The Little Things...

I've found a new obsession since having the cutest (at least in my opinion) little man enter my life.
The baby section at Target.  Or Carter's...or Gymboree.  Or Kohl's.
Get the picture?
Yes, I still cruise the shoe dept. in Macy's and Dillard's, and check out all my previous "addictions" like before, but now, I have to stroll through and check out all the lil shorts, polos, and jammies.  Talking my dearest friend (who also happened to have her bundle of joy two months after me!), I found I wasn't alone.
Why am I doing this?
Did I also mention I have a need to get just about everything as cheap, er frugally, as possible?
So, new rule?
Little things (and great deals) are almost as good as a new pair of shoes...and even cuter!

To Sleep, Or Not...

When my lil bundle of joy first came home, he slept through the night within three days.  The first night, I literally was so exhausted from trying to keep on the whole feed him every two hours or he will starve (at least in my mind!) schedule that I truly believed the entire thing was a fluke designed to make me believe things could be really be this easy (little did I know!).  Then, it happened again.  Was I a horrible new mommy for not waking him up?  Then, I gave in.  Happily, my pediatrician told me to let him sleep (and insert angels singing). 
Fast forward seven months, and enter the what is wrong with him schedule.
This is what happens every three hours or so.
Husband rolls over and tries to whisper over crying not quite screeching baby, "What do you think he wants?"
Me, trying not to hit him with a pillow because, truly, I don't, contrary to popular opinion, speak baby just yet, "I don't know!"  Also trying to whisper even though at this point the lil dude in question is clearly not sleeping.  "Diaper?"
And so, off I go to diaper duty. 
Nope. 
Put him back down, crying continues.  Loudly.
Again, the husband asks.  I try not to get frustrated, understanding he is just as lost as me. (Meanwhile, in my mind, I'm bashing him with the pillow.  Hey, it's soft and won't really hurt him...)
"Teething?"  I reply.  To which husband crawls out of bed to get the frozen teething ring, which when he returns, lil dude gratefully chomps on. 
But, once again, put him down, and the crying begins.
Fine, I think.  If he's anything like dad, he's hungry. 
And he finally falls asleep.
Until three hours later.
Now, this doesn't happen every night, but more often than not...well, you get the picture.
New rule?  Not only can I not read the baby's mind, it's probably good the husband can't read mine ;-)

Everything With A Purpose...Even A Shower

Wowsa...it has really been a looooong time. My little man is now seven months old and if I've learned anything over the last few months, it's the sad yet happy fact that my life is no longer my own.  Simple tasks like the dishes (which my husband used to do...hmmm, there's a conversation!) and even showering have taken on new meaning.  Like scarce.  Or nap time.  If the little buddy bear falls asleep not on mommy (my fault totally, he's just so amazing...though I am told that will wear off, at least a bit) or I have the energy to do so.
Simple joys like my morning yoga are usually pushed aside for breakfast feedings, changing diapers, or just simply rolling around together on the bed laughing and giggling in the early morning.  And bellydance?  Oy.  That is a whole separate matter. 
So what's the new rule?
Multi-tasking.  Every step and trip to somewhere has a purpose, whether it's a run to the kitchen (grab that empty glass) or to the other side of the house (put important papers on the desk in my office).  Unless I would literally get nothing done...

What To Expect...

Once I heard the baby's heartbeat, I realized this was actually happening. I'm going to be a mom. This was what I wanted, right? To have a little person who was part my husband and part me. A family to have those noisy Christmas mornings, to love and hug. This was going to be awesome.
Somewhere around seven months, I realized something else. I was going to have to deliver this baby. Holy smoly, Batman. I kept trying to block it out, but, somewhere along the line in some form or another, this was going to be a reality.
Enter the birthing class. The funny thing about walking into a room full of expecting couples is that you suddenly see you aren't the only one who truly has no idea what is going to happen. And, oh how many ways it can happen.
To be honest, I don't get people who decide to not take a birthing class. If nothing else, I received the best massage from my baby daddy (that term makes me giggle, so I have to use it) during the relaxation technique portion. And on the other hand, I heard the pros and cons.
The really crazy part was taking all that knowledge back to work (remember there were FOUR of us expecting all within 4 months or so...) and freaking out with each other. About the pain. How we were going to try not to kill our husbands for doing what they did (ha!). The pain. What to pack...what to wear. The pain.
The waiting wasn't the worst part. It was talking about it. And that was also the best part. Because we all realized we weren't alone.
But I would be going first into the great unknown...
So the rule? You aren't alone. And it's fun to torture your fellow expecting ladies with your story after it's all said and done. *grin*

