Why I Climb

On Saturday, I will lead Team Hoboken's fourth annual Climb Out of the Darkness, to benefit Postpartum Progress and shine a light on perinatal mood and anxiety disorders. There are more than 180 Climbs around the world - find one near you here.

I Climb because...
... perinatal mood and anxiety disorders are the most common complication of pregnancy, affecting around 20% of all new mothers.
... only 15% of the women who are affected, get help. That leaves 85% suffering silently - or not even realizing that they are suffering at all, and thinking this is just how motherhood is supposed to be.
... suicide is the second leading cause of maternal death in the first year postpartum.

I Climb because...

...I felt so isolated and alone. So unbelievably sad. So full of despair. So sure that I had ruined my life by becoming a mother. 

...I sobbed loudly, let tears run silently, and tried to find the words to explain how I felt, but couldn't. ...I stopped eating, barely slept and could hardly speak. 

...I couldn't meet my daughter's eyes, for fear of her seeing how I just didn't care. 

...I froze with fear every time she stirred, anxious at the thought of having to take care of her. 

...I froze with fear every time she slept, anxious at the thought of her stirring. 

...I spent months "going through the motions" of motherhood, trying to feel, bond and love.

... I made lists: lullabies to sing to her. Activities to try with her. Schedules to stick to. Anything to make it through yet another day. 

...I can't imagine how those weeks and months were for Evan, who juggled work, our colicky and reflux-suffering newborn, and the care I needed. For my parents, sister, in-laws and friends, who watched me crumble constantly. 

...I handed my baby to anyone who offered to help - baby nurses, friends, family members, anyone. If it gave me a moment of reprieve, I took advantage. 

I Climb because...
... Postpartum Progress was a crucial part of my recovery. Their tools, resources, stories, information, forums, Daily Hope emails and community of Warrior Moms were instrumental in letting me know I was NOT isolated and alone. I would get better.
... I got better. I slowly but surely had more good hours than bad, then good days than bad, and then good weeks than bad.
... every time I share my story with an audience - be that in a magazine, at a conference or at the playground or a five-year-old's birthday party - at least one person shares their struggle with me. Every. Single Time.
... every time I get a call, text, email or Facebook message from a suffering mom, I drop whatever I'm doing to connect them with help. To listen to them. To work through that day's struggle with them. 
... these calls, texts, emails and Facebook messages come from friends, friends of friends, neighbors and total strangers, all seeking support from someone who has been there.
... every time I help a mom, I tear up, flash back to my own dark days, and then heal a little bit more myself.

But really? This right here is #WhyIClimb.

           
           Family.           Love.          Support.          Healing.           

To help moms like these: 

And these: 

And you should #ClimbOut too. 

My Parenting Plan Backfired

Before you become a parent, it is easy to make all sorts of definitive proclamations. “I will only feed my child organic food.”

“I won’t ever use a pacifier with my baby!”

“I would never let my child use/watch the (insert technology here).”

To these parents I say – just you wait. It is impossible to know what type of parent you will be until you are catapulted headfirst into a narrow tunnel with a speeding freight train (read: a hysterically crying, tantrum-throwing, screaming two-year-old) heading towards you. If you are anything like me, all at once you throw the first snack you can find, a pacifier and an iPad at that child in response. And relish the fleeting moment of peace that decision brings.

In January we celebrated my older daughter’s fifth birthday. I can count on one hand the number of “mistakes” that I have made in these years of raising her. I think we watch too much television (though, to be fair, that girl is pretty brilliant and often credits her favorite shows with teaching her the random facts she knows). I know that her diet is nowhere near as balanced as it should be (though, show me a five-year-old child’s whose is and I’ll be shocked). And she sucks her thumb. Her birthday in January was supposed to mark the first day of trying to get her to really stop – it's not going well.

But there was one parenting decision that I made that – while not major – completely backfired in my face. And it was because of one of my definitive pre-parenting statements.

“I won’t have one of those kids who is obsessed with, like, a blanky or a stuffed animal or lovey…”

When Rebecca was born, she was given all sorts of cuddly friends. A clear early favorite was the Angel Dear lovey – an impossibly soft, perfectly huggable small blanket with a stuffed animal head on it. They come in all different varieties – farm animals, safari animals, pets – they have them all.

And so do we! Because this was my brilliant parenting move – in order to keep her from being obsessed with one particular one, I would get five or six different ones and keep switching them out. It was perfect! She would love them all and not care which one she had at any given moment… until…

She needed them all. At every given moment. So instead of being the kid who was obsessed with like, a blanky or stuffed animal or lovey… she was the girl addicted to five of them. She could tell instantly if one was missing and which one it was.

“I need Ducky. Where’s Lamby? Hi Hippo! Ooh ooh ah ah Monkey! Yay Munchy (that’s the giraffe)!”

Sigh. It was exhausting keeping track of five best friends. And we didn’t always do such a good job, resulting in endless hunts for them, a situation any parent of a child who has a favorite toy will recall with a wince.

Five lovies. Sigh.

A photo posted by Lesley Neadel (@lneadel) on Dec 22, 2012 at 9:26am PST

To combat the possibility of losing one of your child’s best friends, you do what any normal parent does – you buy a backup. Or two. And if your child has five best friends, as mine did? Yes, that means ten backups. Two of each of five animals. I should have bought stock in Angel Dear when she was born.

And I truly didn’t think she knew the difference. I assumed that one Lamby was as good as the other, and she never really seemed to mind which she had. And best of all? The backups were hidden in the top drawer that she couldn’t reach, so she knew nothing of them!

Until one night putting her to bed when she was two-and-a-half, when she asked for Lamby. I scrambled looking for him and was thrilled to find him peeking out from under her crib. “Here you go!”

She grabbed him, popped her thumb in her mouth, rolled over and rubbed his soft fleecey material between her fingers in her special way. I was about to turn off the light and leave the room when she sat up.

“No, Mommy.”

“No what?”

“Not this Lamby. I want the other.”

I froze, unsure of what to say next.

“You want the… what?”

She looked straight at me, holding Lamby out, and said, “I like the one with the longer nose better. Just open the top drawer and give it to me.”

And in that one moment, I accepted humble defeat, gave her the other Lamby, and walked out of her room, hysterically laughing.

Keeping it Real: On Turning 36

I have a husband. And two children. And a mortgage.  I sit on the board of a nonprofit, have started a freelance career doing writing and public relations consulting, and am working on a startup too. We own a car and lease another. We have wills, life insurance policies and various types of savings and checking accounts.

But if you ask me if I am an adult? If I look around at my life each day and feel equipped to lead it? The answer is emphatically no. I still feel like an insecure middle school girl who is just faking every move of every day to try and hopefully seem like the popular group. Despite creating a life for myself with which I am thoroughly in love, I often don't feel like it is mine.

I consistently call my parents for advice - or more accurately, to tell me what to do - on any number of issues. I Google everything. I can't wrap a present to save my life. I have no knowledge of how many teaspoons go into a tablespoon, which my husband asked me just the other night, and hardly ever make our bed. I routinely shrink clothes in the laundry accidentally and smell cartons of milk to see if they are still good. I live in an apartment that is constantly messy and has at least one light bulb that needs to be changed. (I actually think our electricity zaps bulbs quicker than any other place in the world, but that's for another day.)

