Daycare

My baby is in daycare now and I hate it.  I despise it.  I loathe it.  I f-ing can't stand it.  She deserves so much better.  What she deserves is her mom being the one to hold her, and feed her, and teach her new things.

I don't know why dropping her off in the morning seems easier than picking her up.  You would think that after picking her up in the afternoon I feel more cheerful but it's the exact opposite.  I suppose I'm able to block out what I'm doing since I'm always running late for work and have my mind on other things.  But after I've picked her up and we're on our way home I feel like crying.  I become morose and sullen and feel the tears burning in the back of my eyes.

For the most part she seems quite content with her new situation.  On her first day we walked in and she was cooing and oohing at the bright, cheery lights, and flurry of activity.   When I left she barely batted an eyelash as she was quite enthralled with all of the other little people her size.  I made my way to work that morning, choking back tears, and spent the rest of the day trying not to think about where she was.  At the end of the day, though, my thoughts turned to her and it seemed like an eternity between the two of us.  I thought of all the possible routes to take but regardless of which direction I chose it would still take 40 minutes to get to her.  Once there, I found her sitting in a crusty swing with a crusty bib wrapped around her neck.  Her chin was broken-out in a rash which I later discovered was due to her use of a pacifier (unusual considering she never uses a pacifier at home).  I could see the dried tears at the corners of her eyes and my heart dropped, breaking into more pieces than I thought possible.

I knew that when we decided to put her in daycare she would be exposed to new things and people.  I knew that there would only be so many hands to attend to all of the babies and I knew they would do the best they could.  I knew it was going to be harder for me to adjust than it would for her.  I just never knew I would despise this decision with every fiber of my being.

Does Xanax Come In Infant Doses?

Listed below are a few things my infant does that would be considered borderline neurotic if she were an adult:

1.  While eating she plucks at her clothes; she pulls at the fabric over and over again.
2.  Another thing she does while eating is she puts her hand on top of her head and plucks at her, practically non-existent, hair.  In her defense, what hair she does have is super soft and fluffy and feels particularly nice when you snuggle your face into it.
3.  When excited she flails her arms and then drops her head quickly and to the left as if she has a tic.  I'm not entirely sure she doesn't.
4.  Laughs and cries at the same time.  I think she's still working out her emotions.  Or she needs Xanax, I can't be sure.
5.  She has a fetish for paper.  She loves crinkling it and chewing on it which is all fun and games until we realize a chunk of paper is missing.  It's one of the few things she gets upset about if we take it away.
6.  She sucks her lips in over and over again.  This might not look so strange if she had teeth.
7.  She balls her hand into a fist, sticks it in her mouth, then moves it from her mouth to her ear, back and forth frantically.  In the meantime, her face gets drenched in her own saliva. (update:  11/9/2011)

You Know What Would Be Great?

If you follow my blog!  Yes, that's right, ladies and gentleman (I'm assuming there's really only one man reading this) in just four easy steps you can be "in the know" of the comings and goings of the Tepaske Tribe.

1.  Scroll to the very bottom of this screen.
2.  Select the "Join This Site" button underneath the "Followers" header.
3.  Determine the manner in which you'd like to join whether it's with Google, Twitter, or Yahoo...I don't really care which you decide as long as you pick one.
4.  Enter the password for the account you selected.
5.  Ta da!  You will never feel lost again after realizing how many blog posts you've missed since the last time you visited. 

So, you see.  This isn't about me.  It's about you and I want you to feel special.

Yes, Please

Here's the thing.  I've never really been a fan of Maroon 5.  I've generally found their lead singer, Adam Levine, to be annoying and rodent-esque in features.  Their music is a mix of saccharine and sex which, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad combination but for some reason I could just never jump on the Maroon 5 bandwagon.

That was, until this:

This, my friends, is pop perfection.  It's annoying, it's catchy, it's obnoxious, and repetitive.  Everything that makes a good pop song a great pop song.

It's also on constant replay much to the dismay of everyone around me.

