Movin’ and Groovin’ (and Crying and Screaming Because Moving SUCKS)

I think literally everyone on the planet can agree that moving is, at best, unpleasant. Even if you’re a minimalist with like 12 total belongings and are blessed with a gaggle of weirdo saint-like friends who want to help you pack, it’s still an annoying exercise in patience and logistics-management.

And that’s in ideal circumstances! If the house you’re moving into is significantly smaller than your current one, necessitating a lot of reorganization and Goodwill donations, and if you’ve got a toddler underfoot during all of your preparations, and you can’t take any time off work to pack, the whole experience starts shifting from “annoying” to “panic-inducing nightmare.”

If you’re pregnant and can’t bend over or lift anything over about 3 pounds, get fall-down-exhausted after about ninety seconds of exertion, and are prone to bursting into hormonal tear-fests at even the most innocuous provocation, you might as well just give up and start considering abandoning all of your possessions and living in your car.

I’m moving in 5 days and my car is starting to look pretty good. I could have a nice life in a Prius, I think! The front seats recline quite nicely, and I’d never even have to leave my “house” to drive through Jack in the Box for a soda. Alas, the new baby probably needs a crib or something, so I have to persevere.

All joking aside, moving really, really sucks. I don’t know how or why I have so much stuff, but I do, and now we have to sort through it and pack it up and it’s just NOT. FUN. AT. ALL. I don’t even understand why it’s so hard — it’s just throwing stuff in boxes, right? But everything is heavy and you have to bubble wrap delicate stuff and you run out of tape and you want to clean everything first because moving dusty things seems silly…and then you discover that you can no longer fit in your clothes anymore and so you have to pull out the maternity clothes like a month sooner than you thought you’d have to and you realize that all of your regular clothes can just go straight into storage instead of into your closet at the new house, and you kind of have a nervous breakdown.

This happened last night. It wasn’t my best moment.

On the bright side, the house we’re moving to is right across the street from one of my sisters — literally right across the street! — and just a few blocks from another sister, and my mom lives in the next town over, so I’m pretty freakin’ excited about all that. Every time I want to throw a box across the room in frustration, I just remind myself that each hideous pair of flared maternity jeans I pack is getting me one step closer to being able to step out my front door and enjoy an enormous glass of wine with my sister and not even have to drive anywhere.

Except…wait a minute…I’m pregnant and can’t drink. SON OF A BITCH.

Maybe I’ll just send Bubba over to have a sleepover with the cousins and I’ll sit home and watch Forensic Files.

Yes, that sounds like a good plan. 5 days and counting!

P.S. I have been intending to write this post every evening for the last week, and every night I instead just stare at the various piles of junk I have “organized” around the house and cry.

Five Proven Ways to Make Your Mom Feel Like the Worst Mother Ever (GUARANTEED!)

Today I have another very special guest post from the one and only Bubba! I hope you enjoy his advice and that you’re sufficiently impressed by his advanced writing skills.

I may be seven weeks shy of my second birthday, but I already consider myself an expert when it comes to guilt-tripping. It only took a matter of weeks after my birth for me to figure out that my poor mother (whom I do love dearly; don’t get me wrong!) is something of a nutjob. I could see right from the get-go that she was quite nervous about messing something up or not spending enough time with me, so naturally I’ve made it my life’s work to exploit her insecurities and drive her insane. Unlike some lazy babies who are content to sit around playing and snuggling and sleeping, I’ve spent the last 22 months honing my craft, always on the lookout for new ways to mess with Mom. I’m happy to report that it’s working out swimmingly: my mom often feels bad and gives me exactly what I want! Even more importantly, this is all just really, really fun for me.

above: SCHEMING, always scheming!

