

ME: "What do you mean 'what happened'? He ate seven ounces, we played, he passed out."

Mike's skeptical. As any "wife" would be if their "husband," who isn't usually in charge of bedtime, had been in charge of the task and seemingly screwed it up.

Eventually, Max goes back to sleep and is up for the day at 5:20. Yuck. Mike goes in to do the change and as I check my blackberry, I hear:

MIKE: "No wonder he was up at 2:30! Look at these jammies!"

I rush in thinking the jammies had combusted overnight. Nope, they were the same jammies I'd put him in. No puke. No poop. All clean...

MIKE: "These are WAY too light for a night like last night! Do you REEEAALIZE that it was in the FORTIES last night?!"

Mike cuddles Max and looks him in the eyes.

MIKE: "You must have been FREEEEZING." 

The two of them give me a death stare. Max cradles Mike's face and smiles.

ME: "First of all, it was hot yesterday. Who knew it would be freezing last night?!"

MIKE: "Because that's the pattern, Alexis. This is a Los Angeles winter. It's warmer in the day and gets a lot cooler at night."

Oh, so now he's a weatherman.

ME: "Well now I feel horrible. He was, like, up all night shivering because of me."

Mike doesn't disagree.

It's the next night and I'm in charge of bathtime. Now, Mike treats bathtime like a sacred ritual. It's all in the timing, the organization...he has it down to a science. I take over and, well...

MIKE: "What are you doing?"

ME: "I'm putting Max in the bath."

MIKE: "That's not how I do it. I don't just 'put' him in. I place him in feet first, let him get used to the temperature, he usually pees a little bit, and then I gently lower him in."

There I am, holding a squirming, naked baby and thinking about TEEN MOM. They bathe their babies and I'm pretty sure they don't give a sh-t about placing their feet in first so they can get used to the temperature and awaiting urination.

ME: "You do it the way you do it, and I do it the way I do it."

I sit the kid in the bath and, yup, SCREAMING. 

MIKE: "It's TOO HOT, I TOLD you! He has to get used to it! Take him out! Take him out!"

I take him out and lower him in, per my "wife's" initial instructions. 

MIKE: "Yeah, it's too late for that. You needed to do that from the very beginning. First you freeze our child, then you burn him. What's next?"

I married him because I knew he'd be a good father and now, I've created a monster. Maybe I should have gone in feet first, peed and lowered myself in slowly so as not to shock my system. Oh well, too late for that. Hardcore daddy is in the house and here to stay. I'd better start checking the weather report. 

The Rules of Engagement

Once you think you've mastered the "having a baby" thing at home--working, sleeping, eating, running errands, taking the baby in the car, out of the car, up the stairs, down the stairs, in the seat out of the seat, changing 450 diapers a day, living on 2 hours of sleep, mastering eating, showering and paying all of your bills during your child's 25 minute nap, you get the bright idea to go somewhere. No, I don't mean driving across town to visit a friend, which in itself is an insane outing with a child, but to actually get on a plane and GO somewhere...like...travel. Like, pack up all the sh-t, screw up the schedule and ruin everything you've tried to accomplish...on purpose. 

Traveling with a baby is like a military expedition. It takes three weeks to prepare for your mission--planning outfits, buying diapers (overnights, swim and regular), buying enough formula in case you're stranded in a LOST way and have to feed your baby for the next five weeks on a desert island, medication (gas, tylenol, herbal crap for teething that doesn't work, etc.), packing every single toy that will fit in a suitcase -- toys for nighttime, daytime, relaxing time, pool time, bath time, etc. -- and the list goes on and on and on. And by the way, forget yourself. You don't matter--you're just the Hummer designed to transport your little soldier on the greatest adventure of his life thus far and if you wear the same outfit every single day, never put on a stitch of makeup and forget everything that was ever important to you in your previous life, that's just fine. But like war, one can never be truly prepared and with a child, I've found that the greatest surprises come in the form of all too familiar substances...things we're intimate with (some more so than others), things that greet us every day (some more than others) and things that I never thought I'd ever see so much of...yes, you guessed it...

POOP & PEE

No matter what I packed for Max, no matter how many scenarios I'd worked out in my mind, nothing could have prepared me for the spontaneous excretory situations I encountered on this trip. 

CASE 1--EN ROUTE TO MAUI-DELTA AIRLINES 08:00 HOURS

I'm doing something I never thought I'd ever do. I'm sitting on the rubbery and kind of wet floor (yuck) of the plane by the kitchen (blech). I have my son on a tiny play mat (which is really the mat I use to change his diaper in disgusting public places) and he's kicking his legs and screaming with delight. He must not be thinking of the botulism I'm sure he'll contract lying there. I've planted myself here for most of the flight and so far, none of the flight attendants have said anything probably because they seem to be enjoying him as much as I am (points for cuteness, Max, score). This seems to be the only way to keep him from crying and squirming and annoying the crap out of me and everyone else around him. 