4-D Ultrasound = Cute Pictures and Nothing Else

I was driving home yesterday and heard an ad on the radio for 4-D ultrasounds that had me rolling my eyes.  Admittedly, it doesn't take much to get me rolling my eyes.  Call me cynical or call me educated (I prefer the latter) but advertising that a parent can see their child's personality through 4-D imaging just does not sit right with me.

I don't have a problem with 4-D ultrasounds so let me get that point across right away.  Marcus and I chose not to get one mostly because we didn't want to know the sex of the baby and that would have been one more temptation.  Plus, we're old school.  We didn't think it necessary to see a picture of our baby before (s)he was born.

So, getting back to the topic at hand.  The problem I had with the ad is it set about convincing people to spend additional money on the already expensive process of having a baby by claiming they would be able to see their child's personality with a 4-D image.  At the end of the ad a "grandmother" came on saying that she could already tell what kind of personality the baby had because it started sucking its thumb, putting its hand over its face, and stretching.  So, let me get this straight.  Sucking thumbs, covering a face, and stretching are all indicators of personality?  My apologies.  I thought that was called "being a fetus."

If you'll excuse me for a moment I'm about to get Mr. Wizard on your ass.  Or, if you're of a younger generation, Bill Nye the Science Guy.  Same thing.  Anyway, babies are born with almost all of their brain cells all of which are inactive.  After the baby is born stimulation from caregivers, such as love and affection, activate the connections between the cells causing their personality to shine through.  So, while the baby already has a predisposition for one personality or another it's not until after they are born and are stimulated that a personality will be apparent.  Thus, the 4-D ultrasound ad defies logic.

In math terms we can look at it this way:  Baby + Emotional Stimuli = Personality or, Fetus + Non-Existent Emotional Stimuli ≠ Personality

So, with that, I leave you.  Now, go get a 4-D ultrasound and enjoy the beautiful pictures but don't expect to be able to figure out who is in there...unless you're hoping for a thumb-sucking, mama's boy in which case you may have more issues than you think.

Our Black Swan

The other day Marcus and I were talking about how when Alex was born she looked like a little, old man.  Since then, and I know we're biased, she's really grown into her cuteness.  Anyway, this was the conversation as I remember it:

Me:  Alex really did look like a little, old man when she was born.  She's really becoming a cute kid.
Marcus:  Yeah, she's like a black swan.
Me:  Huh?  *pausing a moment to try and figure out what the heck he means*  Do you mean the ugly duckling?
Marcus:  Oh.  Yeah.  That's what I meant.

The ballerina in me couldn't help but be slightly turned-on by his ballet reference.

But...I thought you said I was a Sugar Plum?

Update:  Another conversation took place soon after this was posted in which Marcus righteously informed me that he was not trying to reference the movie when he said "black swan."  This soon turned into another confusing conversation during which I determined that he had no clue the movie, Black Swan, was based on an actual ballet, Swan Lake.  This then led me to think that some of my readers may be as confused as Marcus.  I thought everyone knew Swan Lake was a ballet first, Black Swan the movie, second.  I mean, who didn't know that?  Anyone?  Whatever.

Advice To New Moms (Or Dads) From A New Mom

I, in no way, am insinuating that I know anything (as evidenced by #1):

1. You will never feel confident that what you are doing is the right thing to do.  Just take a deep breath, close your eyes, and plunge headfirst into the unknowing.
2. Despite what everything you read states, it will take longer than a week to figure out what your baby's cries mean.  6 months later and I'm just now figuring out Alex's hungry cry and even then I sometimes get it wrong.  The only cry I'm 100% sure about is her pain cry.
3. Speaking of the pain cry, you will know it when you hear it.  What you won't know is why the baby is in pain.  Just go through the list as calmly (yeah, right) as possible:  Too warm, too cold, clothes too tight/pinching, teething, belly ache, ear ache, temperature...the list goes on.  Somehow, during all of that, remember they will be OK even if you aren't.  Also, it helps to have a rational person nearby to talk you down, off the ledge.
4. You will do whatever it takes to get just an hour's worth of sleep.  If that means you discover by chance that the baby sleeps best in the bathroom then, by golly, that's where the baby will sleep.  You may find yourself telling friends and family in an almost apologetic voice about how and where the baby sleeps, and they may be judging you, but who cares?
5. Sleeping when the baby sleeps is easier said than done.  Especially if the baby is up every two hours.  Just accept that most often repeated bit of advice and keep doing what you're doing.
6. Pooping is no longer a tabu subject and can be discussed at all hours of the day:  While brushing your teeth, after work, during dinner, in bed, etc.  You will never have a greater interest in someone else's bathroom habits than you do now.
7. There will be times when you sit down to watch TV in lieu of doing the laundry, making dinner, or general straightening up.  You will feel guilty about not taking care of the house because that fleeting moment of laziness will soon come to an end when the baby wakes up from their nap.  You will get over that feeling of guilt quickly.
8. With that being said you will feel guilty if you didn't use the time to take a shower.  Trust me.  You will feel 100% better.
9. However you're feeling, whether you feel like running away or feel like crying at every turn, talk to someone who will just sit and listen.  Sometimes saying the words out loud make the crazy go away.
10. Never be afraid to hand your child over to someone else.  After doing so go into the kitchen, pour a glass of wine, drink it slowly and after that you may be ready to handle whatever comes your way.

