Are you ready for children?

Recently came across this "checklist" on another mommy blog (author unknown) and laughed til I cried (a little too much actually; might have looked a little manic to an outsider) Read on; hilarious!

 

 

Test 1: Preparation

 

Women: To prepare for pregnancy

1.Put on a dressing gown and stick a beanbag down the front.

2.Leave it there.

3.After 9 months remove 5% of the beans.

Men: To prepare for children:-

1.Go to a local pharmacy, tip the contents of your wallet onto the counter and tell the pharmacist to help himself

2.Go to the supermarket. Arrange to have your salary paid directly to their head office.

3.Go home. Pick up the newspaper and read it for the last time.

 

Test 2:Knowledge

Find a couple who are already parents and berate them about their methods of discipline, lack of patience, appallingly low tolerance levels and how they have allowed their children to run wild. Suggest ways in which they might improve their child's sleeping habits, toilet training, table manners and overall behavior.

 

Enjoy it. It will be the last time in your life that you will have all the answers.

 

Test 3: Nights

To discover how the nights will feel:

1. Walk around the living room from 5pm to 10pm carrying a wet bag weighing approximately 8-10 lbs, with a radio turned to static (or some other obnoxious sound) playing loudly.

2. At 10pm, put the bag down, set the alarm for midnight and go to sleep.

3. Get up at 11pm and walk the bag around the living room until 1am.

4. Set the alarm for 3am.

5. As you can't get back to sleep, get up at 2am and make a cup of tea.

6. Go to bed at 2.45am.

7. Get up again at 3am when the alarm goes off.

8. Sing songs in the dark until 4am.

9. Put the alarm on for 5am. Get up when it goes off.

10.Make breakfast.

 

Keep this up for 5 years. LOOK CHEERFUL.

 

Test 4: Dressing Small Children

1.Buy a live octopus and a string bag.

2.Attempt to put the octopus into the string bag so that no arms hangout.

Time Allowed: 5 minutes.

 

Test 5:Cars

1.Forget the BMW. Buy a practical 5-door wagon.

2.Buy a chocolate ice cream cone and put it in the glove compartment. Leave it there.

3.Get a coin. Insert it into the CD player.

4.Take a box of chocolate cookies; mash them into the back seat.

5.Run a garden rake along both sides of the car.

 

Test 6: Going For a Walk

a.Wait.

b.Go out the front door.

c.Come back in again.

d.Go out.

e.Come back in again.

f.Go out again.

g.Walk down the front path.

h.Walk back up it.

i.Walk down it again.

j.Walk very slowly down the road for five minutes.

k.Stop, inspect minutely and ask at least 6 questions about every piece of used chewing gum, dirty tissue and dead insect along the way.

l.Retrace your steps.

m.Scream that you have had as much as you can stand until the neighbours come out and stare at you.

n.Give up and go back into the house.

 

You are now just about ready to try taking a small child for a walk.

Test 7: Conversations with children

Repeat everything you say at least 5 times.

 

Test 8: Grocery Shopping

1.Go to the local supermarket. Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child - a fully grown goat is excellent. If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat.

2.Buy your weekly groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.

3.Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.

 

Until you can easily accomplish this, do not even contemplate having children.

 

Test 9:Feeding a 1 year-old

1.Hollow out a melon

2.Make a small hole in the side

3.Suspend the melon from the ceiling and swing it side to side

4.Now get a bowl of soggy cornflakes and attempt to spoon them into the swaying melon while pretending to be an airplane.

5.Continue until half the cornflakes are gone.

6.Tip the rest into your lap, making sure that a lot of it falls on the floor.

 

Test 10:TV

1.Learn the names of every character from the Wiggles, Barney, Teletubbies and Disney.

2.Watch nothing else on television for at least 5 years.

 

Test 11: Mess

Can you stand the mess children make? To find out:

 

1.Smear peanut butter onto the sofa and jam onto the curtains

2.Hide a fish behind the stereo and leave it there all summer.

