A Sigety Shower Scene

Psycho.  Bates motel.  The shower scene.  You know it.  And at some point in your life you've knifed the air while saying "eee!, eee!, eee!, eee!”  If not, well – you’re missing out on some cinematic gold right there and a gloriously awkward conversation killer.

I remember taking my California little booty to Universal Studios as a teenager.  They had a behind the scenes look at said murder.  Not so scary when you know that the blood was chocolate syrup and the knife plastic.  As for the crazy old mother?  That could have been real.  I’m learning with each new day of motherhood that “crazy old mother” is a title I just might live up to.  Now THAT scares me.

So while Hollywood plays tricks to scare the pants off us, toddlers everywhere skip the tricks and just take their pants off to scare us.  Don’t believe me?   Take last week for example.  The horrors of motherhood are indeed a reality.

Sigety home.  The master bathroom.  I was applying makeup.  Pay no mind that it was three in the afternoon and I was just getting ready for the first time that day.  That’s not the scary part.  Disturbing yes.  Scary no.

I’d left Owen with the most captivating and available babysitter I know on short notice – Elmo.  After about ten minutes I heard little footsteps through my room.  They were getting closer, and closer……and clllllloser.  Oh wait, I’m being dramatic too soon – this isn’t the scary part.  So, where was I?  Oh yes…Owen came into the bathroom.  I was emptying the trashcan in the corner and didn’t look up at first.  He was walking back and forth and started playing with the shower curtain.

The rustling of the curtain got my attention.  Er…why is there a brown handprint on my white shower curtain?  And is that a brown streak on my wall?  Brown fingerprints on my toilet seat?  Chocolate syrup on my floor?  If only.

"eee!, eee!, eee!, eee!”  

Or should I say...

“eeew! eeew! eeew! eeew!”

There, staring me in the face, were dirty baby butt cheeks and a diaper hanging by one remaining pull tab.  Then came the rapid fire realizations.  Poop on the wall.  Poop on the toilet seat.  Poop on the shower curtain.  Poop on his butt.  Poop on his hands.  Poop on the floor.  Poop!!!!!!!!!

Scared that I might be the next canvas to Owen’s new medium – I knew I had to act fast.  But of course in that moment all I came up with was chanting 

“ok – ooOOooK – OK – oooooooooK – ok – OK - ok” 

while I picked him up (like a contagious skunk) and plopped him in the tub.

A few minutes later, the poop (and my worries) had gone the way of all dirty bathwater.  And as I carried my no longer contagious critter into the living room I faintly heard my super hero theme music begin to play and my personal voice over announcer guy triumphantly declare “Another crisis averted by none other than SUPER MOM!!”   

But then the crap hit the fan.  Or did it?  I had cleaned my baby and my bathroom, but what about the living room where all this started?  Ugh. 

On hands and knees I found myself reaching a new low.  I sniffed every inch of that living room for the scent of poop.  And I distinctly remember thinking, 

“Really glad I put my make-up on.  Wouldn’t want to look like a frumpy mess while sniffing out my couch for poop.”  

Somehow I don’t think that’s ever been depicted on a Covergirl ad.  Easy, breezy, beautiful poop sniffer isn’t really the image they're going for.  

It’s times like these that nudge me toward “crazy psycho mom” status. 

But I really don’t have anyone to blame but myself.  You see, the real horror of this situation is that I knew Owen had pooped.  I heard him grunt, and I smelled it even before I headed into the bathroom to start my makeup.  But I decided to wait a few minutes to change it.  I thought maybe there was more where that came from.  And who wants to change two poopy diapers when you can change one.  It’s simple math people.  But I guess I was never really good at math.  There really was more where that came from, but it took me a little while to add everything up.  I finally saw the writing on the wall.  Too bad it had to be written in poop for me to get the message.