Today I am 36 years old. At this point in her life, my mother had lived in the immaculately-kept home where I grew up for more than ten years. She had a seventh-grader and a second-grader, volunteered at the local hospital and cooked dinner for us every single night. I rack up more Delivery.com points than is healthy. When my now-husband and I first moved in together I would often joke that it felt like we were playing house. And it still does! Who am I to tell this guy to take out the garbage!? And parenting? Forget about it - I am the biggest pushover there is, because I don't feel like I command the respect that a real adult does. (In fact, I've started telling my daughter to only speak to me as she would her teacher. Sigh.)

More and more, there are occasions where I feel like another adult should be coming to handle them, only to realize that I am that person. I am the one advocating for my daughter in her school, attending PTO meetings and handling the parent-teacher conferences. Rewind to the day they let us take her home from the hospital - I was in shock that she was ours, that we were in charge of keeping her alive. But we did - and ourselves too! And even went on to have another, who is thriving as well. They are even usually - gasp - happy, well-adjusted, incredible girls.

Us. We're a real family. Apparently.

Perhaps it's because I am always with myself - you  know how if you see something every day you don't notice the subtle changes that have all added up to create massive shifts in a person? The tiny bits of growth that add to inches, the baby steps that combine to leaps and bounds?

But whatever the reason, just know that while I may seem confident, or on a random day come across like I have everything together, inside I feel like it's all capable of collapsing at any moment. There are times when that truth shows through - on the playground, when my older daughter collapses in an epic tantrum, and I drag her out by one arm - while also holding her shoeless baby sister who is laughing at the spectacle - or if you are a fly on the wall during our dinnertime, when pasta is more often than not the star of the meal.

It makes me wonder - and hope - that I'm not alone. That many others have decided to "fake it 'till they make it" at adult-ing too, and that we are all awaiting the handbook that leads you through things like deciding which school is best for your child, buying a whole entire house, or dealing with insurance companies, or - especially around the holidays - wrapping all those damn presents.

Keeping it Real: My Clutter.

Clutter is - unfortunately - a central part of me. I am a scattered person in every aspect of my life, always running in a million different directions at a time, and so are my belongings.

Growing up, I had three drawers in the headboard behind my bed. I spent hours "cleaning out" those drawers as demanded by my uber-neat mother, but despite her constant attempts to reign in my mess, merely weeks later it would be time for another required clean-out as my "stuff" accumulated once again.  These days, to my mother's disappointment, I am messier than ever before.

Lest you imagine my family living in an episode of Hoarders, as addicted as I am to having "stuff," I am equally so to the tools that I believe will help me conquer that addiction - shelves, hooks, baskets, and anything sold at The Container Store. But while each is a solution to a minor part of this major problem, in the end they add to the issue and leave us in worse shape than when we started, because they're more stuff.

My husband has 1/100th of the clutter problem I do, so it has yet to create the real tension that it could in our home - but I can feel that mounting. When we moved in together, I contained my clutter for a little while, but it crept out every now and then. Since we had our two children, and I am now responsible for three people's belongings, it has been put on full blast.

Closets have always been a hazard of mine - a place in which my stuff gets stuffed, with doors that conveniently hide all behind them. Today it is a mess of clothes too small, shoes too out of style, too many sweatshirts that I never wear and way too many pairs of slippers and robes for someone who never puts on either.

Desks and counters are constantly full of papers, mail, and every office supply you could imagine at the ready, some never even used but always available should the need arise. Magazines, books, bills, statements, folders, notebooks and reminders get stacked in piles - one in the kitchen, a few in our bedroom and one in the living room - disasters to anyone looking, but a system that I (mostly) understand.

A common theme in my clutter story is out of sight, out of mind. These days, with Mommy Brain permanently in place, I have even purchased items, put them away, and then re-purchased them. If I can't see it, it truly flees my mind. Many of the items around my home that contribute to my clutter are mementos of friends I've made, trips I've taken, special occasions from my past - things of which I want to be reminded frequently.

I aspire to be neat - I really and truly do. And I gain immense personal satisfaction when I do purge and keep something organized for a week or two (at best). But then, my busy life intercedes. I take out four outfits until I find the one I want to wear, and fling the other three onto the floor of the closet or back of the chair in our bedroom before running out. I find the makeup I bought on sale yesterday in the morning as we run out the door to school, so leave it in the CVS bag on my small vanity instead of finding someplace to put it (which would inevitably mean I'd forget I had even bought it, remember?). I stack clothes to donate, return and put into long-term storage behind our bedroom door, and it becomes a task too big to tackle during whatever little "free time" I find myself having.

Our closets burst open, filled with presents purchased for friends and never delivered, clothes too small for Rebecca but too big for Lila still, and a million items purchased for far-flung "what if?" scenarios. Should we ever be trapped in our apartment for days on end, we could live off of the amount of rainy-day activities I have accumulated throughout the years.

I recently swore on Facebook - so you know it was with the most real of intentions - that I'd KonMari our apartment. It hasn't happened as of yet, but I fantasize about it often. I think the tremendous effort it would take is terrifying and paralyzing me.

Instead, I try to tackle small portions of our clutter daily - I've recently made furniture switches to our home to help, and before Lila was born we installed built-in cabinets to give us more storage options. Many of the toys we owned went into the newly-built shelves, fitting in perfectly and bringing me much satisfaction.

One day, as Rebecca welcomed a new friend over, I overheard her saying, "you can come into my room!  I don't have very many toys, but we can play with my dollhouse " (This is the one toy still out on display) This is the opposite of the truth, I assure you. Astonished, I reminded her that her toys were in the cabinets now, and opened the doors - reuniting her with her long lost belongings and activities. She had 100% ignored them since we closed them in. So it seems I have passed on my "out of sight, out of mind" mentality. Here's hoping the clutter gene ends with me.

Keeping it Real: Life.

Yes, it's been six weeks since I've written here. I've started and stopped a few posts that felt forced, because I thought that I "should" be posting. Which is when I realized - this is MY blog! I can post as much, or as little, as I want! So rather than be half-assed, which is what an "I should be posting" post feels like, I opted not to.

My life these days is a whirlwind - of tasks, errands, jobs and volunteering. It is a different schedule every day, a plan for each week that gets thrown off by sick children, last minute needs or offers for work and... life. It has been SO hard to get used to this, after having been at the same job for more than 12 years, but I'm finally getting the hang of it, I think, a year in. 

Because at first I thought it was just a crazy day or two. Then a crazy week. Then a crazy month. But the truth is that it's not crazy at all - it's my new normal. 

The trick? Embrace the crazy. Embrace the unpredictability. Embrace the mid-day pop-into-the-apartment-to-grab-something-you-forgot-and-get-to-hug-your-baby-snuggles. (Then embrace your nanny who takes and comforts that confused child who doesn't understand why you only hugged her for a second then ran back out). Embrace the chance to be with your older daughter's class at the school book fair. Embrace the ability to give time to causes that mean so much to you - like helping new moms. Like the public education system in your town. Like Postpartum Progress. Embrace the laughter-filled evenings as Lila learns to talk and Rebecca gets out her end-of-day energy. Embrace the nighttime wakings and chances to lay in the darkness with a baby who would rather sleep on you than in her crib.