I realize that I need to change his diaper so I reach for my provisions (I have practically enough diapers for the next three hundred days). Mike walks over and asks if he can help me. I naively shake my head 'no' as if to say, "You think I don't have this? Oh, I'm prepared for WAR sir. WAR." The flight attendant reminds me that there's a changing table on one of the bathrooms on the plane and I assure her that "I do this all the time. I'm so fast she won't even know what..." and just then I feel a warm, wet something or other splash me in the face, creep up my sleeve and soak the entire disgusting already icky moist floor around me. Luckily, my reflexes haven't failed me. In this combat situation, I've had the presence of mind to cover my enemy's "member" to distract the flight attendant. She hasn't noticed anything but Mike has. We lock eyes and using our training, we engage the flight attendant in idle conversation so as not to draw attention the goings-on on the floor. Mike asks her about her pomeranians, does she have any pictures (she does, of course and proceeds to whip out her blackberry). As he does this, he tosses me a clean change of clothes for little mister and before I know it, we're wiped up and back in the seat squirming...whew.

CASE 2-ANNOYING TIMESHARE SEMINAR THAT WE HAVE TO GO TO BECAUSE WE'RE STAYING IN A TIMESHARE AND WE GOT SUCKED IN--WESTIN MAUI 1100 HOURS

The sales dude, who's actually doing quite a good job with his pitch, so much so that I kind of want a timeshare in Cancun and I'm trying to decide if we really need to buy groceries every week or if we should buy this timeshare, is about to go in for the kill when Mike and I look at each other, narrow our eyes and in unison, smell our baby's ass...it's go time. But wait, what's that on your shirt? What's that on my skirt? Uh...ew. Um...it's...leaking...it's green...it's everywhere and the enemy is giggling and acting as if he's ENJOYING THIS. The sales dude is so engrossed in the Starwood points system that even he hasn't figured out that a dangerous explosion has occurred. I grab little mister and run out of the meeting leaving Mike stranded with poop on his shorts and an imaginary timeshare mortgage that's already robbing our child of his college education.

CASE 3--DELTA AIRLINES FLIGHT FROM MAUI TO LAX-19:00 HOURS

"We did it," I think, as I look at my delicious son snuggled up in his carseat. The battle was won. I was prepared, focused, I used my training, I didn't get flustered I....sniff...Mike and I look at each other with a sort of "haven't we been here before" smirk. He gets him out of the car seat. I assure Mike that it's nothing, probably just a fart, you know...sometimes the bark is worse than the bite. I go into the enemy's territory (i.e. smelling his tush) and lean back, raise my shoulders and tell Mike, "No...no poop." Mike looks at me and gags. He actually might retch. "Um...you have something...um....what's the on your f...f...face..." I touch my cheek. Green, warm...yes. Yes. THERE IS POOP ON MY FACE. The civilians around us are getting "wind" of the situation. They're grimacing, some turn their heads in horror from the smell, some cover their mouths, others follow Mike's cue and begin to retch...

Again, Mike and I engage in battle. He stands up, hands the baby to me and begins to engage the civilians in idle chat about "those babies...you never know what you're going to get...ha ha. You got kids? No? Don't have any! Just kidding...Where you from?" He continues his standup while I grab the enemy, toss him onto the empty aisle behind me, rip off his clothes, wipe my face, wipe his face and go in for the piece de resistance--my hands working deftly and in two minutes, Mike's best friends with the civilians in the aisle and I've got a fresh as a daisy baby.

I wrap up my ammo, give little mister a wet kiss on the cheek and dare anyone to sit in that seat now. 

 

 

Keep the change

Having a baby means that life changes. A lot. Marriage ends up being somewhere in between "this is just like living together" and "OMG where did my life go?" but having a kid is a whole other story. It launches you into the stratosphere of...nuts. You're out of control, completely helpless and yet entirely empowered all at the same time. 