So if you ever find yourself needing to ask, “Is that chocolate or poop?” I urge you to err on the side of poop.  In the case of Psycho it was chocolate.  But in the case of Owen – it was most assuredly poop.  Good thing I didn’t do the lick test.  I don’t believe in the lick test.  

Allow me to glory in that.  At least I made it out of this whole predicament without licking poop.  I dare say that calls for a little heroic theme music in my honor.

Life.

I like to think of this blog as a close friend.  The kind of friend where you can be apart for years and when you reunite it's totally comfortable...you just click.  And so I sit typing away at the keys in hopes that my words will just 'click.'  I won't go on and on about why I haven't posted in a year (in this post at least).  It can be summed up in one word for now.

Life.

On a bad day it's a four letter word.  On a good day its a blessing.  But what I'm here to remind myself, is that I need to more fully find my present bliss.  Circumstances will change, or perhaps the challenge is that circumstances remain the same, but I'm striving to take more time to keep perspective on the good in my life.

Facebook Dreamin'

Dreams are like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you’re gonna get.  Unless you’re on Facebook late at night scrolling your home feed.  In which case, you have a good heads up as to the characters about to make a cameo after you conk out.

You know who you are.  You count peeps instead of sheep.

But lest you think me judgmental, I opt for peeps instead of sheep with the best of ‘em. 

Which brings me to my confession:

I’ve been dating some of you via Facebook.  It’s like a dream.  Well, actually it IS a dream.  An awkward dream.  And you’ve had no idea.  Until now.  And you better brace yourself, cause we’re breaking up.  Consider this your formal notice.  But you can hold onto your self-esteem cause it’s not you, it’s me.  (Which you should be well aware actually means it’s you ~ see Seinfeld for clarification on that one…)

It usually works out that I’m too busy during the day to book faces, so Zuckerberg’s brainchild is an indulgence I make time for just before bed if at all.  But it’s time for me to go ahead and rethink that order of ops.

You see, I have vivid dreams.  Chalk it up to a rich imagination that apparently doesn’t like to sleep when I do.  It’s a blessing and a curse.  And sometimes it’s just plain awkward.  Let’s go ahead and run with that whole awkward adjective on this one. 

Like the romantic relationship I recently formed with an old friend from college.  Apparently we started dating and entered a soap opera parallel universe of complex situations.  All because I read their status via Facebook just before bed.

Or the other night when I was hanging out with a football star from Hart High circa 2000-2004.  Prrretty sure that never happened.  Yup.  Just remembered my acne and nerd-ness.  Definitely didn’t happen.  But my mind decided to play that one out alternately in dreamland.  All because I clicked a thumbnail pic of a group of guys from my high school.  The likes of which I never dated, nor crushed on, nor have I thought about in years.  Oh yes, and I was a babe in high school in my dream.  If only life were but a dream, huh?

Or the wedding of a friend that I recently crashed and ruined all because I happened to be photo scrolling their big day just before bed.  Sorry about eating all the cake, and making that embarrassing toast to the happy couple, and well, never mind.

Or the lizard that barged into my car and set up camp for the long haul.  Oh riiiight – that’s just my glorious reality.  Scratch that.

Add in the fact that I’ve just recently finished the fourth season of 24 on DVD and started watching Arrested Development from episode one…and all you late night Facebook updaters have been on one wild ride inside Kim’s mind.  As such, may I be the first to officially apologize to those of you I’ve shot or injured while on my missions with Jack Bauer.  I can assure you it was all for the good of the United States.  Someone’s gotta stop the terrorists!

Apparently I need to be more careful about what I feed my brain just before sleep.  But I’m not talking physical food, I’m talking brain food.  Eye candy if you will.  Images and statuses if you won’t.  I guess it’s either a Facebook curfew for me or I’m gonna keep dating/attacking/laughing at all of you in the middle of the night.