If you aren’t a pro like me, don’t panic: I can help! Whether you’re looking for a quick way to drive your mom crazy at the store or if you’ve got a lot of time on your hands and want to begin an ongoing scheme (a long-con can be very satisfying), I’ve got something that will work for you. Unless your mom has a heart of stone, at least one of my tried-and-true methods should do the trick:

1) Wait a really long time to say “Mama.” Like, months after you start saying other words — she will obsess over it and start to wonder why you hate her, which is fun to watch. Plus, when you finally start saying it, she’ll be so happy to hear your sweet little voice calling her name that she won’t even mind that you’re being obnoxious and hollering at her to come get you out of bed or whatever.

2) If your parents are leaving you with a babysitter so they can have a “date night” (whatever that is; sounds super lame and not nearly as fun as hanging out with their beloved child, right?), cry hysterically and hang onto your mom’s leg as she tries to leave. Your mom will feel really bad and worry about you the whole time she’s gone (and of course as soon as she leaves, you can give up the act and have fun with the babysitter anyway!).

3) If you have a special teddy bear that you usually take with you everywhere you go and your mom asks you if you want to bring it to the park, say “no” and run to the car chanting “Park! Park! Park!” so she becomes convinced that the excitement of the park is outweighing your usual addiction to your teddy bear. Then, when you get to the park, ask her for the bear and rummage pathetically through her purse in hopes of finding it even though you know it’s back at home. Then cry about it. HA!

4) Short trips to the store and the like are perfect for a quick guilt-trip. Ask for water and very specific snacks, neither of which your mom brought along since she wasn’t expecting to be gone for long. Begging for water is really good, because what kind of monster would deny their child hydration? If she did bring water, you can always pretend it’s too warm and beg for ice!

5) If your mom works, point at her computer and say “puters” (as in, “computers”) and “work” in a really sad voice, like your little heart is broken that she spends so much time working on her ‘puter instead of playing with you. Classic, right?!

Now, before you soldier forth to employ these techniques, it’s important to note that balance is the key to success. If you act like a psychopath all the time, eventually your mom will probably start believing that you really are crazy and that it’s not her fault after all, and you definitely don’t want that! Remember, the goal is to make your mom feel a little bad every once in a while so you can reap the rewards of extra attention and indulgences (one time I got cookies while we were shopping!), not to get yourself committed to a toddler insane asylum. Sometimes, you’ve gotta just be a sweetie pie:

Then you go in for the kill!

Good luck!

How To Train For a Marathon When You Hate Running And Have a Kid

Did you know that I’m training for a marathon?

Probably not, since I’ve never mentioned it here. I haven’t mentioned it because a) hearing about someone’s personal fitness endeavors is excruciatingly boring and I try very hard to be no more than slightly boring, and b) I really and truly suck at running and I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to pull it off.

So why am I talking about it now, then? Well, I’m having trouble thinking of anything else to write about, and thanks to my serious training regimen running is at the forefront of my mind, so I’ve decided to ignore reason “a” above. Sorry. And while I still totally suck at running, I’m pretty committed to my training at this point and am determined to complete this stupid marathon even if it takes me twelve hours and all that remains of my feet at the end is scar tissue and blisters, so reason “b” is no longer applicable!

The marathon is less than two months away now, so my training is really ramping up — I’m running a ridiculous number of miles every week, and it’s taking up an awful lot of my precious time (time that could — and should — be spent sitting on the couch watching American Idol). The good news is, I haven’t injured myself or passed out on the mean streets of LA yet! The bad news is, the training is really hard, largely because I just do not like running. To make matters worse, I obviously have a child that I’m supposed to take care of, and trying to fit in all the training gets trickier and trickier as the necessary runs get longer and longer. Life is hard.

Those obstacles have made my marathon training difficult, but I have persevered! I’ve implemented a number of strategies that have helped make my training less torturous. If you’re considering training for a race of some sort and need tips or advice (or if you’re just really bored and have nothing better to do than read my blog), I encourage you to use my guide:

Maureen Wachter’s Patent-Pending Guide to Make Marathon Training Not Suck As Bad:

Step 1: Buy cute running gear. Invest in something better than ancient sweats and hole-y t-shirts so you’re a little excited to wear it. This will not improve your performance in the slightest, but at least you’ll feel better about your appearance while you’re out there! (You will look hideous by the end of the run regardless, though, I’m sorry to say. Even the cutest Gap running tank cannot mask your sweatiness.)

