Homecooking

My mom called to mock me after last week's post about meal-planning and cooking. 

"Swiss chard?! Farmers' markets?!" she hooted. "I think you need to remember where you came from ..."

She has a point. Where I'm from, swiss chard is just plain old greens, and my family never went to a farmers' market. We planted big gardens every summer while I grew up and  a friend of the family who farmed dropped off an entire pick-up bed full of sweet corn for freezing every year in exchange for the work my dad and grandpa did on his tractors. I don't have a garden -- though it's on my to-do list, if I ever figure out Florida's planting schedule -- and don't have a farmer friend. Even if I did, neither I nor the husband would be any use as a mechanic. 

I go to farmers' markets because I want The Boy to know what a tomato should taste like. I cook so much because I enjoy it, but also because I want him to remember being warm and well-fed in my kitchen, feeling proud of himself because he can help. (Oh dear, I might be veering into a Shake-N-Bake commercial here ... you get the point.) Some of my best memories are in the kitchen -- watching my mom walk the Thanksgiving turkey across the counter, scooping steaming corn kernels into bags for freezing, burning the tips of my fingers on hot cobs after I graduated to corn-cutting, baking dozens of different Christmas cookies with mom and my aunts. The kitchen is where everyone gathers in my family, not the living room. 

Anyway, all of this is to say that we don't always eat the healthiest food in our house. But we do eat homecooked food. As Mom pointed out, some of my favorite things are comfort foods. I love mashed potatoes with ridiculous amounts of butter. Fried potatoes, stewed tomatoes and hamsteaks is one my favorite easy meals. I crave meatloaf, topped with plain old ketchup.

We're having another cold snap down here, so I was craving something warm and soothing. Chicken dumplings sounded good, but the only recipe I have was a slowcooker one that called for cans of cream soup and canned biscuits. I actually find cream soups useful, but this recipe created "dumplings" that were really just soggy bits of uncooked dough. Bleck. So, I looked for a from-scratch version. (Thank goodness for Smitten Kitchen.) I'll make this later tonight while I'm watching the Steelers win, right up to the part where you add the dumplings. I'll reheat this Monday night and do that last step.  Also on my Sunday cooking agenda is some cornbread and already this morning The Boy helped me make potato salad -- and by helped, I mean he exclaimed about the boiling water and ate some celery. 

The Boy keeping my spices in order. 

Random inappropriateness

I haven't had many inappropriate comments from people either while I was pregnant or since Peanut was born. But somehow this week, I had two odd comments in one day.

We took Peanut for her 6-month check-up this week. All is well despite the fact that we have an alarmist pediatrician who always tells us she might need surgery for some minor thing that always turns out to be nothing. Luckily, this time, there was no talk of the operation room. He did, however, commit the sin of being an uneducated male. While looking in her mouth, he commented about Peanut's lack of teeth. I mentioned that I was pleased with this and wouldn't mind if the teeth continued to hold off. He actually looked at me and said, "Well, I don't think many breastfeeding mothers really have a problem with teeth."

OK, I haven't had the teeth experience yet but I can tell you the gums clamping down aren't fun so I can imagine the introduction of little hard sharp things meant to tear flesh probably won't be any better. I just stared at him in disbelief. How would he know?

Peanut did have some inflammation in her ears so I had to run to the pharmacy after work with her to get a prescription. It is cold in Ohio because it is winter so I had her bundled up in her carrier with a blanket over it. It even has one of those fuzzy zip up things on it too. Some old biddy walked up to my cart with Peanut in it and said, "It is way too cold for you to be out."

I took a deep breath and kindly told her that we were on our way home to snuggle up together. What I really wanted to say was "Zip it, Old Woman River, before I break your hip." It's not like the kid was in a bathing suit and sandals playing in a big pile of snow.

So the moral of the story, think before you talk. You never know who might end up blogging about you.

Jessica Simpson-induced panic attack

Every once in awhile, something comes up that causes me to breathe rapidly at the thought of raising a girl.

It happened twice while I was pregnant - both times while I was in Target. The first time was when I saw a cute little toy purse. It sang and counted and all that fun stuff. I picked it up, admiring it and then the little feminist in me kicked in and I put it down in disgust. Why should my daughter be forced to play with a purse just because she is a girl? She shouldn't have to learn to count from a purse. What if she wants to play with trucks instead? Will people look at me and her and judge us if she's not carrying a purse by age 3?

The next time was when I saw a onsie on sale. It had the outlines of Disney princess dresses on it and said "Future princess." I bought it because it was $2. But then on the way home, I started thinking again. Am I teaching my daughter that she has to wait around for a man to save her? That she has to give up a large part of herself to get a man? I've never let her wear the onsie.

And now, the Jessica Simpson controversy. People are saying she is fat. I'm not a fan, never have been but seriously, you cannot call her fat. Bad judgment in wardrobe? Yes. Fat? No. I saw somewhere last night where someone estimated she was 135 pounds now. I would love to be 135 pounds.

So now the onset of my latest panic attack. How do I raise a daughter to be self-assured in a world that scrutinizes women when they gain weight?