Which brings me to my next point:

Do you ever wonder if you have a walk-on role in anyone else’s Facebook induced dreams?  What about a LEADING role?  You could be in a bunch of dreams and not even know it!  I know I’m curious……

Does that make you a little nervous?  I know I’m a little nervous to go to bed tonight.  So maybe if I just picture all of you in your underwear it’ll calm my qualms of closing my eyes.  Oh….wait….about that.  Let’s go ahead and reverse that reverie before it takes my dreams further down a path we most definitely don’t want to go.  Keep your clothes on people!  You don’t want your dream self to be slutty.  Or maybe you do?  That’s weird. 

Any who - if you see me on Facebook late at night – chances are you’ll end up in my dreams.  So if you start posting only at night we’ll know that you’re auditioning for a part in the next episode of Kim’s Dreams.  And believe you me – that’s one crazy role you might land yourself.  So if I see you tonight in dreamland, here’s hoping you can outsmart the likes of Jack Bauer and Kim Sigety and the whole Bluth family.  You’ve been warned!

Some may say that I’m a dreamer.  But don’t lie.  You do it too.  I’m not the only one.

Sweet Dreams!

And tell me, anyone else had Facebook induced dreams?

The Horse Whisperer that Listens to Whales

So apparently the old rule about lifting from your knees and not from your back applies to both boxes AND babies.  I must have missed that memo.  Or maybe I was too busy chasing Owen and scooping him up in the face of any number of dangers, to remember. 

But like many moms before me, and many yet to be – I’ve been accidentally sacrificing my body in service of my kiddo.  The running shoes collecting dust in the corner.  The yoga mat tucked away in a far crevice of the closet.  The sweet and salty instead of the green and lean.  The desperately unpolished and unkempt toe nails I swore I’d never have.  And the lower back neglected in lieu of picking up Owen any which way.

Now, I know this doesn’t have to be the case, but life gets busy.  And if it ain’t broke – you don’t have to fix it.  But when it does break….brace yourself.  Literally if you must, figuratively if you will.  We all know that maintenance is key if you want to stay healthy.  It’s all important and equal only in significance to its sister word, that other dreaded cure-all: moderation.  I should have been living in line with these words, but instead - it took a major slow down to quicken my understanding.

I threw out my lower back.  And any other time I might have welcomed the break from the 9-5 to recoup.  But motherhood offers no such respite.  We don’t get time off.  We lay on the ground in our PJ’s next to the toy box and keep Sesame Street on repeat and pray to heal quickly.   But sometimes rather than simply blessing us to heal, God blesses us with the inspiration needed to know HOW to heal.  Maybe that’s so we can help others who might need similar healing along our path later.  Or maybe it’s so we learn patience?  Or maybe it’s to allow someone else the ability to use their talents in our service.  God works in ironically simple yet mysterious ways.

For instance….

A friend on Facebook responded to my “wo-is-me” status update about my back.  She told me about a massage school not far from my in-law’s house.  They offer $30 hour long relaxation massages.  Yes please!  Answer to prayer part one: inspiration from a friend.  Thanks Jani!

So I went online and looked up more about the school and what they had to offer.  I opted to pay $60 for a medical massage with a professional, rather than the $30 relaxation massage with a student.  I had issues the likes of which a little relaxing rubbing wasn’t going to solve.  I needed specific help or I was considering setting up long term camp next to Owen’s toy box.  I looked at the pictures of the masseuses, prayed about who might be able to help me best and felt like Stephania was the right choice.  Answer to prayer part two: inspiration from the Spirit.

Donned in yoga pants and a baggy T-shirt, I arrived at the massage school.  I filled out the questionnaire that asked if I had any concerns and where my pain was located.  I circled the lower back and added three exclamation points.  That should do it.