So when I went to doctor for the first time since baby (no not the six week "all clear" appointment but a regular check up) I was stoked to find out how much I'd changed. Really, all I wanted to know was how much weight I'd lost. Let's be honest. All a girl really cares about in the first few months post baby is when the eff she's going to be able to fit into jeans again (and I don't mean skinny jeans, I just mean any jeans--fat, skinny, boyfriend, girlfriend, capri, wide leg, boot cut, straight, what the f-k ever jeans). Now, throughout my pregnancy I refused to let the doctor tell me how much weight I'd gained. Sounds creepy, but it's way less creepy than having those numbers float around in your head when you eat grilled cheese four times a day. I wanted to gain the weight and enjoy it. And I did. So here I am in the nurses station area of the gyno's office and I'm standing at the scale, taking my shoes off and dumping my purse to the side, readying myself for the big reveal. I tell the nurse that I don't want to know what I weigh, I just want to know how much I've lost since my six week appointment...no need for TMI, let's just get to the point. I get up, she looks, she walks over to the computer, I put the shoes back on, I look over at her, she looks up at me and without skipping a beat she motions for me to come over to the computer. Bad sign already. I was expecting a resounding "Alexis! You've lost 15 whole pounds since your last appointment! BRAVO!!!" I was expecting applause from other patients. Instead I get a little flick of her finger, motioning me to look closely at a frightening excel spreadsheet with my charted weight from the last 12 months. 

Her index finger flicks, once again, up and down as it points to my weight the last time I'd come in and my weight this time. 

"No cheeange," she squeaks with a Ukranian lilt. I do a double take and squint my eyes.

"I...I'm sorry...what?" I stutter.

"No cheeange," she repeats.

"E...ex...excuse me. Ahem. No, I don't think that's possible. Th...there's been no change for, like, uh...wow...six weeks since I was last here?" I feel like my neck is jerking back and forth...like I'm about to cluck or shout obscenities in a Tourettes-like rage.

"No. Change," she reiterates and gets up, leading me to the examination room.

"I don't understand. It's...it's not possible. It's been SIX. WHOLE. WEEKS since I was last here and, well, it's just not possible. I mean...no...it's just not possible. No change is just not possible."

She hands me my gown and with a terse, "Everything off. Open in the front. Flip the switch when you're ready for doctor," she's gone and I'm alone...with no change. As I sit on the edge of the freezing cold examination table, kick my feet up in the stirrups, throw my head in my hands and begin to sob. Just then, Dr. Serden, the man who delivered the biggest change that's ever happened to me in my entire life walks in.

"I...I'm sure I'm not the only girl who's burst into tears, naked in this hideous gown, sobbing over the fact that she hasn't lost one pound in six weeks. Not one. No change! I...I'm sure I'm not the only one. God I hope I'm not the only one. Am I the only one?" I whimper. God he must get tired of this. 

He gives me a hug (remember I'm still wearing the gown, open in the front, feet in stirrups, and yup...still sobbing), reminds me of all of the myths (btw breastfeeding doesn't help you lose weight so shout it from the rooftops people, shout it), of how long it really takes to get things back to 'normal,' of how there's a new normal yada yada yada. And I listen, I feel better, I have my exam and as I'm riding in the elevator down to my car I realize something. It's not possible for there to have been "no cheeeeaange" because, EVERYTHING'S CHANGED. Absolutely everything.

I get a hangover from a half a glass of wine.

I drive and use my breast pump and make business phone calls. I feel like I'm perpetually in the movie Baby Boom.

It takes me 45 minutes to get out of the house just to go to the bank which is three minutes away.

I never ever go anywhere without forgetting something including but not limited to my wallet, my car keys, my sunglasses, matching socks...

I always lose things. I never have a clue what time it is.

My clothes are always kind of dirty. 

I can't remember when I last showered. 

I get giddy over going to Babies R Us. 

I no longer have one free second to myself because even pooping requires a plan. Should I put the baby in his crib? In his chair in the bathroom with me? Is that gross? Does it matter? God I really have to go...

How can you say there's no change when there's nothing BUT change? 

I leave Cedars Sinai, get into my car and sigh. I start thinking that maybe there is no change because this is...as Dr. Serden said...the new normal. That no change is the new change. That..."Where the f-k is my f-king parking ticket????!?!!!!!! Sh-t. Sh-t. Sh-t!!!!! Yes. There has been change, nurse. Look in my ass and you'll find my head. It wasn't there before but now that I have a child that's where it resides!" I mutter psychotically to myself as I fork over the 'lost ticket pays maximum give us your first born twenty dollars' and speed home thinking about how delicious a grilled cheese sandwich would be right about now...

 

The Parent Olympics

 

Having a baby means that you and your spouse have to work together as team. In a perfect world, this would mean relishing in one another's strengths with your baby and working on a solid give and take platform. And the truth this, IT DOESN'T WORK THIS WAY AT ALL. In fact, having a baby seems to bring out a couple's competitive streak. 

SCENE I: Mike solo with the baby

The first time I left Mike with the baby for an entire morning, he insisted that he could do every errand he had for the entire week with little Max in tow. 

MIKE (talking in baby talk to Max): So today, we're going to run an errand in the valley, then we're going to Santa Monica to sign our new car lease and get our new car! 