I want Peanut to be healthy. I've struggled with my weight for my adult life, bouncing back and forth 30 pounds. I'm working on it and trying to be healthier, setting a good example for my daughter. I know I will never be a size 2. I've accepted that. But it took my almost 29 years to do so. I don't want that for my daughter, especially with the media (and I use that term loosely for some) proclaiming a 135 pound woman fat.

Personal shopper for two, please

In one of our many recent phone conversations, Hillary and I began lamenting our post-partum bodies and the lack of desire to shop for new clothes.

We fear (and hope) that our bodies will keep changing as we continue to lose the baby weight and then eventually put the baby weight back on.

Here are both of our perspectives on this problem:

Hillary
My problem is basically this: I don't know how to dress the body I have.

Pregnancy causes a woman's body to do such weird things. For weeks after giving birth, I would take stock every time I took a shower, as if I'd been through a beating. That part's still sore, that's back to normal, this bit's still stiff. I gained not quite 30 pounds with The Boy and lost all of that fairly quickly. I could wear all of my pants within two weeks of giving birth. I was thrilled. But, as any momma knows, fitting into your old clothes doesn't mean your body is back to normal. My boobs are fuller; my momma belly still is squishy.

Still, I think I'd be OK except I'm not getting used to just a postpartum body. I'm also adjusting to a thinner body than I've had as an adult, one I wasn't entirely comfortable in even before pregnancy. Through college, I put on about 40 pounds, topping out around a size 14 before I stopped drinking beer every other night, stopped eating pizza every third night, began cooking for myself and moved to a place where I could walk to work. My body settled slowly then into a size 6-8 range, which I still was getting comfortable with when I got pregnant. I was happy to get that body back post-pregnancy, even if slightly altered, but now I'm confused with what to do with a body that is -- in some ways -- even smaller.

So when I go shopping, I don't know what size to even start with. I don't have a clear idea what looks good on me. I'm unclear how things should fit. And on top of all that, I refuse to wear anything that feels like a maternity top. Seriously. When is this trend going to end? Why do women want to look pregnant if they are not?

See I'm getting cranky just thinking about shopping.

Michelle
My husband recently sat down with me and solemnly started out with what every woman does not want to hear "Honey, I need to say something to you but I don't want you to get mad." If I were a cat, I'd arch my back and hiss every time I hear this.

He told me I needed to stop wearing my "fat" clothes (although he swears he didn't use the word fat). He said they made me look bigger and I needed to accept the fact that I had lost the baby weight and start wearing better fitting clothes.

I was happy he noticed the weight loss. I gained just under 30 pounds while pregnant with Peanut. I lost most of it before I returned from maternity leave and have since lost the rest and then some. No wonderful workout program or diet has helped. Just good old-fashioned breastfeeding and a need to get everything done now, now, now, keeping me in perpetual motion.

While I weigh less than I did before Peanut, my body is nowhere the same so my pre-pregnancy clothes don't fit. My tummy is still, well, you know if you've had a baby and my boobs are large. Larger than normal. I was blessed and cursed with a large bosom that became even larger with breastfeeding.

So here's my dilema:

• My pre-pregnancy clothes don't really fit. They are too tight in some areas, too loose in others.
• My early pregnancy clothes are too large.
• My I-just-had-a-baby-but-I-can't-wear-my-maternity-clothes-one-more-minute-clothes are starting to sag off me.
• I have no clothes.

I have some stand-bys that get me through the work week but I'm tiring of them. But I just don't feel like shopping not knowing where my body is going to end up. I would like to continue to lose weight but I don't know what will happen after I stop breastfeeding, which I would like to do until Peanut's first birthday.

I'm planning to go shopping with my sister this weekend. She's in her second trimester for her second child and needs maternity clothes. I figure we will be each other's moral support.

Eat dirt

Did you guys see this: Eating dirt builds up babies' immune systems.

The Boy is so smart. He's eating the microbes and worms -- yeah, that's right WORMS -- he needs to make his immune system healthy. (Not that I saw him eat worms, but the article does say intestinal worms can be beneficial to otherwise healthy people, which eww. Cool, but eww.)

The great next baby debate

I'm starting to get the next baby itch and it is making me (and my husband) a little nervous.

It's not anything that's really overpowering - yet. It's just a nagging little feeling in the back of my head. I think it stems more from my incessant need to have everything mapped out. So even if we don't plan on trying to get pregnant for another year or so, I still need to know that.

I'm surprised that I'm already having this feeling when Peanut is just six months old. There were times right after she was born that I thought "I will never, ever do this again. Or at least I'm waiting four years."

She wasn't bad. Looking back, I think we got off pretty easily. But there were the times that I would be in the middle of a conversation and just realize I was talking to someone and not actually still asleep like I really wanted to be. Or the time that everyone had gone home and my husband went back to work. Nothing was comforting Peanut and she cried, and cried, and cried for hours. I called and begged my husband to hurry home but he had to work late. When he finally did get there, I was sitting in the middle of the couch, sobbing, holding a peaceful baby who had finally given up and gone to sleep 15 minutes before. Or how I couldn't stop crying for two weeks after she was born. Someone would tell me I looked tired and I would cry. Someone would offer me food and I would cry. Someone would visit and leave and I would cry. It was awful. (And I can't even begin to imagine coping with all of that with a toddler around).