Rubber Ducky, You're the One

For the most part bath time has always been a fun time for Alex and me.  That's not to say that in the beginning she was a big fan but, then again, she wasn't really a big fan of anything in those first few weeks.  When we first brought Alex home she still had her umbilical cord stump which prevented us from immersing her in water and she was so skinny, tiny, and non-body-temperature-regulating that it was probably freezing for her as Marcus and I fumbled around trying to wash her as best we could, one of us holding the slippery, squirmy, and screaming baby while the other desperately tried to finish as quickly as possible.  Over time, and after the stump fell off, we graduated to a cloth bather in the bathtub and I would sing and coo and try my best to make her as happy as possible.  For a few days she resisted and bath time was no bueno but over time she grew to sitting there quietly, staring at me with her big, blue eyes with a tiny smirk on her face probably thinking to herself what a nut job the lady singing to her is.  (So, what, I like to act out "The Wheels on the Bus?")

Over time I began to realize my mistake in wanting to use a cloth bather.  After months agonizing over just the right bather (seriously, it was months which tells you one thing:  there are to many damn choices out there) I determined that cloth was the way to go because other, more experienced mothers said that the baby wouldn't be shocked by the cold, hard plastic when giving them a bath.  In retrospect that's one of the more idiotic statements I've heard.  Do they put their naked, screaming baby in the tub first and then fill it with water?  If so I think they're doing it wrong.  I digress.  After months of use the cloth bather eventually grew so saturated with water it started to mold and mildew and no matter what I did to try and clean it I felt dirty using it not to mention how Alex must have felt.  So, eventually the cloth bather was discarded for a plastic tub and I can't believe I didn't do it sooner.

While Alex is starting to sit-up better and better every day the cloth bather didn't give her much support so she'd be reclined most of the time.  Plus, it didn't retain water and she couldn't reach the water around her which I realized only after buying the plastic tub that it denied her one of the more pleasurable moments of a baby's life:  Splashing!  How could I be so thoughtless?!  She actually discovered splashing accidentally when I put a floating toy in her tub.  While trying to grasp her toy, which is like watching an adult bob for apples by the way, she discovered the act of splashing water.  Now she gets a little frustrated with me when I lie her down to wash her belly and strains those little baby abs and tries as hard as she can to sit back up.  I'm surprised she doesn't have a baby 6-pack.  Would that be a 3-pack?  Anyway.

She also discovered the ability to put her feet in her mouth while in the tub which was a little disconcerting mostly because she was practically face-down in the water.  I don't know why she chose that point in time to try out this amazing feat (of feet! ha!) but who am I to question the mind of a 6.5 month old?  I constantly have one hand on her at all times when she's sitting up but I did grow a little concerned when after a while she was still bent over her legs, face dangling inches from the water.  I peered down to see her toes inserted in her mouth while the water lapped around her face.  So, while I wanted to keep her there for a photo opp I decided I'd just be prepared for next time.  Hopefully, I'll be able to add a picture of the little toe eater (something tells me there's a sexual connotation lurking in there somewhere) to this post.