What I have realized fuels me best is a healthy mix of passion and pressure. One or the other is fine and gets me going, but put the two together and I can not be stopped.

Luckily, recently there's been no shortage of either. I've been helping new moms. I've been forging relationships with people who can help me do more. I've been cultivating my passion for writing and messaging, informed, powered and made possible by those years in that office. I've been undergoing various trainings that will prepare me to be a better peer advocate in the future. I've been going non-stop on all cylinders.

At my last therapy session, I told my therapist what I had been up to. It took ten minutes, and I am sure I left out an item or two. After each thing, I said, "I mean, I don't know why. I'm just doing it. We'll see where it goes." And she told me to stop doing that - stop saying I don't know what I'm doing or why - because I do. I am writing and helping clients. I am helping new moms who are suffering. I am forging relationships that will help me do more of both, and then some.

I am fueled right now by the perfect mix of passion and pressure - and we will, indeed, see where it goes. I can't wait.

TestiMOMial: Our glider!

This is the first in another new series here at Real Life, Real Laughter - the TestiMOMial: my homages to the things that have helped me navigate this parenting journey the most.

Today's testiMOMial is for a clunky, massive, brown, fuzzy part of my life for the past five years - our glider. This piece of furniture is akin to a rocking chair, but provides a more smooth back-and-forth movement experience. Commonly only found in nurseries, gliders are where you spend 95-98% of your time the first month home from the hospital. It's where you feed the baby. It's where you burp the baby. It's where you soothe the baby. It's where you catch some shut-eye when the baby falls asleep in your arms and you're terrified to put them down in their crib or bassinet or Fisher Price Rock and Play. It is where you might take the requisite "1 Month Old!" "2 Months Old!" etc. pictures.

Once the baby is a bit older, you will likely still feed them bottles from the glider, and begin to do some of your nighttime routine from its trusty seat, like reading books or singing a lullaby. Without realizing it, this large piece of furniture will worm its way into your heart and stay there, a memento of the days (and long, long nights) that have passed. It will serve as a reminder of how much your child has grown, as she suddenly fits differently in your lap versus your arms, and eventually in the seat by herself.

And it will remind you of nights along the way when your child wakes up from a nightmare or sickness, when you burst into their room to respond to their tears, scoop them up and rock them back to peaceful sleep. And then you stay there just a few minutes longer, because - well - they're so incredible to hold when they're asleep.

And it is where, perhaps like me, you will spend a large part of your next pregnancy, when nowhere else in your home is comfortable. And your now three-year-old daughter will worm her way in there next to you, barely fitting herself in the small space your large body leaves.

And it is where you will go through all the same motions with your second daughter - the feeding, rocking, burping and endless hours spent in its brown corduroy seat, feet up on the ottoman that glides with it, as you ease into life as a mother of two. You will let your older daughter snuggle into its seat with you and the baby, and it will become a fixture in your living room.

Wait, what? Yes. My living room. We live in a 2 BR apartment - there was no room for it in their bedroom once we put a twin-sized bed and crib in there! Not to mention, the baby didn't even sleep in that room until she was five months old. So yes, the glider took up residence in our living room. It actually took up most of our living room.

So just before Lila turned 1, we got rid of the glider.We no longer needed to feed her in it, and given her propensity for climbing onto, into and off of things, it seemed more like a hazard than necessary. Ah, space, glorious, space was ours!! It was amazing to see our hardwood floor again.

Then? The plague hit our home. In the past month, Lila has been sick non. stop. This poor baby has been waking up multiple times a night, and given that now she does share a room with her older sister, Evan and I have been in there multiple times a night to pick her up and soothe her as quickly as possible.

WHAT I WOULDN'T GIVE FOR MY GLIDER BACK! At least in its embrace I could rest while she did - now I find myself swaying while holding her by her crib - not restful at ALL. Or letting her fall asleep on my chest on the couch. Not comfortable for either of us, honestly. Or bringing her into my bed, which we NEVER did with Rebecca - because we had the glider. Sigh.

So get a glider, love your glider and don't ditch it too soon - it is really an amazing piece of equipment!

Keeping it Real: Sharing a Bed.

In my last post, I hinted at hating sharing a bed with my husband. I was sort of kidding - but not really. And he would agree. We both relish nights spent apart, regaling each other with stories of sleeping diagonally, not being jarred awake and blissfully dozing through the night in full. We are not one of those couples who wake up intertwined, eyes slowly fluttering open as they cutely yawn and stretch their arms overhead together.

During the day, Evan and I are a pretty cute, occasionally romantic couple. We eat dinner together every night it is possible, kiss whenever we're leaving in the morning or first get home in the evening, frequently text, chat online or Facetime when we're apart, and get in bed around the same time most nights.Initially we lay an arm or throw a leg over the other as we read, crush candy or watch television for a little while, until one rolls over and signals that they are falling asleep. The other follows suit and stops whatever evening activity they have undertaken to spoon or snuggle in for a little while, until - usually simultaneously - we roll away from each other for the night. <Cue record scratch.>

I just can't sleep if part of my body is touching someone else for multiple reasons. It's too hot. It's too much pressure - if he falls asleep and I want to change positions, I'll wake him, which I don't want to do! It's too much literal pressure - whatever body part is draped over me, be it a leg, arm or his head, steadily feels heavier and heavier until I swear it's going to crush me. And... well... Evan's chest hair is tickly, and I'm sure my head of curls is no picnic for him to deal with at night.

Bed linens are another reason we hate sleeping in the same bed. When we first moved in together, I noted that come morning, the fitted sheet on his side of the bed was frequently pulled off the corner of the mattress and his pillowcase off his pillow. I have no idea when or how this happens, as I seem to sleep through it, but there were multiple mornings where I stood flabbergasted at what had occurred in our full-sized bed overnight. I bought fitted sheet clips and essentially trained Evan to keep it on, and have learned to just shake my head and sigh at whatever it is he does with the pillows. (This doesn't even account for the fact that he mushes the nice, fluffy pillows into dense, round, crumpled balls that he either sleeps on or just hugs...)

But his new habit is one that is causing friction between us these days. I think he is too warm when he gets into bed (we will get into temperature in a minute), and throws off the sheet and blanket, pushing them into a huge pile in between us. I then snuggle into them and roll over multiple times throughout the night, which in the morning gives the illusion that I have stolen all the blankets, the narrative that he chooses to believe. I maintain that it wouldn't happen if he didn't shirk the covers in the first place. We seem to have disagreed to agree on this one and it gets brought up frequently with varying levels of annoyance and sarcasm on both of our parts. Definitely a sticking point.

Of course, there is the topic of changing positions throughout the night, or even getting comfortable in the first place. I nicely roll over or adjust my position carefully, trying to contort my body without affecting him or interrupting his rest. But my husband - well, we have dubbed what he does "flopping like a flounder." He literally flips himself over like a fish who has been caught and is trying to free himself, shaking the entire bed, headboard and lifting all of the covers in the meantime. It is jarring and annoying and just the worst - but since we gave it a funny name I can just laugh it off. Usually.