Step 2: Get a good jogging stroller. If you have to lug the kid along with you, a decent jogging stroller makes a huge difference. Your primary concern need not be the quality of the wheels or the craftsmanship — no, you just need to worry about keeping the child happy long enough to complete your stupid run. Specifically, look for a stroller with a reclining seat so the kid can lean back and suck down a bottle (or, even better, sleep!), and, most importantly, make sure it has a cup holder and snack tray! Just keep shoveling snacks down your kid’s gullet and your outing should remain pleasant.

Step 3: On second thought, leave the kid home. Those strollers are HEAVY, and the kid is never happy in there quite long enough. Just make Daddy watch him at home.

Step 4: Choose a route that passes a dog park and/or ends at a donut shop. I cannot stress this enough: your route will absolutely influence how much you will hate running, and I’m not just referring to obvious stuff like big hills or uneven sidewalks. Instead of just doing a boring out-and-back run or a loop, pick an exciting end destination (like a donut shop) and have someone pick you up there! And whenever possible, make sure your run takes you past some distracting eye-candy — for example, there’s a dog park near my house that I like to run by so I can watch the pups play (I’m a dog stalker).

Step 5: Listen to a comedy podcast. People who run with no audio entertainment are obviously psychopaths (how are they not driven crazy with boredom?!), but even music doesn’t cut it for me — I either want to sing along or I just get bored. I’ve turned to comedy podcasts instead, and let me tell you, I’ve never looked back! The only downside is that I often look like a maniac because I’m grinning from ear to ear or literally laughing aloud whilst I run; one time I burst into uncontrollable laughter after having just taken a huge slurp of water and wound up spitting said water out right next to a passing jogger’s shoes. Still worth it!

Step 6: Use a mantra. Make sure to choose an inspirational phrase that you can repeat to yourself throughout your outing to stay motivated. Mine is “you can do it; you probably aren’t going to collapse!”

Step 7: Celebrate with a feast! Regardless of the distance you just ran or the pace you kept, you get to eat whatever the hell you want after a run. It’s the law (trust me; I am, clearly, a fitness expert). Last Saturday I ran fourteen miles, then immediately got in my car and drove to In N Out. I was literally eating a giant cheeseburger and guzzling a monstrous Dr Pepper within twenty minutes of completing my run. Actually, looking forward to your feast could even be your mantra: “I’m almost done, and then it’s straight to burger-ville!”

Good luck!

Wake Me Up When March F*cking Ends

March has been a rough month, and I couldn’t be happier that it’s finally over. This month has caused me so much distress that I felt compelled to write a song about it. Wanna here it? Here it goes:

(to the tune of Greenday’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends”)

March has been a total pain
And while I’ve tried not to complain…
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

Everyday it’s something new
And so I’m saying, “March, screw you!”
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

Bubba’s ears blew up again
And daycare said “stay out!”
Used vacation time again
I want to cry and pout

Then Mama got sick too
And I tried to power through…
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

Working, running, all while sick
Things got worse pretty quick
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

But sickness ain’t the only thing
That’s making me long for spring…
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

Daycare closed for spring break
Childcare’s a rough road
I thought I was gonna break
When my babysitter no-showed!

Now the Yankees are giving me spells
WHY WOULD YOU SIGN VERNON WELLS!?!
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

This weekend there’ll be no rest
Easter is work if you hadn’t guessed
Wake me up when March f*cking ends

March has been a total pain
And while I’ve tried not to complain…
Wake me up when March f*cking ends
Wake me up when March f*cking ends
Wake me up when March f*cking ends!!!

Bubba, at least, is unfazed by the March Madness.