I peeked around the corner of Max's room to watch as Mike gave Max the play by play of the day.

ME: "Babe, you might want to be careful. He's not really used to going to more than one location in a day...he can get weird and overtired after that."

MIKE: "He'll be fiiiine! (and again, in baby talk to Max) He loves the caaaar and the caaar seat and he loves to see all the peeeeeeeople and we're going to have the...BEST...TIME. YES!"

I got in the car with Jenna to go shopping that morning and gave her the rundown.

ME: "He's taking Max with him to go lease our new car."

JENNA: "What?"

ME: "Oh yeah. And I forgot. They're going to run an errand in the valley before that."

JENNA: "So basically he's going to have Max in the car with him for, like, five hours."

ME: "Yup."

JENNA: "We'll see how that goes."

When couples parent children together, there's always the person who's convinced that the other person is always overreacting and uptight. This was Mike's chance to prove to me that the baby wasn't as precious as I thought he was...that he was portable and chill...like Angelina Jolie's globetrotters.

Later that afternoon, I called to check in on them. 

ME: "So, how's it going?"

MIKE: "Well..."

Jenna and I looked at each other -- he had the kind of voice one gets when they've been on three planes with two layovers in one day...like he was so tired and so stranded he didn't know which time zone he was in.

ME: "Well...what? Wait...is that him screaming in the background?"

MIKE: "Leasing the car took a little longer than I'd expected."

ME: "Uh huh."

MIKE: "It's...well...it's taking us forever to get home from Santa Monica."

Okay, I admit it. As much as it sucked to hear Max miserable, I was feeling a little glib. After all, ahem...I was right...and being right (when you're married and you have a baby and you're constantly bickering with your husband about how to do things) feels...sooooooooo good. 

ME: "Why's that?"  

MIKE: "I...uh...I've had to pull over a couple of times."

ME: "Really? Why's that?"

MIKE: "Well, first, he was screaming so I pulled over to change his diaper and I realized that maybe he was hungry..."

shocker

MIKE: "So I fed him and changed him but we started driving again and he wouldn't stop crying so I pulled over again and fed him some more and changed him again and now I just think he's..."

Weird and overtired? 

MIKE: (deep breath) Weird and overtired...like you said.

SCORE! 

I should have known, though, that parenting has this amazing way of biting you in the ass. Once you think something's one way--as in, you think you've mastered your kid--he (the kid, in this case) gives you a wallop reminding you that nothing is ever as it seems. Ever.

A week later, I was having my usual morning with Max -- breakfast, hanging out in the bouncy seat (Max, not me) and general fun times when I noticed that Mike was telling me what to do. For example, I was walking down the hall with the baby, who was whining, and I heard Mike (from his office) yell..."He's hungry. Feed him before he has a meltdown." Huh? I know my baby. I know when he's...and sure enough...WAAAAAAHHHHHH! WAAAAAAAAHHHH! 

"See? You waiting too long!," Mike called from the other room. One hell day with the baby (a day that I'd warned him about) and now h's a f-ing expert. Needless to say, the baby screamed for a half hour before I could get one sip in him and for the rest of the day, all I heard was..."Get a bottle ready now." "He's getting tired...put him down." "Now's a good time to get the bottle ready." "A few more minutes and it's meltdown time." "Watch out, he's ready for a nap." I felt like I was in nanny boot camp. "Ok expert! I know my own goddamn baby, ok?! I knoooow for a fact that he's not hungry because I just..."     WAAAAAAAAAHHH! WAAAAAAAHHHHHH! Ok, so maybe he was hungry and maybe he was wet and tired and all of the things he was when I was sure he wasn't because...

DING DING DING

Mike wins this round. And I knew the entire day, he was sitting in his office smirking...waiting for his opponent (in this case, me) to screw up so he could say....ahem...I TOLD YOU SO.

I will say that our solo training has come in very handy when we scrimmage on the same team. You carry the car seat. I'll take the diaper bag. Bottle? Check. Extra onesie? Check. Wipes? Check. Mylicon? Check. Car keys? I got 'em. Where's my phone? I have it. Perfect. We ready to roll? Yup. 

We get in the car and inevitably...we forget something and it's...

Did you bring the camera? No, I told you to get it.

No you didn't 

Yes I did

No you didn't, you said to take the FLIP camera, not the regular camera.

No, I told you my camera was sitting by my phone and that we should take both.

Well, I didn't hear you.

You never hear me. 

That's not true.

Yes it is.

Sssh. The baby just passed out. 

We both look to the back seat where little Max has gotten exhausted from the game. We face forward, looking at the road ahead and we both shut up and drive.