Last but not least, there is temperature. I like to be warm, but not too warm when sleeping. My husband likes to be cold. On this topic, we have learned to compromise. Thus, while he turns the AC on or the heat off, I sleep in hooded sweatshirts. It works - I stay cozy while he is cold, and we both sleep as much like rocks as is possible when you hate sharing your bed. 

I didn't even need to consult him to write this. Sure, if he were writing this, he would harp on and on about the fact that I snore, which I don't think is true. I have asked him to record me, but he has yet to do so, because every time he tries he is laughing too hard. Which I guess is how we get through our nights together - laughing at each other's ridiculous habits, me on one side of the bed all layered up for another cold night and him blissfully hugging a pillow and flopping like a flounder. Like I said - we are so romantic...

The Plague of September '15

In the past two weeks, Lila has had:
- coxsackie (aka hand foot and mouth, which is a better name but not by much and is also not the same as hoof and mouth)
- four new teeth break through
- pinkeye
- an ear infection
- a cold / cough

This girl has been put through the ringer. And I'm not going to lie, so have we as parents! It is so difficult to see your little ones in pain or discomfort of any kind, and to deal with their clinginess/ fussiness / unhappiness / lack of appetite. I know now that is all compounded when it also affects what you can / can't do with an older child, and you risk them getting sick too. We did our best to keep the girls apart as much as possible throughout this time, and Rebecca has been a rockstar about it, but you can't tell a one-year-old not to go near her sister with whom she is obsessed, and - oh right - they share a room.

Here is how we have survived this time of plague in our 2-bedroom apartment:

- As always, my husband and I have become expert divide and conquerors. We have switched off bedtime duties, medicine-giving duties, tackling the social agenda of our older daughter while ensuring Lila stayed appropriately quarantined, middle-of-the-night wake-ups, and then some. I couldn't do it without him.

- Go to the doctor! With Rebecca, I never wanted to bother our pediatrician. I know some people go in the opposite direction and are there for every bump, bruise or sniffle, but I always felt like my reasons to go weren't worthy of a  visit, until it was too late and we had That Awful Night where she was up screaming at 4 AM and we didn't know what was wrong or what to do. This time I was able to tell quite quickly that Lila was suffering. She was at the doctor early with her pinkeye, which made us aware that she was on the verge of an ear infection too and let us be ahead of it for the first time ever! We avoided That Awful Night and just had a few pretty bad ones instead, which I will call a win (albeit only by a small margin). You know your kid - if something feels wrong, there is no harm in having it checked out. Yes, it took me 4 1/2 years to figure that out for myself.

- Whatever it Takes - At night when the girls are sick, all rules go out the window. We take them out of the crib. We cuddle more. We spend nights on the couch together or even in our bed (we are def not a cosleeping family - I can barely handle sharing a bed with my husband!). We do whatever is necessary to get through the night as comfortably for everyone as possible. For Rebecca in the passt, this has included middle of the night popsicles to soothe an angry throat, The Goodnight Show special on Sprout On Demand to lull her to sleep, and even the iPad in bed. Whatever. It. Takes.

- Use the space you have - The shared room has not been a problem at all yet. Rebecca has been a pretty great sleeper and, like everyone says, slept through Lila's various nighttime antics. Lila, though, has only gotten bigger, smarter and more aware since moving into the bedroom from her - ahem - palatial surroundings of the living room. The glider stayed in the living room for the past year, and has been where she got all her bottles, and where we would bring her if for any reason she woke up before an appropriate time (as deemed by us, not her). As luck would have it, we got rid of our glider three weeks ago, just days before the plague began. This has left us without a comfortable command center from which to navigate this time (but with a TON MORE ROOM - damn those gliders are big!!). As such, we've learned the optimal way to lay on the couch so that our feet are supported, chest is elevated leaving Lila at a bit of an angle. and she isn't staring out the window at the lights that keep her awake. We make our space work - and the next day I search real estate listing for hours. Just kidding. Kind of.

- Wine.

- Ice has been a lifesaver for us. Lila thinks it's fun to play with and suck on, and it clearly has made her more comfortable throughout the coxsackie and teething portions of this time. It also helped hydrate her, however little, which brought me some comfort. Ditto to Pedialyte freezer pops - Rebecca begs to eat those, and we have to literally tell her to be happy she's not sick and doesn't need them. Other lifesavers include: Tylenol. Motrin. NoseFrida. Boogie Wipes. Bulb syringe. Bathtime (always a winner, even when sick). Pacifiers. Lovies.

I know, none of this seems like rocket science - but it has been our reality recently, so I'm sharing here. The good, the bad and the ugly, right? And I promise, it has been pretty ugly. Here's hoping the worst is behind us - though I bet a pretty long Winter is ahead. Sigh.

Lila's birthday... and birth

Lila turned one on Saturday.

 It was the perfect birthday, other than her still being a bit out of sorts from having been sick all week. But she looked adorable, had a blast and we got to see just about our entire family. And she got to try cake. 

We had everyone for lunch at an awesome local pizza place, and then the local synagogue where we had her baby naming. This was made extra special by the fact that my father-in-law's grandfather (so... Lila's great-great-grandfather) was a founding member of said synagogue, and we recently found his name on pews and a plaque there.

All together, it was a fabulous day. She barely got any new toys (HOORAY! A) We have no room for them and B) She won't play with them because they're not something of mine or Rebecca's), but got some incredibly special gifts to treasure when she is older.

So I got around to thinking about the night she was born. Errr, rather the nightS over which she was born. We got to the hospital for a planned, but still done on a somewhat emergency basis thanks to my cholestasis suddenly getting worse, induction on Wednesday night, September 10. Our nanny Dina and my in-laws were set to stay with Rebecca. We arrived at 8, per instructions, and waited three and a half hours for a room to open up. Our doctor was a spitfire and promised that we'd get a bed, but couldn't promise where in the hospital it would be. Yikes! But okay I guess?! We ended up getting a great room right in Labor and Delivery, thank goodness.

We settled in, I got Cervidil put in and made peace with having a September 11 baby. At that point I was just ready for her to be born - I was uncomfortable, exhausted, and honestly? Delivering Rebecca was the easiest part of last time! I wasn't at all nervous for the birth.

It was three weeks prior to my due date, so we were really kickstarting things from scratch. They gave me an epidural insanely early, as I was really nervous about that part of the birth, given my spinal headache with Rebecca. All went smoothly after I talked to the anesthesiologist for a long time about my prior experience. And then, I just laid there. All through September 11, cranking up the Pitocin, re-upping my epidural, watching 9/11 ceremonies and crying, a Kardashians marathon and laughing, letting the doctor break my water, talking to my family, Evan watching The West Wing on Netflix - it was like a party in that room as I waited to feel ready to push.

At 11:30 PM things started to change. Suddenly I didn't want to talk anymore. The contractions were more intense, and the pressure I could feel was mounting. At 11:45 I asked for the doctor to come in. At midnight she did, and said I was fully dilated. Go time! It was at that instant that I realized I hadn't re-upped my epidural in the past whirlwind half hour. I could... ummm... feel things. NOOOOOO NO NO NO NO, this was not how it was supposed to go! Everyone told me how easy second deliveries are, and how it'd be no big deal. I told me that!  This was not that.