But now we are in the honeymoon phase. She sleeps through the night, eats well, smiles the moment we walk into the room and is overall a very pleasant baby.

Ideally, I would like to have another baby about the same time of year just in case we have another girl and we can use the ridiculous amount of clothes we already have. But that would mean we would need to try to get pregnant this fall. My husband thinks this line of thinking is crazy. I think it is financially responsible. I also wouldn't have to buy new maternity clothes.

And then I start thinking about childcare costs with two and will Peanut feel like she's being replaced and will we be able to handle two under two and shouldn't I just enjoy what I have right now and not think about all of this?

I suppose I still have a few months before this really becomes an issue if I want to stick to my plan. And I suppose I don't really have to stick my plan, but still it is there, in the back of my mind, nagging, nagging, nagging ...

So am I the only one who feels the need to think about this way more than necessary?

Dinner is served

Michelle and I talk on the phone a lot. I usually call her while I'm waiting for the husband to get home from work. Michelle tends to be doing one of two things when she calls: driving, which is highly unsafe because Michelle is an, um, aggressive driver anyway, or grocery shopping, which always amuses me because she alternates talking to me with muttering about too-slow shoppers under her breath or chatting with the cashier. Once, after Peanut was born, I believe, Michelle walked out of a self-checkout line without paying. That conversation ended abruptly. "Um, yeah ... Oh my god! I've got to go." 

Anyway, during one of our conversations lately, we both were cooking dinner and we were talking about what we were doing for dinners the rest of the week, and Michelle suggested we do a regular posting on here about how we feed our families every night without ordering pizza or resorting to frozen dinners or Hamburger Helper. Not that we're gourmets or anything, but we both try to have real food every night. I agreed it was a good idea, but -- like many things these days -- it got stuck on the "later" part of the to-do list. I'm declaring this later. 

Here's how it goes in our house -- 

Step 1: Plan

On Thursday, during Kath & Kim, which is the horrible show between The Office and My Name is Earl, the husband and I make a week's menu and a grocery list. We have several favorite meals we tend to rotate through -- black bean burritos, spaghetti, quiche -- and we usually try to do a couple more complicated meals on the weekends, preferably things like roasted chicken that will translate into leftovers for lunches or other meals. I love sites like Smitten Kitchen and Cheap Healthy Good for finding new recipes. 

Step 2: Shop 

On Fridays, The Boy and I stop by the farmers' market near his daycare after work to pick up veggies and fruit. We all shop together for everything else on Saturdays. I know, we're weird, but the husband and I always have enjoyed grocery shopping together. It's almost like a date, and now it's one of The Boy's favorite locations. 

Step 3: Cook 

Over the weekends, we do a lot of cooking. For example, we grilled out this weekend and the leftovers from that will be a lunch for me this week. Today, we tried a new Italian recipe that made enough to throw the extra pasta and sauce together to become baked ziti later this week. We also cooked up chicken sausage and some swiss chard. Half the sausage went into a pie shell with the chard and leftover grilled asparagus for a quiche tomorrow night. The rest of the sausage will be part of The Boy's lunch later this week. 

Some weeks I also bake for breakfasts or snacks, and I've been meaning to try a bread recipe. During the week, I try to do any serious prep work at night, so usually I can just toss dinner into the oven or onto a burner when I get home. Having salad greens and frozen or canned vegetables helps, so when I have to wing it, I can. Pasta, sauce and a green salad for us and some sort of veggie for The Boy constitutes homecooking, if it comes to it. Bottom line: I want us to eat dinner together and this allows us to do it. 

Moving on up

The daycare director stopped The Boy and me on the way out the door earlier this week. "I've got something to tell you," she said, and my stomach flopped. Had The Boy bitten someone else? Was he going to get expelled from the babyroom? Ms. L had assured me babies were not kicked out for biting, but maybe The Boy was a hard case. 

Or not. 

The director had good news for me. The Boy is going to start transitioning into the 1-year-old room, along with three other little girls from the babyroom. Although the director wanted to warn me because children usually have a rough time adjusting when they move up, I think any temporary lack of sleep or extra fussiness is going to be worth it. The 1-year-old room offers the kids more activities, and the kids get to go outside to play everyday, one of the perks of Florida. The Boy will be better behaved, I think, when he's able to burn off some energy and has more to occupy him than his favorite blue toy puppy, which he and the little girl he's bitten fight over. Plus, I don't have to worry about his accidentally trampling a 3-month-old AND our tuition decreases. 

What's a little extra fussy when you're getting all of that? Anyway, he's cutting eyeteeth and I don't know how many molars -- he's so fussy now, a little extra won't show. 

Now I know

I've often wondered what Peanut and my husband do all day together the two days she stays with him while I'm at work.

Last night I found out.

I was nursing her when she looked up at me and in her sweet little voice said, "da-da."