My Favorite Thing

I've always thought that people who say they love being pregnant are off their rocker. Who could possibly be happy about no caffeine, or a big ol' yummy Subway...or even a glass of wine? Not to mention having to buy new clothes as your waistline slowly disappears. Or expands even bigger. and how about the nauseousness that has the misnomer of "morning sickness"? (I suppose it's morning somewhere in the world at any time.)
Ew.
Don't get me wrong. I liked being pregnant. But not for the reasons that most people probably did.
My favorite thing?
People were incredibly nice to me. In a time when people communicate mostly through technology (how many texts have you've gotten today?), you've got to be worried that one day, we won't know how to speak with one another face to face. Even today, road rage seeps it's way into what I like to call line rage. Let's face it. When you need to buy something, you usually have to stand in a line. Yet, every single time we get surprised that we have to wait in line and there aren't magical cashiers that pop up when we are ready to skedaddle. Then, the line rage takes over. Trust me, I see it every time my husband goes grocery shopping or we step in to Target.
But I digress...
Strangers weren't merely nice...they were happy for me (not counting those breastfeeding questions. I'm attempting to block those out of my mind.). They asked what I was having, when I was due (which was fine, until the lil man decided he wanted to bake longer than his timer said), if I had a name picked out (a few, but we were keeping them to ourselves...mostly), and if he was our first. All with smiles, congratulations, and wishes of luck.
Hmmm....this may just mean we still can talk to each other face to face. With a smile on our faces. Now, how can we get this to work during the Holidays. Or when my husband is waiting in line...

The "B" and Complete Strangers

It wasn't the labor, the pain, or even the pounds that scared me the most about being pregnant. (Or even the fact that I had to give up my most beloved beverage...I mean, who can function without their steaming cup of yummy caffeine? Horror of horrors!)

Every single how-to-be-pregnant book (and I had two!) warned of that one crazy phenomena. You know the one. Where complete and absolute strangers walk up to you and....TOUCH YOUR BELLY!!

I had been dreading this from the day I saw that little plus sign. No matter how well intentioned a complete stranger may be, its creepy. Beyond the fact that they are a COMPLETE STRANGER is the one little thing. Literally. My baby. I wasn't sure I wanted someone I didn't know getting between the bond I was sure was forming. This was my time. And unless I wanted you in on it, please, I thought, don't let anyone just walk right on up and lay one on me.

I needn't had worried.

Because there was something far worse looming on the horizon.

Complete and total strangers, once they learned of the little jellybean and his impending arrival, asked me (did I mention they were complete strangers?) if I planned on breastfeeding.

SERIOUSLY?

The craziest part of that was I didn't know. At first, I was vehemently anit-breastfeeding. I didn't want to smother my baby, or be attached to him twenty four hours a day. Plus, I didn't really view that part of me as what they were designed for. I mean, they look great in a bra and have given me some really interesting shopping trips. Among other things.

The first time I had this particular question thrown at my newly announced pregnant self, I was dumb founded. When I stammered the whole I hadn't decided yet, I received the weirdest lecture ever as a grown person. (To add to the awkwardness, it happened at work. And I work at a well known lingerie store. Being used to awkward situations, and believe me there have been plenty, I was thrown.) Politely, I stood there, just staring at this woman who probably meant well but was seriously freaking me out! after she was done I politely smiled and helped her, then passed her along to pay for her purchases.

And hoped this was the last time I would have to endure this uncomfortable conversation.

Boy, was I wrong wrong.

The dreaded event would occur at least three times a week through out my pregnancy, mostly while I was work. By the this time I learned once again to plaster that pleasant smile on my face and say I hadn't decided yet and excuse myself. (Hey, I was pregarooni, I could fake morning sickness. Which I had none. Or scamper off to help another customer.)

Breastfeeding is an incredibly personal decision. One that I wasn't ready to share with just anyone, so I just couldn't understand where these complete strangers were coming from.

I had already decided to take a breastfeeding class to gather as much info as I could before the baby came. One thing I had decided early in my pregnancy was that I was going to do my best to roll with things and not define anything. That way, if something didn't go as planned, no problem.

Needless to say, the benefits outweighed my earlier assumptions.

But that still doesn't make those encounters any easier. At least now, I can look back and laugh. Maybe I should have asked them to touch my belly instead...

Job...or not?

Just to warn you...you may think I'm either sticking my foot in my mouth, or aiming to really make someone want to trip me if they ever see me out and about. But, bear with me, please...

A few years ago, I remember having a conversation with my husband about a friend of ours who had just had her second baby. I had asked her if she was going back to work. Her eyes became huge as she told me, in that frazzled mom kind of way, that she had a job. Being a mom.

I laughed at this. Seriously? Being a mom isn't a job, I told my husband, then began my own tirade on how she had lost herself (I mean, had she looked in the mirror? Her hair used to be perfect, make-up applied, high heels...) to being a mom.

And, now, looking back I realize something.

I was right.

Okay, hold on, let me explain!

A job has set (somewhat) hours, you get a schedule. You can call off, take vacation time, or even quit. You (hopefully) receive a paycheck for that work. They can replace you (even if you think you're irreplaceable), and you get a lunch break or even just a quick fifteen.

At the end of the day, you get to go home and leave some of that work behind. (Let's face it, we all bring work home. Someone has to hear us talk about our day...)

This is not what being a mom is.

Being a mom has no set schedule, no breaks, no raises, and I have yet to see the money come rolling in. And I doubt my lil guy would ever replace me...

This is where I tell you the light bulb moment. Being a mom is what I am, along with a wife, bellydancer, hopeless romantic, fan girl, geek...you get the idea.

But, I will tell you...the benefits are awesome!

So, what's the rule...being a mom is who you are, not what you do. *smile*