Daycare Wrap-Up: One Day Down…

After months of stress, research, planning, and heartache (yes, I’m dramatic), Bubba finally started daycare on Tuesday. I’ve been dreading this day for quite some time, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my worries were largely unfounded — Bubba was fine, and I survived somehow.

Anticlimactic, isn’t it?

It wasn’t completely smooth sailing, though. Here’s how the day shook out…

12:00 AM: Can’t sleep. My brain is torturing me with visions of Bubba sobbing in the corner while the caretakers are busy with other children.

12:30 AM: Still can’t sleep. Run through my mental list of everything that needs to be done in the morning, terrified I’m going to forget something and start the day off on a stressful note.

12:31 AM: Realize that the “list of everything that needs to be done in the morning” only consists of two items (dress baby, make baby’s lunch). My perception of a busy morning is somewhat distorted since I haven’t had to get ready for work and commute to an office in almost five years.

12:32 AM: Set a third alarm just in case. It could take a really long time to pack that lunch — what if I sleep through those first two alarms and don’t have enough time?!

6:15 AM: Bubba wakes up (meaning I, too, am getting up). Good thing I set all those alarms, totally needed them.

7:30 AM: Lunch is made and the baby is dressed! I did it — what a successful day this has been! Oh wait, we haven’t even gotten to the daycare part yet.

7:46 AM: Off we go! Bubba is getting concerned about why on earth we’re out in the stroller at this early hour…

7:49 AM: Arrive at daycare. He recognizes the owner and the toys but is overwhelmed by the kids (approximately twelve 4- and 5-year-olds; technically this place is more of a preschool but I cajoled my neighbor into accepting a cute baby into the ranks) and goes into hardcore shy-boy mode, gripping my arm for dear life and burrowing his head into my hair. The kids, on the other hand, are PUMPED for their new little mascot. They’re very excited to show him the class fish and the fun projects they’re working on, despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm.

7:54 AM: Time for Mama to leave. I hand Bubba over to the owner and start to say my bye-byes when the wailing begins (his, not mine…yet). I give him a few extra hugs and kisses and head for the door, praying he’ll get distracted by all the fun stuff and his new friends once I leave.

7:55 AM: I CAN STILL HEAR HIM SCREAMING FROM THE SIDEWALK.

7:57 AM: Somehow force myself to walk home instead of laying down on the sidewalk and crying or running back inside to check on him (both of which sounded like pretty good options).

8:00 AM: Log in to work. Briefly consider calling my boss to warn him that I may have to leave at any moment to retrieve my son. Realize that sounds insane. Resist.

8:05 AM: Still convinced I’ll be getting a call any moment to report that my son will not stop crying and to request that I promptly remove him from the premises. I put my phone in my lap so I won’t miss the call (because I might not hear it if it’s right in front of my face on my desk).

8:06 AM: Turn the ringer ALLLLLLL the way up. Don’t want to miss that call!

8:30 AM: Still no call…either he’s sitting abandoned in a corner or he managed to cheer up. Could go either way.

9:12 AM: Picture text received from daycare! “Hey Mom, I’m doing ok…eating CHEERIOS :)”

We won’t worry about how or why his face is already that dirty just 75 minutes into his career as a Daycare Kid.

10:56 AM: Woohoo, another picture text from daycare! “Doing yoga with the kids!”

The look on his little face as he tries to follow the instructions! The adorable way his little friend there is looking at him! Words cannot express my happiness upon seeing this photo. I’m starting to feel better.

11:30 AM: Open the window in my office so I can hear the kids playing outside. After a few minutes, I hear one of Bubba’s trademark squeals of joy. Remind myself how lucky I am that I found a daycare so close.