3.Stick your fingers in the flowerbeds and then rub them on clean walls. Cover the stains with crayon. How does that look?

4.Empty every drawer/cupboard/storage box in your house onto the floor and proceed with step 5.

5.Drag randomly items from one room to another room & leave them there.

 

Test 12: Long Trips with Toddlers

1.Make a recording of someone shouting 'Mummy' repeatedly. Important Notes: No more than a 4 second delay between each Mummy. Include occasional crescendo to the level of a supersonic jet.

2.Play this tape in your car, everywhere you go for the next 4 years.

 

You are now ready to take a long trip with a toddler.

 

Test 13:Conversations

1.Start talking to an adult of your choice.

2.Have someone else continually tug on your shirt hem or shirt sleeve while playing the Mummy tape listed above.

 

You are now ready to have a conversation with an adult while there is a child in the room.

 

Test 14:Getting ready for work

1.Pick a day on which you have an important meeting.

2.Put on your finest work attire.

3.Take a cup of cream and put 1 cup of lemon juice in it

4.Stir

5.Dump half of it on your nice silk shirt

6.Saturate a towel with the other half of the mixture

7.Attempt to clean your shirt with the same saturated towel

8.Do not change (you have no time).

9.Go directly to work

 

You are now ready to have children. ENJOY!!

Can you relate to any (all) of these? Which? Do you wish to add any? Comment below!

When it rains, it pours ...

I'm slightly obsessive compulsive. (Anyone who truly knows me is probably laughing at that statement.) And my poor husband is the opposite. God must have gotten a real kick out of putting us together, that's for sure.

Oh, and I'm a control freak. It's embarrassing to admit some of the things I've tried to control in my little world. 

There was a time when I tried to get Greg to stop wearing his socks inside our apartments because "they wear out faster that way and get dingy." I would go to my sock drawer and pull out a pair of my three year old socks that looked like new. "Look! Yours can be this nice too!" I would proudly exclaim, utterly confused about his indifference to his sock bottoms.

I truly think God's will is perfect because if I'd had a kid when we first married, I probably would have messed her up for life. Instead, we waited, and in that time I've mellowed ... a little ... ok, I'm still really working on it. Ok, motherhood in general forces you to loosen up.

Greg's not a complainer, so I had no idea this had affected him during our early years. But now that I'm changing, we're constantly having conversations like this:

"Whoa, you wouldn't have let that go a few years ago!"

"What? Let what go?"

"Do you realize you just left the house, and all the throw pillows weren't perfectly arranged on the couch?"

Cue hanging head in shame.

Obviously, God still has a lot of work to do on me, which is why I think he allows days like last Thursday, the day of our new home inspection.

I woke up that morning and immediately began running around like a mad woman, mainly because I hadn't incorporated into my schedule 20 minutes to address two major diaper blowouts. We were a few minutes late for the appointment, and when we arrived, Greg approached the seller's agent to remind him that the tax/deed information we'd asked for weeks earlier, was due today. I vaguely heard this, but was unsure whether Greg had gotten the point across. So I yanked Darby out of her seat, grabbed her diaper bag and hurried over, trying to adjust my shirt while brushing half my hair out of my now sweaty face.

"They said our application would be canceled if it's not all in today!" I breathlessly exclaimed, meeting with three raised brows and looks that clearly said, "Who's this mess?"

I instantly shut up, realizing what a control freak I was being.

After the inspection, during which I think I behaved very well, we had to zip over to State Farm for the last item: a homeowner's insurance quote, which had also been waiting on info from the selling agent to complete. In the car I began to inform Greg that it was annoying we were rushing around simply because other people weren't "doing their job."

Annoyingly, he wasn't annoyed.

"...Maybe ... maybe, God is trying to teach me to trust him and be patient with others?"

"That definitely could be."

"Darn."