I was so excited for my husband since she had only made the "ma" sound so far. I called him quickly at work and this is the conversation we had:

Me: You'll never believe what your daughter just said.
Him: What?
Me: Da-da
Him (completely monotone): What do you think I do with her all day? We worked on that for an hour and half today.
Me (after a moment): Well it doesn't count because she's not saying it in context. She called me da-da.

We often have duels with our precious Peanut, trying to influence her to say "ma-ma" or "da-da" first each of us saying our respective name to her while she giggles.

So now I know he's been practicing with her on the sly and I need to step my game up. I think I'm playing at an unfair disadvantage. As I repeated "ma-ma, ma-ma, ma-ma" to her over and over again, she just keeps smiling and saying "da-da."

Operation Tantrum Control

I got the stink-eye yesterday morning from one of the daycare ladies. The Boy, who held my hand, laughing, and walked into the babyroom for the first time today, realized I was leaving and decided to throw a fit. I employed my new tantrum-fighting tactics:

• Accident prevention: I held on tight to his arm so he didn't smack his head when he threw himself backward.
• Presenting of options: I knelt and, trying to look him in the eyes he'd scrunched shut in fury, said, "Boy, you can sit here and scream or you can go play with Miss A and the other babies."
• Ignoring the screams: When he didn't respond, I turned my back on him and finished putting away his jacket and hat.

These tactics are a strategy culled from my pediatrician, my mom and the results of desperate Google-ings of "stopping tantrums" and "getting your 1-year-old to not be a jerk." Sometimes it works like a charm. Within seconds of my ignoring his tantrum over Daddy's obviously selfish decision to shower before work the other day, The Boy was playing quietly with his blocks. Other times, well ... optimist that I am, I do think the tantrums are at least shorter and less shrill.

Anyway, this particular tantrum at daycare did not stop immediately. The Boy was still prone and wailing when I turned around, and that's when I caught the pursed lips and lowered brows of Random Daycare Lady. She's not one of the babyroom regulars, so she doesn't know me. I suppose I did sound a little cold, informing my 12-month-old son he looked silly screaming on the floor. But I don't think I deserved Random Daycare Lady's stern look of disapproval. I'm not beating him. Even The Boy's doctor advised us to ignore his tantrums, providing we've determined he's fed, changed and unhurt. (check, check and check in this case) Should I allow my son -- an alleged bully and known biter -- to pitch a fit unchecked? I think not. I'm trying to do my son a service. I'm trying to save him from being the big bully, the nasty kid, a jerk no one likes. Am I doing it right? Oh who the hell knows. I guess we'll see in a few years, in 20 years, when both The Boy and I are old and gray.

All I know is what works right now to stem the rising tide of whine. See above tactics and also:

• Choices: The Boy might not be able to reason, but he can choose between two options. Between crying and playing, he often will choose playing.
  
• Careful observation: If I pay close attention to him, I've found I usually can stop The Boy's tantrums before he starts. He can't speak yet, but he points, grunts and has highly expressive eyebrows. A blanky or a cup of water goes a long way.
• Rewarding: Like our cat, The Boy believes any attention is good attention. We don't reward bad behavior like whining, but we do tell him when he's being good. "Thank you, Boy, for banging on your bowls while Momma cooks. It's so relaxing to hear that racket instead of whining."
• Words: The Boy doesn't really talk yet and he cannot be reasoned with, however, I have hope that those things are coming and I'm preparing. I've been talking to him more -- not that I was giving him the silent treatment before, but you get my point -- and telling him why I can't pick him up now, explaining I will play with him when I'm done doing whatever and, as stated above, giving him choices. After seeing how pleased he was when his grammy talked to him like a Big Boy, I realized it's all about expectations. Treat him like a newborn, a cute but uncommunicative lump, and he'll act that way.
  

We'll see how long this stuff lasts ...

The Boy, pondering the wisdom of my words ...

Petitioning for a 3-day weekend

I am starting a petition for a 3-day weekend.

I don't know who I'm going to turn it in to but feel free to sign.

We had MLK day off on Monday and I was busy, busy, busy and productive like I haven't been for six months. We spent Saturday and Sunday traveling, visiting family and wrapping up Christmas. Yes, we were still celebrating Christmas three weeks later. Illnesses kept creeping up so we had to postpone.

We didn't get home until 6 p.m. Sunday, which usually means my weekend would be over with no laundry done, no grocery shopping, no cleaning, etc., and I would be left to try to get all of it done at some point in the week. Which, to be honest, means it would all be put off until the next weekend.

But then there was Monday and we didn't have to work. Laundry was started thanks to my husband, grocery shopping was completed (my least favorite task in the world. Do you really need to park your cart in the middle of the aisle while you contemplate which kind of cereal you want for five minutes?), several batches of baby food were made, I made two different kinds of soup, took some to my sister's family because I made so much, and took Peanut to have her 6 -month pictures done.

The last task went soooo much better than the pictures we had done for Christmas. No tears whatsoever. The photographer even said she looked like the Gerber baby as Peanut smiled and hammed it up for the camera. She did so well that I got suckered into buying way more photos than I needed but, come on, when is she going to be 6 months old again?