2:00 PM: Bubba’s back!!!!! (Due to a variety of boring reasons related to the aforementioned fact that the daycare is really a preschool and they don’t usually have babies over there, Bubba will be spending the last couple hours of my workday being babysat by one of the daycare helpers here at my house.) He is thrilled to see his mama (yay!) but is EXHAUSTED (obviously no nap occurred amidst all the excitement of his first day) and confused (“what the heck happened this morning? What was that place with all those strangers? And if I’m back at home now, why is this lady from that other place still here with me? And why won’t my mom play with me — I know she’s here somewhere!”). Much crying ensues.

2:00 – 3:30 PM: I get back to work and feel terrible as I overhear the babysitter attempt no fewer than six hundred tactics in an effort to cheer up (or at least distract) the baby.

3:30 PM: Bubba finally gives up and decides he might as well make the best of his sorry lot in life; relents and permits the poor babysitter to play with him for the last hour of the day.

4:30 PM: Wait a minute, it’s seriously only 4:30 in the afternoon? Hasn’t this day been going on for like 72 hours by now? At least I’m finally done with work and can reconnect with my dear lad at long last! Time for a few hours of quality Mama-Bubba time!

6:30 PM: Baby is sound asleep.

Perhaps a nap tomorrow?

Wish us luck on day 2…

 

On Your First Day of Daycare…

Dear Bubba,

Allow me to begin by apologizing for the sixty-eight million hugs to which I subjected you yesterday — I was feeling a wee bit emotional about your impending daycare career and may have gone a bit overboard. Actually, while we’re on the subject of apologies, I’m just going to go ahead and issue a preemptive apology for crying when I drop you off in the morning…and for the relief tears I am sure to shed tomorrow afternoon when you return home unscathed (YOU BETTER RETURN HOME UNSCATHED).

And yes, in case you were curious, I am indeed crying right now at the very thought of our new lives as Daycare People.

Where was I? Oh yeah, daycare. Today’s the day, Bubba: the day I relinquish your daily care to strangers and probably set into motion an irreversible trend towards you not caring about me since we’ll never spend any time together. If you grow up to be a serial killer or one of those creepy weirdos who dresses up in mascot costumes and has sex with other creepy weirdos wearing mascot costumes (just as bad as a serial killer, if we’re being honest), we’ll all know it’s because you spent your childhood at daycare. “Crazy Ryan Wachter,” they’ll say as they shake their heads in disgust. “If only his mother hadn’t sent him to daycare, all those innocent lives and/or mascot costumes could have been spared…”

(Although to be fair, all those crime shows I watched with you when you were an infant probably didn’t help either.)

Have I mentioned that I’m sorry that you have to go to daycare?

In all seriousness, I’m sure you’ll be just fine. The daycare is run by our very own neighbor, after all. I’ll literally be able to hear you when you’re playing outside:
And you were pretty excited when we went over there for a visit this weekend. If I recall correctly, you nearly killed yourself by attempting to leap out of my arms when I picked you up to leave. Can’t say I blame you, of course, considering the fact that their backyard contains (among other thrilling features) a sandpit full of bulldozers and tractors as well as a freakin’ STREAM; meanwhile, the biggest excitement in our backyard is a deflated basketball that we may or may not have found behind the garage when we moved in:

So yes, I’m actually fairly certain I don’t really have anything to worry about; you will, of course, be fine. But since it is a whole new experience for you as well as for me, indulge me just a little longer by pretending you care about a few last daycare-related tidbits:

• Please try to refrain from throwing your food (they probably won’t think it’s as funny as I do; they also don’t have our dog underfoot to reap the rewards/clean it up).
• I’m sorry you can’t bring Mr. Bearski with you. I agonized over it and decided it’s probably best if you DON’T end up like your mother in this regard — you must learn early to survive without him. Plus, I really don’t want to deal with a bedtime freakout when we inevitably realize that we forgot to bring him back home with us. I promise he’ll be here waiting for you when you return!
• Don’t forget about your mama! Be happy and have fun and all that crap, but I swear to god, if you act indifferent towards me at the end of the day, I will force you to participate in an attempt at breaking the world record for longest mother-son hug in history. Is that what you want?!