So, that's pretty much it.  Oh, there is one more thing.  What the heck are the words to "Rubber Ducky?"  All I've got are "Rubber ducky, you're the one, you make bath time lots of fun.  Rubber ducky you're the one for meeee!!!" and I'm 99% sure that is totally incorrect.

Yard Sailing. It's A Verb

As I mentioned in a previous post Marcus and I enjoy a lazy Saturday morning spent yard sailing which, in the dictionary of Lauren, is "the physical act of going to another person's home and perusing the shit they over-value."  I'm not sure how this past time came to be other than it probably had something to do with the merger of Marcus's cheapness (as evidenced here) and my fondness of spending money.  It's a win for both of us!  Every Saturday morning Marcus checks his phone for yard sales nearby using an app our friend developed (check it out: Yard Sale Treasure Map) and, assuming Alex is cooperating, we make our way out the door, coffee cups in hand to look for that elusive "good deal."

It's amazing what A. People are trying to sell and, B. At what price they are trying to sell it.

A.  Naturally, we find ourselves drawn to the yard sales that boast baby clothes.  However, they forget to mention the fact they're trying to sell the clothes their kids vomited all over and never bothered to clean.  If they'd be more honest in their wording like "worn-out, dirty baby clothes" then I'd at least be prepared.  Another favorite is how loosely the word "designer" is thrown around.  "Designer" to me means Versace, Gucci, and Chanel.  It does not mean Talbots, Chico's, or Coldwater Creek.  Call me uppity but I'm pretty sure those duds do not a designer brand make.  Designer purses are another item people often boast.  After seeing said "designer purses" I'm always curious whether they thought the street vendor in Times Square was a legitimate, authorized proprietor of Fendi or if they're just hoping someone else will be none the wiser.  No matter, they aren't fooling this fool.

B.  People are insane when it comes to pricing their beloved, it-goes-without-saying-but-I'll-reiterate-it-anyway, used items.  We went to a children's consignment sale a few weekends ago where I picked out a number of winter outfits for Alexandra.  When I met back up with Marcus he looked through them and pointed out that someone had priced an Old Navy dress for $12.  Twelve.  Dollars.  It probably cost them $5 not to mention the fact I was holding a genuine Burberry dress and sweater in my hands priced at $6.  So, what I'm trying to say is yes, I know you paid a certain amount of money to keep your little sweetie looking cute.  Trust me.  I get it.  But over-valuing your stuff isn't impressing anybody unless you're targeting people like me who simply see something they like and buy it, price be damned (this is where Marcus must intervene).

So far the only truly good deals we've come across are pieces of furniture or various other household items.  Truthfully, the only reason they've been a steal is because Marcus likes to haggle while I awkwardly stand there wishing he would just pay the man already.  It makes me feel like I'm a teenager again, embarassed by everything and wishing I could crawl in a hole.  Ha!  Alex is in for a real treat when she gets older because at this rate we're going to be prime candidates for embarassing parents.

Where Are My Dentures?

Last night Marcus and I came to the conclusion that we are 32 and 30 (respectively) going on 80 as we played Scrabble and complained about the neighborhood kids.  Our specific complaints are generally about the adolescents in the area who walk on our lawn (gasp!), put things in our mailbox (egad!), or play the music so loud in their mother's minivans that it rattles the windows (whipper snappers!).   The sad thing is, it wasn't that long ago that we were both behaving in the same manner and possibly even worse.  For the sake of our parents, who raised two saints, I'll refrain from detailing how we possibly could have behaved worse so we'll just leave it at that.

We have a huge problem with the kids (a young couple) that live in the apartment behind our house for no reason other than they exist.  Whenever something goes amiss I typically blame them.  A beer can in the front yard?  The neighbor assholes.  The mailbox tampered with?  Those jerks.  A leaf out of place?  Definitely the neighbors.  The baby waking-up?  The f***ing neighbors and now I'm out for blood.