I begged for another epidural, for someone to come and give me more medicine - everyone was telling me it'd just be easier and quicker for me to push, and I steadfastly refused (and I wonder where Rebecca gets that stubborn side...). I actually told them to put water in there and tell me it was medicine. They injected something into the line, and said, "Okay, now push." Point proven. I did. It hurt. I felt it all. I was screaming things that are not able to be written here. I kept apologizing too for my vulgarity. It was quite a scene. 

I had pushed a few times and knew we were almost there, at which point the doctor on call says, "Oh! I forgot my booties." And LEAVES THE ROOM. I was dumbfounded, screaming and cursing in pain. My husband - who watched Rebecca be born and still says it was the coolest thing he's ever seen - was turned away from the... situation. The nurse who was filling in for the doctor who was GETTING HER BOOTIES kept telling him to look, and he later told me that he couldn't, because he was laughing too hard at the things coming out of my mouth, and he knew if I saw I'd rip him apart. He was 100% right.

At this point, it was time for me to push again, after which the nurse digs her feet into the ground and proceeds to put her hands up in front of her and hold them there, and push with all of her strength. She is HOLDING MY BABY IN ME. I swear. I'm sorry that is graphic - but so is having a baby. And it hurts. And I can feel it. And I yell, "Where the $&@% is she?! SHE DOESN'T NEED HER $%&#ING BOOTIES!" at which point my doctor comes back in, THANK GOODNESS WITH HER BOOTIES. I push another time and little Lila Jane was born, at 12:35 AM on September 12.

My mother maintains that I didn't really want a September 11th baby, and my mother-in-law says that Lila didn't want a September 11th birthday. Either way, we had an amazing September 12, 2014, and a fabulous time celebrating that on the 12th in 2015.

And I hate the word booties.

Celebrating our first date and our wedding - ten and seven years ago today!

So as we now know, I met Evan at the end of August, right before leaving for my annual family trip to Georgia. Once I got back he called, and we set up a date for the following Tuesday evening - September 13, 2005.

I was SO excited and a little bit nervous as I walked over to Rare View where we had planned to meet. A friend had recommended it to him, and it was one of my favorite spots. I arrived late (of course) and rushed around the corner to see him on his phone - I talked smack right from the beginning, joking about how he had lost points by being on his phone when I arrived, and he gave it right back to me, saying how if I hadn't been late he wouldn't have been. We were playful, smiling and giving each other shit right from the very beginning. I liked him instantly.

We went up to the roof, in the shadow of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings, and talked. for. hours. At least three or four, while I drank blood orange cosmos and he had gin and tonics - again, at least three or four. We laughed and the conversation flowed easily, and while I don't remember a single thing we talked about, I know that it was hands down the best date I'd ever had.

Apparently it was Evan's too  - he called his friend Steve - who would eventually be the best man at our wedding - from the bathroom to tell him A) how drunk he was and B) how well it was going. Steve told him not to mess it up.

We shut down the bar - they eventually kicked us out, at which point we had to stand up. Oooooh boy. We were both pretty tipsy, and walked to the elevator singing "Closing Time" together on the way down from the rooftop venue. We held hands and walked back towards my apartment, realizing that we never ate dinner, hence the drinks hitting us so hard. We wandered past my local watering hole, The Overlook, but their kitchen had closed. And we definitely didn't need more to drink.

We got to my apartment and I invited Evan up to get something to eat - we were starving!! We got into my kitchen, I opened the fridge and said, "Ummm, we have apples..." and looked at him, and he said, "I don't care about the apples" and kissed me. Our first kiss, on our first date, ten years ago today.

We never looked back. The best part of how this all happened was that we never played any games. It was obvious that we liked each other immediately so that was that.We were both on Instant Messenger constantly, him in his third year at law school and me while at work, and we started IMing later that day. That afternoon I told him about a Katrina relief concert at MSGthe following week that I had tickets for and invited him to be my date. He said yes, and shortly thereafter  I told him that I didn't want to wait until Tuesday to see him - see, no games! - so we went out that Friday, to the San Gennaro festival in Little Italy, where we drank two bottles of white wine, again got completely drunk together, and I fell 100%, head over heels in love with him.

We moved in together in Hoboken in August '07, got engaged in December of that year, and married on September 13, 2008 - three years to the day from our first date. 

The day was incredible, of course, but our anniversaries celebrating it have always been - well - not the most romantic. This time of year is difficult with the Jewish holidays, and we've had Kol Nidre anniversaries, Rosh Hashana ones like this year, botched dinner plans, gifts that bombed and everything else. But nothing can top our sixth anniversary. Last year found us celebrating at Weill Cornell Medical Center with our newest baby girl, Lila Jane.

What a whirlwind ten - and seven - years - I love you so much, Evan, and am thankful that no matter what has been thrown at us in the past decade, we have approached it with our trademark sarcasm, wit, laughter and love. You are the best best friend a girl could ask for, the most incredibly devoted husband and the sweetest father to our girls. Lerve you...

One Year Ago...

A year ago right now, I had been in the hospital for about 28 hours, being induced with Lila. I had spent the day in a bed, watching a Kardashian marathon and 9/11 ceremonies, as my family surrounded me and we awaited the newest family member's arrival. At this exact moment, after a full 24 hours of medication to kickstart my body into labor three weeks early, I finally began to feel like I was getting somewhere. Just more than half an hour later, Lila was in our arms.

What a fast, amazing, exhausting, hilarious, emotional, heartwrenching, heartwarming - and did I mention fast? - year it has been!!

Lila Jane - AKA Lila Tov, Boo Boo, Lover, Lilali, Lilaboops, Meepers, Beepers and Boops (guess who gave you the last few nicknames there) - you spent your first few months in this world mostly silent. You observed. You slept. You ate. But man, you GRUNTED. It was horrifying. I thought something was seriously wrong with you, and thanks to my anxiety spent many sleepless moments trying to figure out what exactly it was. (Spoiler alert: it was nothing.) But yes, other than the grunting, you were a dream baby. "Rent-a-baby" was the nickname my friends gave you, as you were the epitome of what someone would special order if they could - adorable, quiet and a perfect angel! You slipped into our lives seamlessly, into your sister's world like you had always been there and instantly into our hearts.

Once you were a few months old, you began to make your presence known. You found your voice, and used it any chance you could, squawking to let us know where you were at any given moment. And - to this day, and since day one - you hate being alone. You have always sensed when people leave the room and whine and cry until they are back. You are a snugglebunny, and love resting your head on our shoulder when we carry you, or resting on our chests as we lay on the couch or in bed, and often crawl over to put your head in my lap. This - among many, if not every, other thing - is one of the big differences between you and your older sister.

You are the antithesis of Rebecca in just about every way. She was a loud baby who became totally relaxed - you're the opposite. She was a great sleeper - you haven't quite figured out the magic of soothing yourself yet (although since you share a room with her, this could be because we haven't sleep trained you as steadfastly as we did her). She never wanted to sleep anywhere except her crib - you'd gladly never go in there, it seems. She never cared about getting into cabinets, or climbing things, and you, my dear, are everywhere, We joking call you our puppy because you are just as precocious. We have found you:

• eating shoes (and just about anything else you see or find)
• with your hand in the toilet
• in the dishwasher
• in the cabinet under the sink in our hotel room
• standing atop the ottoman
• hanging onto the front of our TV stand while perched on the shelf of it
• licking floors, furniture, windows, doors, knobs, my pocketbook and countless other items

The most common phrase in our house is, "Where are you Lila?" because we can hear you squawking but have no idea where you have gone - you are fast, sneaky and fearless. We better watch out.