Good luck, Bubba. You’re going to do great, and remember:

MOMMY LOVES YOU!!!!

(And seriously: don’t cry over there. I really will hear you.)

Daycare Dilemma Part 33 1/3: The Reckoning

I’ve got big news on the childcare front.

No, my babysitter didn’t magically start showing up on time (you’re hilarious, thinking that was even a possibility; on a related note, does anyone know how I can program my phone to send her a “can you give me your ETA, please?” text every morning at 8:10? It would save me the hassle). And no, I didn’t hammer down a solution. But I can report that I believe I have successfully worked my way through the five stages of childcare grief at last:

Stage one: DENIAL (July-September 2012). Surely the near-daily lateness can’t go on forever — I’m sure she’ll come on time tomorrow! And come on, all these last-minute sick days must just be a weird fluke; how often can a person get sick?

Stage two: ANGER (October-November 2012). Seriously?! You’re “sick” again? I’m running out of vacation days over here! Damn you for forcing me to even consider daycare, a scenario about which I cannot even fathom ten good things! The best part about working from home is having my son in the house with me, even if I’m not the one taking care of him. I AM NOT GIVING THAT UP.

Stage three: BARGAINING (December 2012). OK, OK. We can do daycare eventually, I guess. But why don’t we just stick it out till Bubba’s a little older? If the babysitter could just get her act together for a little while longer, I swear I’ll start looking at daycares in a couple of months and I won’t even act like a crazy person about it! I PROMISE!

Stage four: DEPRESSION (January 2013). Fine. That didn’t work. I’m just going to sit here and think about all the terrible things that could potentially happen as a result of sending my poor innocent child to daycare and perhaps shed a tear of self-pity and/or horror as I peruse the childcare section of Craigslist. Why is this happening to me?!?

Stage five: ACCEPTANCE (January 20, 2013). We are paying top dollar for the luxury of an in-home babysitter…and she shows up late every day (or not at all…). The daily stress is no longer worth having him at home. Bubba is a big boy — he will be fine at daycare. Now I just need to be a big girl and suck it up!

So here I am, calling daycares and mentally preparing myself for the big change. In the meantime, I’m making sure to cherish the last few days or weeks that I get to see scenes like this on my lunch break:

Never mind, I’m back to stage four. HELP!

Top Ten Tuesday: Daycare Dilemma

When I was pregnant with Bubba, any discussions revolving around him as an actual human baby seemed very abstract. I was so focused on the pregnancy and just getting him safely out of my loins that I honestly couldn’t really conceptualize what life with him would be like weeks or months down the line.

Case in point: childcare. Obviously I knew we would need childcare, since, as my dear husband is fond of reminding me, I married “the wrong kind of Jew” (i.e. not a doctor or a lawyer) and hence we need both of our incomes to survive in this godforsaken expensive city (necessary disclaimer: he’s Jewish and has assured me that his joke is both hilarious and inoffensive; I am inclined to agree despite my own lack of jewishness, but if you disagree you are welcome to beat him with a menorah or something*). So of course we discussed it like responsible parents-to-be, and we formulated what seemed at the time to be a solid plan: for the first year, a babysitter would come to the house to watch him (remember, I work from home, so I liked the idea of being near my kid and knowing what he and the sitter are up to while I worked; it seemed like a small consolation for having to work at all) and then we’d switch to daycare since it’s so much cheaper and he’d be old enough that I wouldn’t worry about him as much (ha!).

It sounded fine at the time, because a) it was so far away and b) I had no idea what being a mom was actually going to be like and how I’d feel about someone else watching the little beast while I worked. Now that the time is drawing near and it’s time to actually start thinking about getting him into daycare, I kind of want to cry/scream/vomit.

I’m so used to our current situation, and the thought of changing it terrifies me! How will I possibly get through the workday without seeing my baby every time I get up for water soda? Surely I’ll go crazy not knowing what he’s doing all day or how they’re treating him or whether he’s napped or what he’s eaten or how he’s behaving…and won’t he miss me?! Or, worse yet, since he’ll rarely see me, he probably won’t care about me at all anymore! Who was I kidding, thinking I would be less worried about these things once he was one?!