Then I waited for a few minutes.  Stephania came out to the waiting room.  Dark hair, excellent posture, warm smile, late 30’s, and an Italian accent.  She had that calm voice and eye contact equal only in serenity to a yoga instructor.  I was in good hands.  Only at that point, I didn’t know just how good.  (That sounds weird - so let's be clear that I mean that totally professionally. lol)

On our walk back to the room, I mentioned that I’d been having low back pain which I thought was caused by lifting my son improperly.  She looked at me and smiled slightly, “Ah yes, I saw thees on your sign in sheet.  But don’t worry, we can fix thees.”

Whew!  Rock thees.

Once in the room, I figured I’d get the “dress down to your comfort level” instruction and then have a moment alone to do so.  But before she said anything, she sized me up.  Head to toe.  I’m pretty sure she saw into my soul.  Or at least into my bone and muscular structure.  Even in my baggy T-shirt and yoga pants she looked me up and down once and concluded, “your right shoulder is lower than your left, your pelvis is twisted, and your shoulders are hooked forward.  Your back is hurting because of your pelvis.”  I looked down in disbelief that all that was apparent from one glance.  Did I really look like a troll?  Good thing I was there.

So down to my skivvies, I got under the sheet on the massage table.  I had no idea what to expect.  But if she already knew exactly the problem in the first 30 seconds I figured I had little to worry about.  And besides, there was an instrumental CD of whales talking on in the background.  Naked and listening to whales.  Not exactly the treatment I initially thought I’d seek for my back – but it was worth a shot.

She came back in the room and explained that she works on the muscles, because the muscles (as they tense and relax) pull the bones.  So if she can get the muscles to work properly, the bones should align as they ought and I would be balanced.  She proceeded to work on my pelvis first.  She rubbed with her forearm up my outer thigh and managed to pin point a knot-like painful spot.  Then she pushed.  Uh….ooooOOOUCH!

“Tell me when the pain changes,” she said.  It was crazy.  The pain would start out sharp, then the spot would start to twitch, then the pain would dull slightly, and then she’d push again on the spot and the pain would release and it would instantly relax that specific spot as well as other parts of my body too.

We continued this spot treatment all over my body.  I kept laughing in disbelief.  She’d point out something slightly tweaked or turned the wrong way or my hooked shoulders, then she’d do the pushing treatment and “poof!” my muscles relaxed and realigned.  Most awkward though was probably the spot in my groin on my upper most inner thigh.  But at that point in my treatment – I was convinced this woman was a miracle worker and she could have said I needed to join in chorus with the whale CD while eating dirt and I’d have done it.  Ok, well maybe not dirt.  But you get the idea.

Ahhh.  Relief.  The pain wasn’t completely gone, but I could move.  I could bend.  I could be mom again.  Answer to prayer part three: The healing power of a talented individual.

I thanked her for her help, and proceeded to the front to pay.

But here’s the clincher.  As I’m leaving, the receptionist up front asked how I liked my massage.  “It was GREAT!” I offered emphatically.  To which she responded: “Yeah, she’s really talented.  She used to work on horses.”

Excuse me?  What am I supposed to take from that? haha

Whatever, I thought.  Lucky horses.  Lucky me.  But most of all - I want to know how she DID that!! (fixed my pain, not massaged horses)

So, my back is still tender, and I have to be very careful that I pick up Owen with proper form, but thank goodness for the talents of the horse whisperer massage therapist who listens to whales.

And thank goodness for God, who taught me that when one does not lift from her knees…she must fall to her knees and ask for help.  And further, that He might not heal me instantly, but rather bless me with the means of learning HOW to heal through the help of others.

Both prayer and Stephania work.

Living with Lizards

A woman must have an arsenal of weapons in her purse at all times.  Think Mary Poppins meets Jack Bauer.  And inside every woman there most usually lives a Girl Scout…ready for anything, creative and able to pound an entire box of Thin Mints.

Back in the day I was definitely an awkward Girl Scout (mental picture: chubby, green floral leggings, growing out my bangs)  – and THANK GOODNESS – because my arsenal of weapons was definitely lacking last Monday.  And creativity was all I had to go on….    