You love Elmo, cheese, Cheerios, your pacifier, and lovies. You love music, especially the ABCs, dancing, making towers and knocking them down, and pushing buttons.You imitate us more and more each day, and my favorite is when you make smooshyface, where you pucker up your lips really big and breathe in and out of your little tiny nose loudly a few times, and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen. 

You have taken a step here or there, but aren't walking on your own yet - but man are you fast with your plastic walker. And when you crawl. You crawled all over Sea Island last month - the beach, by the pool, in the pool, in our hotel room, in restaurants, on the airplane, at Newark Airport... you have no qualms about your poor little knees getting roughed up and always get wherever you need to go. Which is usually wherever Rebecca is.

You love your sister more than anything. You can be completely engrossed in an activity, but if you hear her voice your head immediately swings to find her and you're off. You try to do everything she does, laugh at everything she does and take every opportunity to play with her. And she is INCREDIBLE with you. Better than I could have imagined, she loves being my "helper buddy" and taking care of you, playing with you, giving me updates on what you're doing when you're together, feeding you and taking baths together. 

Watching you two together gives me more peace, satisfaction and happiness than anything else in the world. I love my girls, and am so thankful that you have given me that by being you. By being part of us. Happy happy happy first birthday, Lila - and here's to many, MANY more fast, amazing, exhausting, hilarious, emotional, heartwrenching, heartwarming years to come...

(And, in the time that it took me to write this, you were born a year ago!!)

What a Decade - The Night I Met The One

Ten years ago, in August 2005, I had been single for about a year and a half. I was on JDate, and being set up by a few people, but met no one special. I wasn't quite feeling pressured about it, but at 25 was certainly ready to settle down and meet my lobster.

My best friend Leslie's husband, Marc, was in law school, and she called me after going out with his friends one night to say she had someone to introduce me to. She'd met him before but only really hung out with him the night before, and knew he was perfect for me instantly. She had told him so as well. 

Now - she had already attempted to fix me up once with another of Marc's law school friends, so I told her not to give this guy my number so we could go on some awkward first date, and that instead I'd meet him out one night with all of their friends. I'd met many of them before, so at least it'd be a low-pressure situation.

A bit of time passed, and it hadn't happened yet - then she called one day to tell me that he had asked Marc about it, so I figured he at least was open to meeting someone, a good sign. We chose a Thursday night when the group would be out celebrating two birthdays at a bar in Hoboken. That was ten years ago last night. 

First, I went to Leslie and Marc's apartment, where she and I split a bottle of white wine. Yes, a whole bottle. It was a beautiful summer night and we drank out on her tiny patio, catching up. Then we went to dinner at a local BYOB Mexican restaurant where they take your bottle of wine and make sangria with it. So we drank - yes - that whole pitcher as well. 

I. Was. Wasted.

We walked into the bar, I got (yet another) drink, and we made our way down the tiny flight of stairs to where their group had gathered. She pointed Evan out to me, and I remember thinking that he looked like such a nice guy, and had the most gorgeous blue eyes. 

Somehow he and I ended up talking. It's all a bit blurry, and thankfully was for him too because he had been there for a while, so I wasn't on such a drastically different level of sobriety than him. I remember asking him where he lived - "Harrison." "Oh, New York? I grew up..." "No, New Jersey." "Oh. Well where did you grow up?" "Middletown." "Oh, New York!?" "No. I'M FROM NEW JERSEY." Ha - that is the first conversation either of us remember having with each other. It was like a Marx Brothers skit from minute one. 

At some point, I wanted to confirm that he knew I was the girl he was supposed to meet, so I think I said something super slick like, "I'm Lesley. We were supposed to meet..." And he stared at me smiling, nodding, and said he knew that. I barely remember anything else - just that he stood right by my side for the rest of the night. I can still remember what it felt like that night, standing next to him and looking up as we talked, though neither of us remember about what. It was instantly comfortable, playful and easy. He bought me another drink (like I needed that!) and told me not to move while he went to get it, and I didn't. Smoking cigarettes was still allowed in Hoboken bars, and at one point while (I think) trying to impress him, I danced and fell (again, suuuuuper slick), burning my hand on one of the butts. THAT I remember. Ouch.

Soon after, he walked me to the PATH train so I could get home to New York City. It was just a few blocks, and we randomly spoke French to each other, because we'd realized we both took it in high school. And I complained about my hand, and he told me he was impressed I wasn't complaining about my feet and shoes like most girls did. And I said that I only wasn't because my burnt hand hurt so damn much.

At the train, he took my number and didn't kiss me good-bye - a move I thought was to leave me wanting a kiss, but I have learned since he was just too shy to make. (All together now - awwwwwwwww...) I left the next day on my annual family vacation (the same trip we are on together right now) and told them all I had met a guy I really liked. He called right after I got back, and we went on our first date a week later. You'll hear about that on that anniversary. 

Happy ten years since we met, Evan...  I'll try not to complain about my shoes hurting tonight! Lerve you...

5QFriday: About to Be a Second-Time Mommy!

My former colleague Luna Newton has changed so much since I met her. She was on accounts of mine at CooperKatz, and a career managee of mine, and we quickly grew close. Since then she has gotten married, had a baby, left the firm and started her own freelance career and is now about to have her second baby. we have been in touch personally and professionally and I can't wait to see what's next for one of the sweetest girls there is!!

In honor of her Sunday due date with her second, here are her answers to questions I posed to her for 5QFriday...

1) What are you most excited for about having a second baby?

I am excited about having a second chance to enjoy the moments that went by so fast with my first. I was so anxious when my daughter was born that I almost wished the newborn phase would pass quickly so that I would know she was going to be okay. I didn't enjoy it as much as I should have and am grateful to have this chance again.

2) What are you most nervous about (if anything!)?

Well, I'm a lot less nervous going into this pregnancy than I was with my first. Throughout my first pregnancy and probably the first six months after my daughter's birth, I was nervous about EVERYTHING. From how my life and friendships would change after baby, to how my marriage would evolve, to how I would be as a mother. Despite my fears, somehow everything fell into place -- my true friends were still there, my marriage become even stronger, and I eventually turned into the best and most confident form of myself that I ever knew, and that was becoming a mom. 

 3) You have effectively been all three - a working mom, a stay-at-home mom and a mom working from home. Which works best for you? Why?

Being a work-at-home mom is the best choice for me right now, at this point in my life, because it offers me the flexibility of being at home with a husband who travels often and fulfills my desire to be physically close to my child, while keeping my professional engine running at the same time. But none of those options are easy for any woman (even if they make it look easy) and all of them take sacrifice. I've had to sacrifice the fun and intelligent day-to-day conversations I had with wonderful colleagues at my old job. I've also had to find ways to continue to grow and develop professionally without having the guidance of my former superiors. 