But of course, I know countless moms send their kids to daycare every day, and they all survive. It can’t be all bad. And I did agree to this tentative plan last year, so I suppose it’s time for me to be a mature woman and think logically about the potential positive aspects of handing my kid over to be raised by strangers 40 hours a week.

And we all know what the mature way to contemplate things is: write a Top Ten Tuesdays list, of course!

Here you go, the Top Ten Reasons Daycare Won’t Necessarily Be the Worst Thing to Ever Happen to Both Me and My Child:

10) Socialization: Aside from playing with his older cousins once a week or so, Bubba is really never around other kids. It would probably be wise to allow him to interact with other humans at some point lest he become a hermit like his mother.

9) Learning: Daycares do educational activities, right? Sometimes, at least? Alphabet, counting, something? This would be great, because I have high hopes for Bubba to be a smart kid, but I am also quite lazy and don’t want to have to do all the hard work of teaching him shit.

8) Energy: As in, my kid has a lot of it and I’m pretty sure a busy daycare environment will tire him out more than spending 8 hours attempting to climb to the top of the TV stand in our living room day in and day out.

7) Reliability: I love our babysitter, but she is just one person and like anyone, she gets sick or has emergencies or appointments or traffic issues or whatever from time to time. When she’s not available, I’m screwed. Daycares typically don’t have a lot of last-minute “whoops, we’re closed today, sorry!” type of situations.

6) Money: This is the big one, folks. We pay an obscene amount of money for the luxury of having the childcare take place one-on-one in our own house, and while technically we can afford it, it’s admittedly somewhat silly when a cheaper alternative does exist. MUCH cheaper. Like, half the price. With those savings, maybe I could convince the hubs that we can afford to have another baby! Wait, then we’d be back in the same predicament. OK, maybe I can convince him to buy a soda fountain for the house! I’d settle for that.

5) ….

That’s…all I’ve got. When I started writing this post, I honestly thought I’d be able to come up with 10 reasons, but…I’m empty. I’m wracking my brain, but all I can think about is how quiet the house is going to be all day while STRANGERS RAISE MY CHILD MILES AWAY FROM ME.

Help me, people. Finish my list for me. Tell me daycare won’t kill me (or Bubba). I’m pleading for your reassurance!

Because it’s going to be really hard to give up getting office visits from this kid…even if his primary motivation for visiting is to throw stuff off my shelves and try to spin my chair around:

*this is arguably far more offensive than the original joke. It’s a hugely satisfying visual, though!

Absentee Mother

I will readily admit that a lot of the things I worried about during the first few months of Bubba’s life were, in a word, ridiculous. My fear that my preference for giving him his bottles in my left arm would cause him to develop a misshapen head, for instance, was, in hindsight, a waste of valuable brain space. The same can be said for all the sleep I lost when we first moved him out of our room and into his crib; I was so terrified that the baby monitor would fail to alert me of some variety of doom (kidnappers? choking on stuffed animals?) that I set alarms to wake me up multiple times during the night so I could peek into his room and confirm his existence/alive-ness.

So yes, I have been known to worry about some serious nonsense. But not all of my worries are so loony.

Ever since I went back to work and started turning over the care of my child to a babysitter all day every day, I have fretted nonstop about all the time I miss with him. I hate that all week long my interactions with my son amount to little more than errand-running and morning and nighttime routines while the babysitter gets him during peak Fun Time hours. I always feel like I’m missing out, and today I was proven right!

I took the afternoon off work so the babysitter could go to an appointment, and I took advantage of the daylight by taking the baby out for a nice 3pm stroll around the neighborhood. As we rounded the corner at the end of my block, we encountered a couple of elderly women who presumably are my around-the-corner neighbors. Upon seeing my son, both women squealed with excitement and engaged me in a lovely conversation about the dear boy:

“Oooh look, it’s Ryan! Hi Ryan!”