I’d just finished an early morning shift at work.  I walked over to my civic and opened the driver side door as usual, ready to enjoy my last few “me time” moments before reentering mommyhood for the day.

Only this time, I wasn’t alone. (Dun dun DUN)

There in the sill of the door was a lizard.  Three inches of pure creepy crawly unpredictability.

“Don’t you dare,” I thought while giving it the disapproving mommy stare down.  Note – while effective on husbands and children, lizards care very little about whether you approve of their behavior or not.  How do I know?  Oh yes, because homeboy (lizard) darted into my car.

Really?  Really???

Girl Scout or not, what the heck do I do with that?  Where were you on that warning Dateline?  I had my pepper spray for attackers and rapists, my self-defense moves for purse snatchers and my choice words for unruly teenagers – but a LIZARD?  No one prepares you for that.

Homeboy was there, in MY car.  But only one of us was going home.  And I was pretty sure that was gonna be me.

So I did what any woman would do.  I went to my comfort zone.  I went to my purse.  All I had was my wallet, my keys, my iPhone, some tampons and my pride.  Fail.

As such, I did what any resourceful (desperate) woman with inner Girl Scout chi would do.  I got creative.  Oh yes, and threw my pride out the window.

I took out a tampon from my purse and started furiously poking around the floor of my car.

Note – while effective on periods, lizards care very little about tampons poking at them.

So after poking for a good 2 minutes to no avail, I stepped back for a moment to take in the situation. (bing)

The lizard wasn’t coming out.  I had to get home.  There was no choice.

I tensed every muscle in my body and got in the car…vocally warning homeboy that if he dare show his face while I was driving – he’d have to incur the wrath of yet another tampon attack.

The five minute eternity that next ensued would have been hilarious to ANYONE lucky enough to see.  Add some scary movie music and you’d have had a thriller on your hands ladies and gentlemen!  I spastically turned my neck the ENTIRE ride home looking for any sign of homeboy.  My breaths were short and I’m not kidding when I say that EVERY muscle in my body was tense.  How do I know it was EVERY muscle?  Cause I didn’t pee my pants.  Or at least that’s what I’m telling people.

Home.  Whew!  

I jumped out of the car and proceeded to look back in disbelief.  A crying 10 month old?  I can handle that.  A husband furiously preparing for the bar?  Yup – no problem.  A lizard?  Apparently we’ve found my kryptonite.

Through his laughter, John listened to my retelling of the encounter with homeboy.  To which he responded by talking as if the lizard…..

“Really lady?  You’re poking me with a tampon?  Do I look like a vagina to you?” haha

Then he proceeded to go out to the car and shake out the mats and lie to me.

I know the lizard is still in there somewhere, John.

But if nothing else, I’ve learned something from homeboy: 

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.  But when life gives you lizards – you poke them with a tampon and spend the rest of your week in fear of their possible resurgence.  Then you get over it.

You see, sometimes you just have to live with the lizards.  Some problems don’t go away – and you can’t run from them.  So we pick ourselves up by our bootstraps, tense every muscle in our bodies so we don’t pee your pants, and get on with our lives.

Life is unpredictable.

That’s why I carry pepper spray.  And tampons.  And my new found courage.

You can call me Mary Bauer.  

RARELY BLINK

I'm not a night person.  Ask John - my pajamas may as well be called cranky pants.  But I AM a morning person.  I'm one of those gals that you night people find utterly annoying.  Yes - I like getting my butt out of bed and starting the day.  It makes me feel like I get a head start on the race...the human race.  I love the blank slate the sunrise presents.  And there's just something about getting half of your to do list done by noon that satisfies something deep within my soul.

Then I had Owen.

He's a morning person.  And a night person.  And an all day person.  And he rarely blinks.  And for the record, he doesn't care about to-do lists.  Unless that to-do list includes bottles, the weather channel (he finds it fascinating?) and playing all day.  Oh, and if that to-do list is written on paper he'll care long enough to crumple it and eat it.  He likes paper.  Er...eating paper.