I haven't gotten that much done in one day in a very long time. I probably haven't done that much in a weekend since Peanut was born.

So now I think we should always have three-day weekends. I wouldn't be nearly as stressed if we had to travel to see family or had people in. I could relax and have more time with my child and husband without worrying whether the laundry was going to get done or if we would have food to eat for the week and is the diaper bag packed for the sitter and am I ready for that meeting tomorrow at work?

I would be willing to add hours to the four work days just to get this done. Unfortunately, I don't think this will be happening. My work is very flexible but since I work in a newsroom and we are pretty much a 24/7 operation, it would be hard to be off three days a week.

But maybe, just maybe, if we all the working mothers coming together we could convince someone, somewhere to hear us.

You in?

Sticking with the classics

We don't watch a lot of TV in our house. My mother was appalled The Boy had never seen Dora the Explorer or Thomas the Train or Curious George. I'm not banning The Boy from cartoons; the television is just rarely on while The Boy's awake. During the week, we have a couple hours in the morning after he wakes up and a couple hours at night before he goes to bed in which to spend together as a family and get us all fed and ready to get out the door for work or daycare. Television just doesn't fit into that schedule. Once The Boy goes to bed we might watch The Office or a Netflix show like The Wire or Dexter, but even that isn't a guarantee. We're nerds. We read a lot. 

But on weekends, The Boy usually watches watch football with the husband. He also likes a good baseball game. And I don't want him to be a social outcast and not know, when he gets a little older, what his little preschool friends are talking about when they bring up The Man in the Yellow Hat or Handy Manny, so sometimes we'll watch an episode or two of cartoons if he needs a midmorning break. He needed a break today, so we popped in a cartoon DVD that came in the package with this Little Tykes truck Grammy got him for his birthday. I wasn't expecting the subtle humor of Looney Tunes or the wicked wit of Animaniacs, but wow, this was bad. 

The menu options were: play movie, play toy gallery, play all. It started with a commercial for another Little Tykes movie. The plot was that Cozy, the Little Tykes Coupe, goes on an adventure while his owner, a little boy name LT, is visiting his abuela. The computer animation was awful, the songs were ridiculously PC and sappy and LT's little friend Lily ends up keeping a teddy bear from a garbage truck. Sorry to spoil the ending for you. The whole thing was just a marketing ploy to get children to beg their parents for Little Tykes toys. I assumed the thing would be marketing the brand -- I do have a degree in journalism -- but this was so blatant. "Play toy gallery" for Christ's sake. 

I'm all for letting The Boy soak up some pop culture, but that DVD ended up in the trash. We're going to Netflix classic episodes of The Muppet Show and the Muppet movies, I think. Maybe the first seasons of Sesame Street ... you know, the ones they've since deemed not for children. 

6 months old

Today, my little Peanut is 6 months old. It's like I've never known a time without her yet it seems like yesterday we were rushing to the hospital in the middle of the night.

She's my smiling, babbling, rolling front to back (at 10 weeks thank you very much) and back to front (this week), eating cereal, sweet potatoes, pears and apples (we tried peas ... she's not a fan) sitting up on her own, sleeping through the night (most of the time), looks like her father, acts like her mother, makes me cry with happiness, darling, light of my life, butter bean, munchkin, stinkerbell, sweetie-sweets, pumpkin, sack of potatoes, waga-waga, Peanut.

A friend gave me a great idea: Take a picture of her every month for the first year of her life next to the same stuffed animal. I love it because I can see how much she has grown - and, oh, how's she's grown.

So here's the first 6 months of her life in chronological order (you can commence the oohing and aahing here):

What I know about The Boy

The baby book I have for The Boy is pretty generic and not overly cutesy. We weren't going to get a book at all. We just figured we'd do a photo book at the end of his first year and use captions to celebrate the big milestones. But my mom insisted and I was nine months pregnant and not really in the mood to argue with her, so I found the plainest one Wal-Mart sold and started filling it out. The family tree was fun, the page about cost of living was a little depressing, and before The Boy's arrival, flipping through the rest of those empty pages made me shiver in anticipation. 

Most of those pages are filled now The Boy has celebrated his first birthday. We're down to a few blanks on the firsts page (first sing-along), the tooth page (eight teeth and counting) and the back of the book where the kid gets one page for his next four birthdays and the first day of school. But one set of pages remains empty: Letters from Mommy and Daddy. 

Those pages have mocked me with their dozen wide-spaced lines for more than a year now. I mean, what do I want to say to The Boy that can fit in that tiny space, that won't sound trite, that will be profound enough to grow with him? Should I tell him how much he's wanted and loved? Should I tell him about his chubby little thighs and the way he half snorts when he gets excited? Should I try to give him advice? I don't know why the husband has left his page blank. Probably, he hasn't even thought about it. But I think mine's going to stay empty for awhile longer. I know writing a letter to my boy likely is like having kids: There's no right time or right way to do it. But I'm not ready yet. I don't really know The Boy yet. Everyday, I learn something new about this little person. When I know who I'm writing to and for, I'll fill up those lines. 