“Aw, he got his top tooth!”

“Isn’t his birthday coming up?”

Totally sweet, right?

Except for the fact that I had NEVER SEEN THESE WOMEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE. How the hell did they know my son if I don’t even know them?!

Work Trip Wrap-Up: Cold Snap!

I’m back!

I survived! And so did the baby!

My first work trip since becoming a mother has come and gone, and we all lived to tell the tale. I’m sure you’re all dying to know how many times I checked in on Mr. Mom and how many times the baby got bathed (spoiler alert: zero, obv), so let’s dive into the by-the-numbers wrap-up!

56: total number of hours I was gone

23093890234: approximate number of text messages I sent to TFW and the babysitter during the first 24 hours alone (the consensus, if you’re wondering, was that the baby was fine and apparently did not miss me in the slightest)

3: number of rowdy Chicago Bears fans seated in the row ahead of me on the flight to Chicago Sunday evening

12: level of said Bears fans’ excitement, on a scale of 1-10, when they determined that they were able to watch the Bears game during the flight (thanks for that, Virgin America and Dish Network)

0: level of said Bears fans’ understanding, on a scale of 1-10, that they were on an airplane and NOT A ROWDY SPORTS BAR (shouting! clapping! cheering! high-fiving! booing! cursing the players, refs, coaches, and announcers!)

123980231809132890: exact number of times (I counted) I had to physically restrain myself from reaching around and punching said Bears fans in their respective mouths in hopes of shutting them up

12: level of difficulty, on a scale of 1-10, I had containing my laughter when the Bears lost the game and finally silenced those SOBs

30: temperature in Chicago when I landed

20: temperature the next morning when I left the hotel for work

5: number of layers I wore…just on my upper half (long-sleeved shirt, sweater, denim jacket, then some other jacket whose style I can’t even identify since I have never had a need for a winter coat before [I purchased it at Target 24 hours before I left when I realized that I owned virtually nothing remotely appropriate for actual cold weather], and finally a scarf)

600: number of times I commented on the weather to my poor coworkers over the course of two days. I’m sorry! But guys, IT SNOWED:

80: high temp back in LA

0: number of times I anticipated worrying about the weather back at home. Why would I, right? Wait for it….

53: temperature in the baby’s room on Tuesday morning (the baby monitor reports the temperature). I found this out via the following text message exchange with my dear husband:

TFW: Good morning 🙂 Heater wouldn’t work all night, poor guy. Was 53 in his room this morning 😦 He’s OK though.

(note: in case you’ve forgotten, our house has climate control issues)

Me: Poor kid! You shouldn’t have told me that!!!

TFW: He didn’t seem to mind, slept through the night just fine!

Me: yes, I’m sure he did, since he was IN A HYPOTHERMIC COMA

23482393: number of subsequent texts messages I sent “gently insisting” that he figure out the damn heater before I got home or the baby would be sleeping in our room with me while TFW endured the icy tundra in Bubba’s crib

5: number of photos of a sweatshirt-clad Bubba TFW texted me in attempts to prove that he had taken appropriate measures to warm the kid up and that he really was a-ok despite having spent the night in a freezer:

75: temperature in the baby’s room right now (TFW fixed the heater and was allowed to sleep in our bed after all)

0: baths the baby received while I was gone. But TFW assured me that he did remember to wipe the kid’s hands off a few times, and by the time I got home I was just glad that neither the baby nor I had succumbed to our icy environments, so…we’ll call it a win.

12: my level of excitement, on a scale of 1-10, to be back home with my boys last night!

Yes, ’twas quite an adventure — for both me and the adorably clueless dudes I left behind. I arrived home exhausted to a messy house and a stinky baby, but I’m proud of all of us for surviving a few days apart!

Next time, though, I’ll schedule the trip for a warmer time of year.