Being a work-at-home mom and having my own business also comes with a large degree of risk -- I never know if a client will drop me out of the blue, or where I will find my next project and source of income. But I guess that uncertainly is part of life, right? You work hard, put yourself out there, prepare for the worst and always hope for the best. 

4) You have also been a city mom and suburban mom - best differences? Worst? Biggest surprise about life in the 'burbs?

I loved my time living on the Upper West Side but when my daughter was born and we were three people in a one-bedroom apartment, living in the city became a burden. Sleep training (or the lack there of) was a big problem and although we relished our weekend brunches and endless strolls around town with the baby, something had to give. Even though I knew moving to the suburbs was an eventuality for our family, I was a big city girl my whole life and it took a lot to make this move. 

Living in the suburbs does have its advantages. Besides the obvious reasons -- good schools, safe neighborhoods, clean snowy sidewalks and fresh air -- my car has become my best friend and now I can't imagine life without it. It's seriously my safe haven and home away from home. Also the change of pace out here is slower, and when you have kids, I was surprised to realize that it's actually kind of nice -- not boring. Now that I've settled into a good routine and made friends, I realize that aside from marrying my husband, moving here was the best decision I ever made.

5) What is the best piece of parenting advice you've ever gotten?

Trust your instincts. It's not foolproof, but you will usually be right 98 percent of the time. The only exception to this is during the newborn phase when you are jacked up with hormones, sleep-deprived, still healing and emotional. Then I would say, surround yourself with those you fully trust to help you get through this vulnerable time.

The Case for Self-Fullness

At the Warrior Mom Conference, one of the most powerful sessions was learning what it means to thrive after having a PMAD (perinatal mood and anxiety disorder). Kate Kripke from the Postpartum Wellness Center in Boulder talked about what mothers who thrive do, listing things like:

• She knows that feeling anxious is a normal part of motherhood. 
• She is willing to be Good Enough (and she understands that mistakes are even important)
• She accepts and maybe even prides herself on her vulnerabilities
• She understands the need for community and she uses it well

Each of these is profound for a mother who has been through an emotional complication after having their baby. You don't understand that anxiety is normal, because you can't comprehend a manageable level of it. You feel the need to be perfect, as every mom around you appears to be. You find it difficult to be vulnerable, because a chink in your armor is an instant reminder of past problems. And asking for help from people in your chosen community (friends, family, neighbors) is one of the hardest - but most vital - things to do. Each of us works hard at busting through these blockages and a host of others to become the mom we know we can be - an ongoing battle within our post-PMAD selves.

But the part of her speech with which I most personally struggle is that a mother who thrives "understands the need for self-fullness and that this self-fullness is in service of her child(ren)."

"Self-care" is a huge part of motherhood - it is essential to make sure you are filling yourself up in order to have any of yourself to give to others, namely your children and partner. Once I was diagnosed with my PPD, my therapist and just about everyone else said I must take time for things that made me feel like myself. For me, self-care was going out with friends or having visitors, taking time for manicures / pedicures and doing anything mindless like watching television, shopping or even time to just click aimlessly around the internet or my phone. So in the midst of my PPD battle I made sure I did these things. They came easily to me, as I always felt better as soon as I was away from Rebecca - which pushed me even further down the rabbit hole and made me question being a mother even more. Why was it so easy for me to just wave to whoever was watching her, close the door behind me and be on my way? I felt selfish, not self-full.

See, some women's postpartum anxiety and/or depression cause them to become extremely attached to their babies - anyone else wouldn't take care of them as well,or be as vigilant as they are, so no one else could possibly care for their child. I understand how pushing them to do things for themselves is crucial.

My PPD symptom was the polar opposite of that. I felt a total lack of attachment, and thought that anyone else would do a better job taking care of her than I would. I could hand Rebecca off willingly to just about anyone - friends, baby nurses, family, and most often, Evan. So I did, for my prescribed self-care time. And every time I did I felt better momentarily, because the crushing pain of trying to take care of this baby was gone, and then suddenly worse, because WHAT KIND OF MOTHER WILLINGLY GIVES AWAY HER BABY WITHOUT A SECOND GLANCE?! WHY AM I HAPPIER WITHOUT HER? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I would agonize over how easy it was for me to detach as I went through whatever activity I had chosen, likely defeating a large percentage of the purpose of the self-care - but still, I always arrived home calmer and more able to take care of Rebecca. More self-full in service of my child - though I beat myself up to get there each time.

This weekend, Evan and I went away, just the two of us, so that he could compete in a triathlon. It is also his birthday today (HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVAN!!) so we made the weekend celebratory, taking an extra day away after his race to just let loose. And we did - we drank, we ate, we gambled, we relaxed by the pool and we laughed. We talked without being interrupted by a 4 y.o. or screaming infant. We held hands, we flirted and we remembered how much fun the other is - something that gets lost in our day to day lives of wiping little butts, noses, faces and hands.

And after just 48 hours away, we drove back to my in-laws' to get Rebecca and Lila and bring them home and I was suddenly aware that I felt completely self-full. And as such, I was full of love for my family.

I drove home from my in-laws' house with the girls while Evan drove the other car alone. Lila slept in her car seat and Rebecca and I talked - truly talked - the entire way. We had a nonstop conversation about the weekend she had with Grandma and Grumpa, our plans for the rest of the Summer, and an upcoming trip that we are taking at the end of next week. We talked about the school year to come, and friends and family, and we made each other laugh. It felt like I was chatting with a good friend and was so. much. fun. She is such a big girl - but still so small and adorably hilarious without intending to be - and she makes me swell with pride at least once a day with her memory, sense of humor and imagination.

Back all together again, I was patient, played with, bathed and fed my daughters with a warmth that I hadn't felt in a long time, and even Evan and I were more gentle with each other.

I got in bed that night in awe of my life. Of my relationship with this little girl with whom I initially wanted none. Of my baby, who is a dream. Of my husband, who makes me happier than anyone else in the world. I am so grateful for this past weekend, the self-reflection that the Warrior Mom Conference opened up in me and Kate Kripke. And I finally don't feel guilty about that ability to detach anymore - because taking time for my self-fullness is entirely in service of my children, my husband and myself.

Creating a Monster or Taming a Beast?

Just before Rebecca turned two, she began to exhibit the qualities of the dreaded Terrible Twos, nice and early - as was her way with most milestones. A sudden independent, demanding and more and more often as the next two years went by, downright mean nature overtook my sweet, calm, go-with-the-flow little girl. Usually directed at my husband and me, we often threw up our hands, exasperated and at our wit's end with this precocious daughter of ours.

I counted while I made her breakfast yesterday, and I asked her a total of 11 questions throughout the process. ELEVEN.

1. What do you think you want for breakfast?
2. Pancakes, great - chocolate chips or syrup?
3. Chocolate chips, yum. Just put on the pancakes, or spread after they melt?
4. Whole pancakes or cut into bites?
5. What color plate?
6. Would you like water or orange juice?
7. Which kind of cup - big girl or sippy?
8. Big girl cup - awesome! With a straw or without?
9. The straw is sometimes tall - do you want me to cut it a bit?
10. What color straw?
11. Which table would you like to eat at - your little table or the big one?