I don't know if they can tell we don't like them.  Other than Marcus asking them three times to stop using our lawn to cut across to their apartment (Hey, you kids! Stop walking on my lawn or I'll get my cane and whip ya's!) we haven't made any contact with them.  On the few occasions I've found myself face to face with the male neighbor I barely nod in his direction.  It wouldn't appear that he and I would have much in common anyway other than the fact I used to smoke and drink shitty beer, too.  In regards to the female who lives there, I don't think I would know her if I saw her but part of me wishes I did because she's dating a total loser and should be told as much (Update 12/9/2011:  They're married!  I think they got married because they weren't allowed to have premarital sex is how I'm going to call it).  Looking back, years from now, she'd probably appreciate what I had to say about her choice of mate because I was there once (as evidenced here).

I guess what it boils down to is that Marcus and I are growing older no matter how hard we try and hold-on to our youth.  While both of us have a hard time accepting that in our own way (Marcus thinks I should still rock Daisy Dukes and I don't for the mere fact that I'm 30 and a mother) we have transitioned into our new lives pretty well.  To us, what now constitutes as "cool" are things like going yard sailing or to the Farmer's Market.  While we may look like a bunch of losers to the younger crowd we're still totally hip and with-it, assuming you ask the older crowd.  Plus, we know the two of us could out-party the neighbors.  Even if it means going back a few years.

*Side note:  Marcus, on trying to decide what we should do this weekend, go to a wine festival or celebrate Oktoberfest in town:  "another event that should be cool, which wont be, which I am not excited about..... I really am getting old I guess"  This came in as I was finishing up this blog and was begging to be shared.

Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder

I now know where the term "over the shoulder boulder holder" comes from and it's not as much fun as it sounds.  The "boulders" I find myself carrying around are causing me neck pain, back pain, and my already horrible posture has gone from bad to worse.  I really can't fathom why women would pay to increase their breast size and endure this for the rest of their lives.  Then again, I'm not the one being paid millions to do so.  I digress. 

Before Alex was even born I knew I wanted to breast feed for at least 6 months.  Now, 6 months later, I've achieved that goal plus I've managed to stock-up over 100 bags in the freezer in the hopes she'll be well supplied into 7 months.  Since my goal has been reached I've slowly been trying to teach my body not to produce any more milk which, as it turns out, is a slow and sometimes painful process.

I have to be honest about one thing, though, which is I don't breast feed in the traditional sense and rather I pump 100% of the time.  When Alex was born she weighed 5 pounds 2 ounces which, considering she was 5 weeks early, was pretty healthy but still small.  Combine her small size with my, how shall I say, gazongas (yes, that's the technical term and, if I may, quoting the hospital lactation consultant, "I have no doubt those puppies will be producing milk soon.") we had problems learning how to work together and properly breast feed.  After a few unsuccessful sessions in the hospital with the lactation consultants we found ourselves at home to figure it out on our own.  Side note: Someone once remarked that they felt violated by these women who come in and grab your breast in one hand and the baby in the other to which I responded "you did give birth, right?"  Anyway, at home we persevered trying to figure it out all while pumping so that Alex could at least get breast milk from the bottle.  Eventually, each attempted breast feeding session would end with a hungry, screaming, particularly pissed-off baby, and an equally frustrated mother.  One thing led to another and I found myself pumping all of the time.  While a small part of me regrets missing out on the bonding that comes with breastfeeding in the end it doesn't bother me too much because I know I gave her exactly what she needed without taking the easy route by giving her formula.

So, here we are, and I really do feel like I'm carrying two, hard boulders strapped to my chest.  I'm completely over having to wear a bra 24/7 and I'm completely over not being able to wear most of my tops (I went from a 34B to a 38E).  And, Lord, when the bra does come off I have to be sure and check to see if Lasagna is underfoot because I don't want to have to explain her untimely demise to PETA:  "I know what you're thinking and I swear it's not what it looks like.  All I did was take my bra off and my boobs fell down and struck the cat on the head killing her immediately."  The press would have a field day with that one:  "Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder Murder!"  "Killer Knockers Kill Kitty!"  "Feline Found Dead, Flopping Breasts to Blame."

With any luck you won't be hearing about me in the paper anytime soon.  Unless Pam Anderson wants to have a boob off.