Now, I should be grateful that he just finds me so darn entertaining that he can't bring himself to close his sweet little eyes...even for a moment.  I do.  But I'm tired.

"Welcome to the club!" I hear a chorus of moms of the world groggily mutter.  I know, I know, my sleepiness is nothing new to the world of procreation.  But I'm allowed my moment of lament over a loss of sleep.  So WAKE UP and smell this post.  Or don't.  If you can sleep - DO!  Sleep right now!  I'm serious...go.

Still here?  Well, I'll do my best to put you to sleep with this post to make it worth your while.  But I warn you, I'm pretty darn entertaining.  Riiiiight.

From the time he was born, Owen's sleeping habits have been anything but consistent.  Show me a baby's whose sleeping habits are!  No wait...don't.  That would make me sad.  Keep that tidbit to your lucky little self and go be pleasant in public to give us crankier moms a good name.  I'm serious...go.

In the beginning I understand NOW that O was hungry.  Indeed my cups did not runneth over.  He wouldn't stay asleep for long stretches - and me (being the novice mama) just thought I had the hungriest baby in the world.  And so my boobs stepped up to the palate and tried their darndest to do their duty.  Until at his one month appointment he hadn't gained hardly any weight.  Great.  I was starving my baby.  Cue feelings of being the "most horrible mother in the world."  But then I met Enfamil.  Best. Invention. Ever.  Honestly, I mean what would I have had to do back in the day if my udders were udderly empty...get a wet nurse?  Awkward!  And talk about an ego killer.  Thank goodness for formula.

So after we figured out that O was hungry...and successfully fulFILLED that need, I thought my ZZZZZ's would come running back like a long lost lover reunited with sweet little (or still not so little at that point) me.  Nope.

The passi had become a prop.  Didn't know it could do that.  I had been so focused on reading about how to push Owen out my lady parts that I'd spend NO time reading about what to do with him after he was out.  As such, I'd let his passi (ie: best friend) become quite the prop.  Oops!

And like any good first timer - I went out in search of literary epiphanies from baby experts to teach me how to get my baby to sleep.  Good thing all the books say the same thing and tell you to try one method.  NOT!  I went through the Baby Whisper and Healthy Sleep Habits Happy Child and a number of others.  A few things worked a little, but nothing was the miracle I'd wanted.  But then, at 5 months I did it.  I freed Owen of his passi addiction using a combo of the Baby Whisperer's pick up put down and a little bit of crying it out.  Hooray!  A few (count them....2) blissfully sleep-filled nights followed.  But then something invariably would throw off the groove.  Guests in town, too many missed naps, and then the worst of all....

It was one of those terrible horrible no good very bad days.  And moving to Australia was out of the question.  Owen was fussy and I was (you guessed it) T.I.R.E.D.  And to quote Taylor Swift, "It was a moment of weakness, and I said yes."  No, I didn't have an affair.  But I did pull that mute button...er...I mean passi out and give it back to Owen.  Peace was restored instantly.  He sucked...and sucked and sucked and sucked.  "Just once couldn't possibly hurt" I thought to myself.  Wrong!  The prop was back, baby!

And so in the months since, I've had ups and downs with the passi.  Most recently a new tooth and a cold have kept that passi in the picture.  But lest you think me just the weakest mom on the planet (which I'm pretty sure we all think we are at some point) I must explain something about my Owen.  He is not a cuddler...and the only thing that soothes him is sucking.  Which leaves my mommy fix-it tool belt pretty empty...unless I have that passi.