For now, I'm happy just to watch The Boy grow. Here's a few things I do know about The Boy at one year old: 

• Black beans, bananas, pineapple and yogurt are his favorite foods. 
• He wants to learn how to drink from a real cup, but gets too distracted with playing in the water to really practice. 
• The cat might top Momma and Daddy as his favorite person. Dogs also interest him. 
• A rousing game of Pat-a-Cake always makes him smile.
• His sense of humor is a little low-brow. Poo! is just funny.
• He loves his grandparents. Grammy might be the funniest person on earth. 
• Sitting in chairs and on the couch make him feel like a big boy. He also enjoys climbing into his Boy-sized rocker with his blanky and a good book. 
• He knows what No! means, but doesn't always choose to listen.
• He's impatient like his Momma.
• He's silly like his Daddyman.

Temper, temper

I might be raising a brat. 

We already know he is a biter, and lately, The Boy has taken to throwing tantrums. My grandparents came over last weekend to see Mom and took us all out to a lovely dinner at this Italian place where The Boy charmed everyone. The waitresses marveled at his fat cheeks, and the ladies behind us said how cute and well-behaved he was. On our way out, the lady in the next booth grabbed my hand and said the same before adding, "You're such a glamorous young mother." I couldn't stop grinning. I wanted the night to go on forever -- and apparently so did The Boy. Just as I got his arms through the carseat straps, he let out a wail and arched his back, sliding down the seat and pinning his arms. Good parent that I am, my reaction was to laugh. I mean, c'mon! Wailing kid, back arched like a pissed off cat, stuck in the seat. It's funny. Despite my completely inappropriate laughter that made me even clumsier than normal, I got The Boy corralled and chalked the tantrum up to his being overtired. He was asleep before we got a mile down the road. 

The Boy apparently has been overtired all week. 

These tantrums come out of nowhere. Tonight, he woke up screaming from a late nap, finally stopped long enough to drink his milk and eat two bites of dinner and began wailing again when I had the audacity to try to push up his sleeve. The tantrums start as a whine, but build up into sobs and screeching. The Boy gets red-faced and tears roll down his cheeks. If I ignore him, as I know I should and do, he pulls at my legs or crawls after me and screams harder. When he starts to calm down and I say to him, "Are you done? Are you OK?" his sobs grow louder. He'll settle down and be his happy self for awhile, as he did tonight at dinner, only to be set off again by something new, like the end of dinner. 

Maybe it's just the willful ones (credit for that phrase to Oz over at Knocked Up). But Miss C. at daycare said today, "He's a little bully." She was laughing and I didn't have another incident sheet to sign, yet it still isn't something you want to hear about your son, especially when he already has a history of biting. (Slightly good news: No new biting altercations in the last week.) I was worried The Boy had learned how to work the system, and for once, I think my worry is valid. If I pick him up, the screaming stops. If we take him where he's pointing, he's quiet. If he can't get me to do it, he goes for his daddy. 

Mom's advice was to laugh at him and talk to him like a big kid and ignore him, in that order. Those things work, to a point. Ignoring tears and chest-heaving sobs makes me feel like a negligent parent. Giving in makes me feel like a pushover. Either way, this blog's name appears to be false advertising. 

Suggestions? At this point, I'm seriously considering the Schrute method of childrearing: "Learn your rules. Learn your rules. You better learn your rules or you'll be eaten in your sleep. Argh!"

Crying it out

Peanut will turn six months old this weekend and I can no longer hide behind the "experts" who say you can't hold babies enough when they are younger than six months.

This has been my excuse for holding her every time she naps, the entire time she naps. Go ahead and judge me. I judge myself.

I started doing it for a couple reasons. One, she actually slept. But two, it became our snuggle time together especially when I went back to work. It doesn't matter that the dishes need done, I need to work out, dinner won't start itself or laundry is piled in a basket. I'm with my sweet little snuggle bunny.

We don't have the same problem at night for whatever reason. She's been sleeping through the night off and on pretty well now despite the fact that we usually let her fall asleep in our arms.

My husband and I have become quite apt at holding her while she sleeps. I usually read or catch a quick cat nap. Last night he was playing Tiger Woods golf while she snoozed on his chest. It was quite impressive really.

She doesn't do this with the babysitter. Three days a week, she goes down late in the morning and usually sleeps two and a half hours no problem. I asked the sitter how she does it. She said Peanut is usually fussy for the first few minutes but she eventually goes to sleep.

And in my heart of hearts, I knew this. I just hate the thought of letting her cry.

Regardless, this is how it is going to be in our house. I'm going to try to let her cry it out. I'm not the only one dealing with this. Mrs. Chicken talks about using the Ferber method for her second child. She suggests getting the book Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems: New, Revised, and Expanded Edition.

We will see how next week goes but I'm pretty sure I will be running to the library to get the book. I'll let you know.

Grammy's gone

So, my mom went back home today. The Boy again is roughly 1,000 miles from any relative not named Momma or Daddy. 