Solids = Solid Waste = Mommy's Gonna Need More Wine

About 6 weeks ago we started Alex on "solids."  And by "solids" I mean oatmeal cereal mixed with breast milk to the consistency of soup.  The doctor had suggested we start her eating solids at 4 months but we decided to wait until she was 5 months for no other reason than we felt more comfortable with that age.  So, at 5 months we set her in her bouncy chair and set about trying to teach a 5 month old how to eat food.  It was less of a challenge than I expected and by the time we finished her first meal she seemed to have a grasp on what was expected of her.

After about 2 weeks of nothing but oatmeal cereal we decided she was ready to make the next big jump and introduce her to real people food.  We started with carrots.  Our decision was based on reading that babies tend to like root vegetables better because they're naturally inclined to like sweet tasting foods.  So, we set out to the farmer's market, purchased a bunch of carrots and headed home to begin our adventure in making baby food.  (By the way, making baby food takes about as much time as it does to go to a store and purchase it.  In other words, it's totally worth it.)  Right away Alex loved carrots and she ate them with unbridled abandon.  Maybe it was more like reckless abandon but you get my point.  She really, really liked carrots and we were pleased that A) She liked our cooking and, B) She didn't turn her nose up to her first real solid.

That is where the fun ended.  Without going into much detail it turns out breastfed babies who start solids can sometimes have trouble in the digestion department and a week after eating her first carrots we had to do the unthinkable.  Actually, Marcus did the unthinkable while I happily cleaned up the aftermath of the unthinkable.  Now here we are about 3 weeks into Alex's people food adventure and things are starting to look better.  She's had carrots, sweet potatoes, and peas, all of which she's enjoyed, and her digestive tract is starting to get back to normal.

Which leads me to my next thought.  Why can't I just breast feed her until she is potty trained?  I mean, it wouldn't be that weird to breast feed a 3 year old, would it?  Other than it not being socially acceptable in the United States and potentially psychologically devastating I don't really see the issue.  Because, to be honest, for the sake of my nose and gag reflexes I think it's the only right thing to do.

Marcus's New Black Eye

So, we were having a perfectly innocent conversation regarding who was going to pay for the cleaning service today.

Me:  I guess I should write a check for Tomasina.
Marcus (who had already written a check):  Whatever, it doesn't matter. She probably already picked up my check anyway.  But you owe me $120.
Me:  I gave birth.
Marcus:  That was six months ago.

I had no idea that the fact I gave birth, and he didn't, had an expiration date.

Mr. Fashionista

I love my husband. I really, really do. But (there’s always a “but”) sometimes I just have to shake my head at his actions. Before I get started I have to give him credit because while I go to work 5 days a week, kicking and screaming, he stays home with the kiddo 3 days a week. Add that to my inability to wake-up on time and he is the sole dresser of the babe in the mornings (not to mention we have a serious case of daddy’s girl on our hands). Now, we all know most* men have little to no sense of fashion, especially when it comes to little girls, so it is my belief that baby clothing is designed in just such a way that it’s hard to mess up, i.e. everything generally matches unless you throw in the odd salmon or lavender color. In short, Alex is typically matching if nothing else. Where Marcus gets it wrong is in the sizing.

Now, we all know where Marcus falls on the cheapness scale, (where your husband is cheap mine is infinitely more cheap) and I know that having to purchase new clothes for a baby every 3 months wears on the wallet, but stuffing a  bratwurst into a Vienna sausage casing simply does not work. In case you missed the imagery there what I’m trying to say is, putting a 6 month old baby in a 3 month size onesie isn't happening. Luckily, I was home during the most recent episode of “Alex stuffing” and was able to prevent her suffering from chaffed thighs and nip slips and quickly got her into a more appropriately sized outfit. When I asked Marcus why he dressed her in such an obviously small outfit his reply was that since it’s in the drawer it’s still wearable regardless of size. A few rolls of the eyes (mine) later I promptly set about putting away her 0-3 month clothing so as to avoid any more Janet Jackson-esque exposures. Reflecting back what I find most ironic is that in roughly 15 years (God, please let her stay an innocent, beautiful child for at least 15 more years) he’ll be begging her to put on less form fitting clothing as he goes about cleaning the shotgun.

*I say most because I do realize some of the gents are very nice dressers and they do it all by themselves wearing their big boy pants.