But its hindering his sleep because the moment it falls out in the middle of the night, I have to run into his room and pop it back in.  That gets old after a few times...so imagine me in the middle of the night going in his room for the 20th time.  Wait, don't picture that.  Not a pretty sight.  I don't even like picturing middle of the night exhausted cranky Kim. haha

Now, I bet you'd like this post to have a resolution, huh?  I know I would!  But I'm still in the process of helping Owen learn to sleep.  And while writing this post, my little guy woke up and needed a bottle.  And there, in his room, while feeding him a bottle to the sound of one amazing rain storm outside...I've come to this realization.  I might inherently be a morning person, but maybe it's time I also become a night person, and an all day person, and rarely blink.  Because these crazy, TIRING, patience testing, hilarious, frustrating, wonderful moments won't be here forever.  Sure motherhood is insanely hard.  But I'm going to do my best to enjoy every moment...no matter what the time of day.

And with that, it's time to put on my PJ's and catch a few hours of sleep before little man decides he just can't get enough of me and wants to wake up and play.  You see, I'm Owen's mom.  And that makes me a pretty big deal.

....especially to him.

I'm so vain, you probably think this post is about me. It is.

Something about turning 25 scares the crap out of me.  Let's explore that something.  Not the crap...the something.


Owen and I went to Tulane for lunch with John today.  That sounds like an innocent enough activity, right?  Wrong.  What's up with all the college kids looking so young!?  Wasn't really ready for that reality check.  Sure, its been three years since I've been in school, and yes I'm married and have a baby, and sure I remember watching new (not old re-runs) of Saved By the Bell and Fresh Prince...but does that graduate me from the young/college-age/rising generation description?  I guess if I have to ask....


I think all of this hits home harder this year because, well, I had a kid.  And having a kid seems like the number one thing you can do to make you NOT feel like a kid anymore.  I know this will sound utterly "youngest child" of me, but I've had to face a cold hard reality over the past two months.  


Brace yourself...  


The world no longer revolves around me. 


(gasp!)


Before you think me entirely self centered (or maybe you already do...)  let me explain.  When you are young and single - you get to be selfish.  I don't mean you shouldn't wear your "WWJD" bracelet (ok...that dates me too) or love and serve others, but think about it.  College was all about studying what you wanted to.  When the weekend came, you got to do what you wanted.  Jobs you accepted were what you wanted to do.  Dating was all about finding who you wanted to marry...or make-out with, what?  Then when you got married it was all about YOU again.  Err...and your spouse...it was all about you TWO. lol  Even being pregnant for the first time...everyone gets super interested in your buisness. (and your bidnez)  Everyone asks how you're feeling, and tells you how good/fat you look.  Indeed, the big fat pregnant world revolves around you.  And then comes the day when you push that child out your hooha.  I think that's the time when the revolutionary shift happens.  The world no longer revolves around you.  You've passed the gravitational pull onto your offspring and at that moment, you start spinning around them.


For the record, I know this shift is only natural.  And of course it seems more drastic to me because I've just given up life at the center.  But that's why I think this birthday is so hard for me.  I'm growing up, and gravity is no longer keeping me at the center of it all, nor my butt or boobs in their proper locations. (darn breastfeeding and lingering baby weight).  So think me vain or egotistical if you must, but I think we can all say that breaking up with our young center-situated selves is a little tough to do.  But if I had to relinquish my spot at the center to anyone, I'm glad its to Owen.  And John too.  He's there in the middle as well.  Yes, my family is the center of my world.  WAIT!  My family?  My family?!?!  MY FAMILY!!!!  That includes me!!  Whew...I'm still the center of my own little universe.  What a relief!  Maybe this birthday won't be so bad after all :)

And with that said, I'm going to feed my new little center of gravity now and hand him off to his Dad so I can pretend to be a crazed Twilight fan and go to the midnight showing of Breaking Dawn with my girlfriends.

What, it's my birthday!