I realize this seems extreme. I have realized this for quite some time. And yes, we use the mantra, "you get what you get and you don't get upset" very often - sometimes even successfully - but it doesn't always work. And Rebecca has become quite picky in her four-and-a-half years, and likes things just so. Or else...

Now, I don't think I have to ask every single one of these questions - if I just gave her pancakes on a yellow plate and OJ with a red straw in a blue cup she may eat them just the same. 

BUT - if she wanted syrup and not chocolate chips? Or wanted them whole and I had ripped them into bites (I mean cut them - who would just rip apart mini pancakes instead of using a utensil? Certainly not me...)? Or wanted the chips just placed on and oozy vs. my smearing them after they melted? Meltdown city. She'd refuse to eat them, and I promise you that girl's will is stronger than anyone I've ever met (except maybe her father). This is the girl who wouldn't potty train until she was just over 3 1/2, and prior to that would sit on the plastic bowl for twenty minutes, not let out a drop, then stand and pee next to it when we let her get up. Seriously, she's got some willpower.

So to head these tantrums off at the pass, especially once her sister was born, I got used to asking Rebecca the questions I needed answers to in order to get things done smoothly. I'd rather ask and do it her way than need to remake her breakfast or have her not eat anything. Because the only thing worse than a vindictive Rebecca, is a HANGRY one. For real.

So what I wondered yesterday is - is it better to ask these questions, ensure a smooth road and tame the beast that she can become, or am I in fact creating a monster?! I fear I know the answer here... but I have seen what comes when I assume the answers, so for now will not attempt to do so. 

Oh, and lest you think this is just about breakfast, I assure you it is not. In each scenario below, making the choice for her has resulted in a tantrum that it is just not worth it to have, in my opinion, when she will quite happily answer...

• Which stuffed animal friend is coming to preschool with you today?
• Which toothbrush do you want to use? Which toothpaste? 
• What do you want to wear today? Which Frozen one - the Olaf tank? The Anna and Elsa tee? The longsleeve one? The Elsa dress? The Anna dress? The Elsa and Anna and Olaf and Kristoff tutu dress? Siiiiiiiiigh....
• What movie should we watch?
• What pajamas do you want to wear?
• Which underpants are you going to wear?
• Do you want to drive, scoot or walk to school?
• Where should we go to dinner tonight? (On this one, Evan and I often override her decision. Don't come between us and our food, Bex...)

The past couple of weeks, though, I have noticed we are starting to potentially turn a corner (I won't say more - and wait for my next post, on jinxing things, to find out why). Recently she has been more easygoing, letting down her Terrible Twos / Terrifying Threes / F&%$ing Fours armor and even being... nice!!! It's so wonderful to see this girl again, and I think I can see a light at the end of this tunnel - one not filled with questions and tantrums, but amazing fun times with my big girl, and her little sister who - dammit - turns two in a little over a year.

The Second Child...

Lila is on the move - she crawls faster than I walk sometimes, cruises around our sofa and coffee table, has started climbing onto stools and other low-lying surfaces such as the dishwasher, and walks quite well while holding onto our hands. We broke out Rebecca's old plastic walker, and yesterday she began to slowly master that too.

I am ready for her to walk - I really hate the crawling stage, when they are licking the floors (or is that just our child?) and picking up every piece of dust / hair / old Cheerio / other assorted crap that is apparently all over our floor they find because that's eye level for them. Also, crawling in public places is even worse than at our apartment - at least there I know whose Cheerios and hair it is.

We have an annual family trip in a month, and I definitely want Lila to be walking before that. Rebecca was only seven months the first year we brought her there, so not moving yet - that was perfect - and then the next year she toddled around at 1 1/2 years old. Having Lila crawl all around the pool is just not as appealing as her walking, so we're doing a bit of walking boot camp to make sure she's ready by then.

But - am I really ready for her to be WALKING!? That makes her officially a toddler, and hardly a baby anymore - which as we know, I'm okay with - but it also means... she will be even more of a terror than she already is!! I'm telling you - this girl is sweet as pie, but into EVERYTHING - cabinets, climbing shelves, eating shoes, licking the dishwasher, turning on the DVD player and eating the disc that comes out, sitting in the fridge, pushing items off the ledge of and into the bathtub, and the toilet - well let's just say, we now keep the bathroom doors and commode lids closed.

Rebecca never did any of this, I swear. That girl understood when we said no, and never tried whatever antic it was again. I never got why people needed the plastic guards for the front of their cable boxes and DVD players... until we had Lila. She has singlehandedly proven the worth of every childproofing (or as Evan calls it, "Evan-proofing") invention out there.

I've talked to so many people about this - the second child being crazier than the first - and SO many say that this happened to them too. I've come up with three reasons why:

1) Duh - they want to be like their older sibling. When Rebecca makes noise - ANY noise - it is like a bat signal to Lila. Her head whips around to find her sister, and she immediately must go to wherever she is. Which Rebecca loves, causing her to make even more noise than she used to (if that is possible), starting the never-ending cycle all over again. Don't get me wrong - nothing makes me happier than the two of them playing together and watching the amazing bond they are already forming, and I always stop whatever it was I was trying to get done to let them have their time together.

2) There is such interesting stuff around the house now - when Rebecca was born,we had toys suitable for her or else boring grown-up stuff. Now, there are Lila toys, Rebecca toys, in-between toys, art supplies and grown-up stuff... which, incidentally, is apparently not boring at all to Lila. Seriously, hand that girl a remote, cordless phone, cell phone, tissue box, bowl, spoon, or anything else that is not a toy and she is all about it. But don't you dare make it a Fisher-Price version of any of those items - what do you think she is, a fool?!

3) I'm not able to sit with her 100% of the time. With just Rebecca, I was either with her or doing something for her - now, I have tasks to accomplish for both of them - food or bottles to prepare, clothes to wash or pick out or change them into, diapers to change or a tush to wipe, toys or dressup outfits to put back in their rightful place (ha! yeah right.)... It's a never-ending dance, and Lila doesn't seem to like it.

We bought a playpen for Lila, thinking that being inside of that with all of her toys would be great and allow me the freedom to accomplish all I have to without worrying that she was a foot off the ground somewhere, but she stands at the edge of it and screams bloody murder when you put her inside. So we use that quite sparingly to say the least. Instead, we either carry Lila around while we do things, let her crawl behind us whining as we do them, or throw the girl a remote control to get her to sit still while we take care of what needs to be done. Whatever it takes.

Caught amidst a gathering of her favorite thing - shoes.

I recently took my first long, solo car ride with the girls. Two-and-a-half hours down to Margate NJ with just one stop at a Target so Rebecca could go to the bathroom and Lila could eat a pouch. By the last half hour, Lila was D. O. N. E. with that car seat and would not settle down. I frantically searched the passenger seat for anything I could throw back to her to occupy her time, hands and mouth - and laid eyes on Rebecca's Croc. Yes, the one she had worn in the pool that day at camp. Much like a puppy, Lila has a penchant for shoes - licking, sucking on and taking bites of them. She can hone in on a pair from across the room and be next to them, with it in her mouth in a flash, it's actually impressive. So I am not proud of what happened next, but am proud that I had the instinct to wipe it down with an antibacterial wipe before tossing it to Lila - and wouldn't you know, not another peep for the rest of the ride. Hey, whatever it takes, right? Sigh...