I sort of feel like wallowing. Swistle's list  might come in handy. 

Being so far away from our family has its benefits. The husband and I learned quickly to take care of ourselves and each other because we're it, we're family. Now that we have The Boy, our parents and family members don't really have a chance to criticize our parenting in the few times a year we're in our hometowns. No one drops by unannounced. The Boy isn't spoiled rotten. 

But oh! The Boy isn't spoiled rotten. He can't hang out with his cousins. He doesn't know where Grammy hides her candy stash. He doesn't have whole weekends to get greasy in Papaw's garage. 

Having my mom here was so nice. As the husband said, "She's helpful in such a good, unobtrusive way." She made The Boy laugh harder than I've ever heard him, and she helped me get tough with his willful ways. (More to come on this, when I'm done wallowing and have gotten caught up at work ...) I know we'd probably drive each other nuts if we lived in the same town. She would feed him too much junk for me, and I would let him whine too much for her. But tonight, I miss her and I feel a little guilty for depriving The Boy of his family. 

Yes, I think a salty brownie is in order. 

The outbreak monkey strikes again

I've realized how weak my immune system is now that I have child who goes to a babysitter.

My husband and I are now sick again, this time with a an awful cold and cough. Last week, the doctor said Peanut had the croup. I think she got a cold from other kids at the sitter's. Now my husband and I are hacking up our lungs and blowing our noses every chance we can get.

Peanut infected both of us and her grandparents with a terrible stomach virus right before Christmas. I originally thought that she picked that one up from the sitter too but then the sitter and one of her kids got sick with it during Christmas.

I told my husband that I think we need to plan on spending the next six years of our life sick with whatever Peanut has. His response was that he has a strong immune system and that he wouldn't be sick. Keep in mind, he's two for two on the baby illnesses.

So now I'm going to buy stock in Vitamin C and hand sanitizer. Anybody else have this problem? Have any ideas to avoid this besides spraying her down with Lysol every day?

The infant headbutt

They should teach the art of the infant headbutt in military training or secret spy schools as it is a simple yet deadly move.

Peanut has become a master of the sneaky headbutt. If they gave belts for it, she would have been a black belt by the time she was four months old.

From the time she was born, Peanut has had a knack for holding her head up. Everyone always comments on the strength of her neck.

But every once in awhile, she gets tired and that large noggin comes flying at us with stunning force. Twice this weekend, I thought she had broken a bone in my face - first my nose then a cheek bone. A few minutes ago, she knocked her daddy silly bringing tears to his eyes.

It usually happens when I'm not expecting it. She's being extra cuddling, rubbing her face all over mine, pulling away to giggle and smile and then BAM! sneak attack to the nose.

The most extraordinary part of this is that it never fazes her. I'm left looking through tears and wondering if I have a hairline fracture and she pulls away and just stares at me.

Then she smiles and puts her little pudgy hand to my face and the temporarily blinding pain doesn't seem so bad anymore.

The Boy's arrival

The Boy arrived a year ago, exactly. 

My labor started nearly a day earlier while I was at work, not hard labor, but steady contractions. Still, my mom almost missed his entrance because the husband, always practical, had sent her away to get lunch so she wouldn't be hungry when the kid arrived.  Right after she left, the doctor broke my water and The Boy was on his way out. "Don't push yet," the nurse said, so I tried to hold him back. It hurt. For the first time in my unmedicated labor and delivery, the pain really, truly hurt. Just like now when The Boy runs after our cat, the "kizz-zee," he had a purpose and a destination and there was no stopping him. The doctor and nurse finally decided I could push just as I was deciding it was either push or die. 

"Grab her leg," the nurse told the husband. "What?" he said, turning white. I was worried for him for a second, between contractions. Squeamish, he'd been hiding his eyes when they covered this part of labor in our birthing class, and he turned a little white as the nurse showed him how to hold my leg. And then Mom walked in. 

"Oh!" she said and dropped her purse in the door. She ran over and grabbed my right leg from the nurse.

And then I pushed. Seven minutes, they told me it was, before I experienced the biggest feeling of relief I've ever felt.

At 12:23 p.m. on Jan. 11, 2008, The Boy arrived. They put him on my chest and someone took a picture -- Mom, I guess -- and I've never seen that look on my face before or since. The Boy arrived, and I was a mother.

The nurse asked the husband if he wanted to cut the cord. "Not a chance in hell," said my weak-stomached husband. My mom, laughing, cut it.

We didn't know until he arrived that he was, in fact, The Boy, and his sex surprised me a little. My dad's conviction that the baby in my belly was a girl had convinced me, I guess. I was so happy he had hair, dark and plastered to his head. He was so squished; his hairline nearly touched his eyebrows. A thin line of hair extended down his back, and a light fuzz covered his shoulders. We called him our little monkey. While the nurse weighed and cleaned him, The Boy wailed until he found and clutched the finger his daddy extended him. The doctor cleaned me up, just one tiny stitch and a shot to stop the bleeding.

Then I had my baby again. The husband was kissing my forehead, and The Boy was in my arms, and I don't think I have ever been so happy or so scared.