HELD HOSTAGE

Psssst!  It's me, Kim....you know, that girl who's blog you used to read.  I'll have to write quickly.  I don't have much time.  You see, for the past two months I've been lovingly held hostage by the most adorable baby in the world.  What's he asking for?  Oh you know, just all my love and affection in the form of formula, kisses, diaper changes, cuddles, zurbits, burp induction, and baby talk coupled with over-exaggerated facials.  Whew!  Can we say exhausting?  Not to mention that I'm only allowed to sleep when he sleeps.  And heaven forbid I should want a shower...He sits in his throne (bouncer seat) on the bathmat just waiting to cry and cue the end of cleanliness altogether.  And to think that I used to consider shaving my legs a necessity.  (sorry John)  Yes, this little guy keeps up quite the schedule!  I've just been doing my best to keep up.  But alas, that means I haven't been able to keep up with the other areas of my life that I used to cherish fondly.  Blog included.

Thus, with my semi-house-arrest in full force these days, I told myself it was high time to regain balance in babyland.  And so I did what any ipad lacking non-kindle carrying woman would do.  I went to Barnes and Noble in search of the holy grail.  Or at least a book on sleep training.  You know, either one.  It was time for mission "BRINGING SLEEP BACK" to commence.  And who knows, since I blatantly ripped off my misson name from Justin Timberlake - getting enough sleep again might just bring sexy back too.  A husband can only hope, right?  But I digress...

So, because the likes of my google-searching wasn't hitting on enough advice to aid me in outsmarting the likes of my hostage holder.  I needed a real book, and I needed it bad.  So I waited for the perfect moment.  Bottle empty.  Burp released.  Diaper bag packed.  Baby asleep.  It was go time.  To the Honda-mobile!!  (ok...it sounds cooler when you own a Bat-mobile.  But all I have is a civic, so you'll just have to deal)

I strapped Owen in the back seat as carefully as I could.  zzzzzzZZzzz  And off we went.  I'd have to act fast or my window of opportunity would close with the opening of Owen's eyes.

Exiting the freeway I saw the promised land.  Barnes and Noble.  Bring it on.  Well, bring it on after I find a parking spot, turn off the engine, get the car seat stroller frame out of the trunk, open it and hear it "click," close the trunk as quietly as possible, release Owen's carseat, position it in the stroller frame, check and double check that I have his passifier handy, load up the stroller's under compartment with items galore, cover the stroller with a blanket to block the wind, and lock the car.  Where were we?  Oh yes...

BRING. IT. ON.

I entered the non-automaticly opening doors (awkward with a stroller) and began strolling the isles as only you can with stroller...almost knocking books off with every turn and swivel.  And I finally entered the "So, you had a baby and have no idea what you're doing" section.  (Also known as the "Parenting" section)  And after sifting through more topics than I care to currently worry about...I found a title that seemed to fit.  "Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child."  Yes, please.  I'll have both.  Thank you Melissa for the suggestion :)  And with that, I bought the book and headed out to hurry home.

I've only had time to skim the pages and implement a few key insights from my Barnes and Noble find.  But so far I think I'm gaining some real headway with my snuggly little hostage holder.  Also helpful?  A swaddling blanket contraption thing I got as a present before Owen even arrived.  This contraption is the reason I'm here typing to you as we speak...er....read...er....communite via blog?  To give you a mental picture - John came home tonight and after checking on our sleeping son...I mean, adorable hostage holder, came to me in the kitchen and asked, "Did you put our son in a straight jacket?"  Straight jacket sounds a little harsh, don't you think?  I prefer "swaddling blanket."  But John's right - totally looks like a baby straight jacket. But homeboy's been out for 2 hours, 15 minutes so far and I get to write on my blog.  That's what I call progress people!  Balance here I come.

Disclaimer:

Lest you be misled - please understand that I love my hostage holder more than keys can type and I feel so blessed to get to stay at home with him every day.  We're just in the process of finding the groove here in our new little family.  But for my sanity's sake, let's just hope that groove includes a little thing I like to call my PRESENT BLISS!