After State Farm, we drove 45 minutes to the branch where our mortgage guy works, to hand in our application. I sat in the car, nursing, and developing a deeper concern about something I'd noticed going on with Darby. I called my mom, who said I should call the Pediatrician, who said I should bring her in to get looked at in two hours.

Greg returned and I told him the plan. His response was,

"Welp! They told me the wrong branch. He works another 45 minute drive across town."

"Ughhhh...."

45 minutes later, I was changing Darby while Greg ran inside the correct branch, and my phone rang. It was Greg.

"Hey, you know last night when we saw in the paperwork that there was a mortgage application processing fee, and you said it was probably like 40 dollars?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, it's 354 dollars. I'm not sure if I should put it on the debit or credit card."

"What?" *Sigh* "Credit."

By the time Greg finished, there was just enough time for me to drop him off at work, race home, throw some lunch down my throat while Darby cried her head off, and rush to the Pediatrician's office.

The waiting room was empty and we were called right in. "Yes!" I thought. Once there, Darby began to fuss again. It was time to nurse, and I pretty much have no shame left about this. I just stuck her right on as we waited for the doctor. She finished feeding, and the doctor hadn't come. Then we walked around the room, closely examining the Whinnie the Pooh wallpaper, and she still hadn't come. By some miracle, Darby was completely overcome by the Whinnie the Pooh wallpaper and stayed happy and quiet.

At around my 120th circuit of the room, the doctor came back, said Darby was fine, and we could go give them 50 dollars and leave.

I had spent the rest of the afternoon at the doctor's, and it was time to pick up Greg, head home, and get ready for a youth pool party that evening.

At home, I finally plopped into a chair with Darby and called my mom to tell her what the doctor had said. My eyes glazed over as I stared mindlessly through the sliding glass door onto my cute little screened in porch. Then, in the middle of explaining that I wasn't sure Darby was up for a pool party, and before my very eyes, this happened:

 

 

 

 

The glass top to the patio table spontaneously shattered into a billion pieces and crashd to the floor, spreading out everywhere, atomic bomb style. I think it was God' punch line, and you know what? It was hilarious.

I laughed so hard, it took a couple of minutes to explain to my mom what was going on.

God's trying to change me little by little. And I think some evidence that it's working is the fact that we've simply stayed off the porch, and have yet to clean it up.






 

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To cry or not to cry, that is the question...

I have to admit that I have gone back and forth so many times between the two different schools of thought on this issue, it's ridiculous. The problem is, each school of thought provides such a generous helping of mommyguilt about the other, that any time I hear something from one "side," I become convinced that doing anything but what that "side" advises is tantamount to child abuse, or, at the very least, will eternally scar my daughter.

This was not always the case. The first week of Darby's life I lived in blissfull ignorance of the "cry it out" debate. My mom was staying with us, and if Darby cried, or I needed to take a shower, go on a walk, or catch up on sleep, there was a pair of arms only too willing to hold my baby. (If only I lived in a third world society where multiptle generations still live under one roof ... stinkin' industrialism.)

Then my mom left and reality hit. Read: Greg and I had no idea what we were doing. (That's only improved a little.)

It turns out that both my husband and I had been laboring under the same misconceptions about life with a baby. Basically, our naive minds had imagined a scenario like this: After a pleasant day of stroller walks and lounging on a blanket with a happy infant, Greg would return from work, after which we would eat the dinner I prepared while Darby napped like an angel. During our shared dinner, she would sit smiling at us from her infant bouncer. Afterward, we would bathe her, read a book, then place her in the crib to sleep, shut the door with a smile, and go watch a movie.

If you have a child and are reading this thinking, "Uh, yeah, that's how it was for us," then you need to get down on your knees and thank God right now.

Instead of the above scenario, we were running around like proverbial headless chickens. If we had a "good day" it was purely by chance; I had no idea how to read my baby, was usually unable to calm her down when she really got going, and there was no schedule or routine for anything, including sleep. It was really starting to wear on us.

The myriad of infant care classes we had attended taught us how to bathe her and administer baby CPR if she stopped breathing, but nothing about what to do when it's two-thirty in the morning and my baby has not yet gone to sleep except for a minute or two in my arms, my poor husband has to get up in four and a half hours, and it's almost time for her next freakin' feeding anyway, which will take at least 45 minutes, and I will probably pass out while nursing and drop my baby on the floor.

One such night, when her eyes finally fluttered shut and stayed that way for a few minutes, I s-l-o-w-l-y stood up, silently cursing the beautiful, one hundred year old rocking chair my parents had passed down to me, as it creaked all over the place. Pretending to be a rocking chair myself and trick my baby into thinking we were still sitting in it, I swayed back and forth as I crossed the room with her. I was just alert enough to realize how ridiculous I looked. After placing her as gently as possible in the crib and holding my breath while she squirmed and then fell still, I turned and climbed into bed. My husband, who had drifted to sleep, coughed innocently, and I silently gave him the biggest evil eye of my life. Just as I got comfortable, there came a dreaded sound: Darby's pre-cry, a cough/sneeze/snort combination which lets us know she's about to lose it.

I know it's terrible, but I was so tired I could not keep my eyes open, and I continued to lay there, pretending not to hear the crying from six feet away, so that Greg would have to get up. Don't judge me. He did, and after futilly attempting the same human being-rocking chair sham, he finally put her in her little vibrating infant seat and plopped it right next to his side of the bed. Every time she began to cry, his zombie arm would reach out and replace the pacifier that had fallen out of her mouth. I truly don't know if he was even awake. How, you ask, did I see all of this if I was so tired that I could not keep my eyes open? I'll tell you; as soon as Greg groggily picked her up from the crib, my first-time-mom-paranoia kicked in, and I watched him like a hawk from the bed as he rocked her, in case he fell asleep and dropped her on the floor.

Something had to change.

And it did. I came across some material that informed me it's okay to let a baby cry. Babies, I read, expend energy by crying and sometimes just need to do it. Moreover, one main reason for a baby's cry is sleepiness. A baby cries when she's tired, and silly parents only keep her awake, and crying, when they rush in and scoop her up at the first sound. By allowing a baby to cry and finally fall asleep on his own, parents are helping him to develop necessary self-soothing techniques. Responding to every cry, however, will likely create a dependant, whiny child who believes the world revolves around her.

All of this was welcome news to my frustrated, sleep deprived self, and I told Greg what I'd learned. We wondered; why had no one told us these facts before?

The material I read did not suggest an age at which a parent should implement the method, but it did make it clear that the longer we waited, the more difficult it would be, and the higher the chance of our child turning out to be a spoiled brat.

That night, at around three weeks, we tried it out. Now, in defense of this method, its harshest critics are not quite accurate. It does not promote simply ignoring a baby. For the next few nights, we laid Darby in her crib when she was sleepy but awake. When she inevitably began to cry a few minutes later, we returned to her crib, burped her, and put her back. If she cried again, we waited a little longer and then returned, put a hand on her tummy and whispered comforting words. Every time she cried, we waited longer before going to her, until eventually we waited so long that she stopped crying. When we looked in on her she was sleeping.

While she cried, I would sit in the living room "reading." In actuality I was listening to every nuance of her cry, wondering if we were doing the right thing, and obsessively asking Greg, "Are we doing the right thing?"

It only worked half of the time. The other half of the time, she simply didn't fall asleep and I, not comfortable with continuing to let her cry, would get her up again.

After a few days of this, I decided to do a little "online research" to learn whether or not Darby was just too young to make it work. That is when I discovered how divided parents, doctors, and other experts are on this issue. One article I found asserted that anyone using the method is breaking the "cycle of trust" that a baby is attempting to create with his new parents. "And it should definitely never be used with infants younger than six months, especially newborns. They are too little and scared and unable to soothe themselves."

Tears came to my eyes.

I read through the "comments" section.

"Any mother who does this is terrible. Babies only want to be held for a short time. Who cares? Just hold them. They need you."

"Mothers in Africa were shown footage of American mothers letting their babies 'cry it out' and they were horrified and asked why the American mothers weren't taking care of their babies."

"Just imagine you are paralyzed, can only see a few inches, completely dependent on others for everything, and when you call for them, they leave you alone. That is what you are doing if you let a baby cry."

By this time I was sobbing. What had I done? I flew into the next room and unintelligably blubbered to Greg everything I'd read. He lovingly hugged me and told me we could do whatever I wanted in this area, that I was not a bad mother, had only tried to do what I thought was best, and had not messed up our daughter.

That night when Darby began to cry in her crib, I bolted in to her, scooped her up, and, creaking furiously in the rocking chair, apologized for ever leaving her alone.

It's only been seven weeks, but in that time I've learned not only what each of Darby's cries signifies, but how to soothe her and get her to sleep quite easily. I have to admit that we have soothed and held her to sleep a lot. But every day I see her becoming more comfortable in her own skin, and better able to soothe herself and fall asleep without help. It's taken a lot of time and patience, but I have enough of that right now, and there is truth in the idea that this is the only time in her life when she will want nothing more than she wants me. Might as well make the most of it!

As far as crying it out, I have recently started to implement it on rare occasions. There are times when I know that she needs nothing but to sleep and is crying only because she's tired. If that happens at a moment in which I cannot hold her, like the middle of making dinner, I will let her cry until she falls asleep, which usually takes no longer than five minutes now that she is mature enough to self-soothe.

I cannot believe that I've only been a mother for nine and a half weeks, and already have something that I wish I could go back and tell my "younger mom self." Oh well.

I want to know; what are your thoughts on the "cry it out" issue? Do parents with more than one child find it more necessary? Comment below!

Should have listened to mom...

"Well at least I'll know for next time." That is my refrain when I do something dumb. Like bring a not-even-eight-week-old to Six Flags New England. Yes, I am serious. I, a fair skinned, first time mother, brought my equally sun-senstive newborn to an amusement park in the middle of July.
But please, before you call children's services: had I stayed home from the church youth group trip, my daughter and I would have been alone without a car for 15 hours, and I would have missed what seemed like an ideal youth pastor's wife - teen girl bonding time. In addition, I should get some credit for being a very responsible parent as far as planning goes.
That morning we loaded the car with the diaper bag and stroller, as well as a newly acquired fan-water-spritzer, and a canopy/tent thing for the stroller, which supposedly not only shields a baby from the sun, but comes equipped with little screens on the side for ventilation. "I'm such a great mother!" I thought to myself, as we pulled away, our SUV packed to the brim with these "supplies."
After some delays, we arrived at Six Flags a little bit past feeding time, and when we finally found a parking spot, about a mile from the park entrance, Greg had to round everyone up and head out. "You go with everyone. Don't worry about me; I'll stay here and nurse," I told him, thinking to myself, "I'm such a great wife!"
After 30 air-contioned minutes in the car, Darby and I stepped out into an unseasonably hot Massachusetts day, and I had the first inkling of doubt about my decision. But I covered her with the new canopy thing and marched on, as things soon began to go downhill. (Not to be confused with the mile walk during which I pushed a stroller and carried two bags; that was uphill.)
When we reached the steps at the entrance, I learned for the first time what should have been an obvious truth of physics: a multi-level stroller/wheelchair ramp forces a person taking it to walk twice the distance as someone walking directly up the steps. That's probably why I noticed a man lugging an empty stroller up the stairs instead of rolling it up the ramps. In my naivety, I thought, "What is he doing? Doesn't he see the ramp?"
By the time I had pushed Darby to the top, I was the definition of a hot mess. And I had to use the bathroom. After locating one, I uncovered my daughter's "protective" canopy to find her pink and sweaty. "What? This thing is supposed to be ventilated!" I cried, grabbing my fan-water-spritzer and frantically spraying, as she awoke from her nap and began to cry.
I think this is the moment I began to seriously rethink that "great mother" thing.
A little while later, as I attempted to quickly push Darby from the shade of one ice cream stand awning to the next, I noticed a woman inside a covered picnic area, bottle feeding an infant. Her legs were up and she was relaxing. RELAXING.
"See! I'm not a horrible mother! Someone else brought a baby!" I thought, heading straight over for a moment of solidarity.
"Hey! It's another crazy mom who brought her baby to Six Flags!" I said, wheeling up to her. She smiled.
"I thought I was the only one! How old is he?"
She informed me that her son was eight weeks, and in an adreline induced moment of overreaction, I cried, "Wow, so is she!!!"
The woman stared at me.
"So, how do you keep him from overheating?" I asked, practically panting, as I glanced at her calm, happy child.
"Well I have one of these stroller canopies," she informed me, pointing to something that looked like it had come from an L.L. Bean baby gear catalog.
"Oh! But I have one too, and it seemed like it was making her even hotter," I interrupted, pointing to the flimsy Wal-Mart purchase that I had shoved into the bottom of the stroller earlier in the bathroom.
"Well ... mine actually reflects the sun," she said, indicating the aluminum covered portion of her canopy.
"Oh ... yeah ... well ... good luck!" I awkwardly replied, before maneuvering my stroller around and leaving.
Things eventually improved a little. For one thing, I found some of the girls from our group and spent some quality time with them. Read: I walked beside them, pushing Darby with one hand, while holding a borrowed umbrella over her with the other, almost running into things and focused on nothing but whether or not my baby was suffering from heat exhaustion.
We passed the first aid clinic on the way to the water park, and I left the girls and maneuvered my way up another ramp and in the door. Someone had told me they had air conditioned rooms for mothers to nurse, and it seemed like just the ticket at that moment.
An hour later as I was finshing, after taking my time and making the most of the air conditioning, it seemed to me that Darby was still hot. I was cold after an hour in that room, so why was my baby hot? I started freaking out. A million possibilities entered my mind, including the idea that her body had lost the ability to regulate temperature and would steadily increase until she died. I know;  completely logical.
I frantically grabbed my phone and called Gina, one of the moms on the trip and a former nurse, who was innocently lounging poolside in the water park. She told me she would be right over. Bless her heart. I didn't realize that if I exited the clinic, which connected the water park to the amusement park, she would have to walk all the way through the water park and half of the amusement park to find me. I waited right outside the door on the amusement park side, but when she entered the clinic from the water park side, they told her I had already left and that she was not allowed to pass through that way.
By that time, Greg had gotten in touch with me, and heard my fears. He found me outside the clinic, said he thought Darby looked fine (she fell asleep as soon as I stepped outside), and I got some chicken tenders. That's when Gina finally reached us.
"She is warm," she remarked, pulling her out of the stroller. After removing her onesie and throwing a blanket on the table, she laid Darby on her stomach and instructed Greg to spray her down with the fan-water-spritzer. I'm sure you can imagine the response this elicited from Darby. I sat there staring at my baby, in nothing but a diaper, laying on a ketchup stained picnic table and getting sprayed with water in the middle of Six Flags, and felt like I belonged on the show, '16 and pregnant,' only I was 29. And it was all my fault!
Thank God for Gina. She advised me to place the white, cotton blanket on top of the dark gray stroller seat in order to keep her cooler. It worked, and so had the table top debacle. On top of that, the weather changed rather quickly and became overcast and windy.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Darby and I followed Greg around as he rode a few more rides with the guys. On a bench outside one roller coaster, I sat and fed Darby as hundreds of people walked by and stared at me nursing my diaper clad infant. Somewhere I've read that a publicly breastfeeding woman should stare right back and smile proudly, but I have to admit that I completely avoided eye contact.
After such an eventful day, Darby slept very well that night. But I'm pretty convinced that Gina had been right when she looked at me and said, "You say your mom told you to stay home today? You should have listened to her. Always listen to mom."