And somewhere in all that, I turned to my mom -- so she says -- and said, "That wasn't so bad."

A year later, a year full of nights and days when I was so overwhelmed and sure of failing that I just wailed along with The Boy, I say again, "That wasn't so bad." Because for every night when I was sure The Boy would be 5 years old and still sleeping in a bouncy seat, there was a night when I rocked him to sleep in my arms and felt his warm weight against my chest. Days when I just wished he could, for the love of god, tell me what he wanted gave way to sunny days when he clapped his hands and laughed at the kitty. Weeks when I worked all day feeling guilty for leaving him passed onto a lazy weekends at home when I heard the slap-slap of his fat little hands and knees on the tile floor, crawling after me.

This motherhood thing: It's not so bad.

Belly-laughs with Grammy

My heart was like the Grinch's tonight. You know that scene at the end? Where his heart swells so many sizes and he suddenly understands Christmas? Well, I don't think my heart was ever Grinch-sized, but tonight it swelled several sizes as I listened to The Boy belly-laugh at his grammy, my mom. 

Mom's here for The Boy's birthday, which is Sunday. (I'm having a small party, by the way. I said gifts weren't necessary.) She was here for his birth and decided she had to be here for his birthday. I kept him out of daycare, which was probably for the best, given the altercation, so Mom could spend the day with him. My sister lives near our parents still, so her boys used to have regular Fridays with Grammy, but this is treat my kiddo doesn't get very often. Mom says, "Fridays with Grammy are a little like a day with The Cat in the Hat." The Boy very obviously liked it. 

He grabs her face in both his hands and pulls it to his face, open-mouthed as if to say, "Oh! I love you so much, I could just eat you!" (I have no idea where he might have gotten this.) She talks to him as if he's a big kid, as if the rest of us are slow and the two of them are the ones that know what is going on, and he grins. She did something silly tonight before bed, just swung his jammie shirt around her head as I was getting him dressed, and he laughed so hard his belly shook. I've never seen The Boy laugh that hard or that long. So she did it again. 

All three of us started laughing. Mom and I had tears, we laughed so hard. The Boy tried to swing his blanky and a stuffed monkey over his head like grammy. Then, he was just slap-happy, bouncing between us like a giggle-driven pinball, and so was Mom, juggling monkeys and blocks and fish in two baskets. It was the best half-hour I've had all week. 

Miracle or disaster waiting to happen

It takes a Herculean effort to get out the door every morning on time.

4:40 a.m. - Up and in the shower (think about what to wear)
4:50 a.m. - Out of the shower and start make up and hair (think about what to wear)
5:10 a.m. - Downstairs for cereal, turn on coffee, Facebook check, watch the news to see what happened overnight (decide what to wear)
5:20 a.m. - Go get Peanut for morning feeding (try to remember if decided outfit is clean and coordinating socks are clean)
5:45 a.m. - Put Peanut back down, run to get dressed, realize outfit is not clean or can only find one sock. Throw on first thing in the closet.
5:52 a.m. - Pour coffee, grab my bag and pump, jump in the car, drive 35 minutes to work.

That is a good day with all my prep work at night. I fill bottles, make lunches, pack bags (hers and mine) lay out outfits (hers and sometimes mine) and get my coffee ready to go. To also aid in the morning process, I've cut most of my hair off so it just takes a quick blow drying.

I should say here that I am not a morning person. When Hillary and I were in college, she and our other roommate would get up and go to the newsroom (we all worked for the newspaper) usually sometime before 8 a.m. - I think. I was usually burrowing down into my covers grumbling for them to be quiet and hitting the snooze button or just completely turning the alarm off.

But when Emery came along, my husband and I wanted to find a way for her to be with us more than away from us. He agreed to work nights two days a week and be with her during the day and I agreed to work at 6:30 a.m. so I could get out sooner and pick up Peanut from the sitter.

It is worth it and as an added bonus I get a couple of quiet hours at work as long as there is no breaking news.

While my mornings are still frantic, I thank God every morning that I have a husband who is so willing to be my partner in parenthood. (I hate when people ask me if he helps with Peanut. We are equal partners in this.) He's the one who has to negotiate a baby who might or might not be sleeping and might or might not be crying whiling trying to get ready each morning.

And his only complaint is that he has to leave her smiling and babbling each morning.

Altercation update

Another incident report awaited me at daycare this morning. Turns out, the altercation resulted in both scratches to The Boy's forehead and a red mark on the other baby's arm because The Boy bit her.

My son is a biter.

Here's what happened, according to the lady in charge of the baby room: The Boy chased after and tried to hug the pretty little girl about his age. (Awwww) Then, laughing, he bit her. (Not so awww) That's when the wrestling and scratching started.

I still think The Boy thinks these bites are affectionate, as evidenced by the hug he tried to give the little girl before biting her. But obviously, the biting has to stop.

So, I'm taking suggestions. How do you stop a kid from biting? My mother and grandmother -- as well as coworkers and the mothers of several friends, including Michelle -- suggest biting him back. That solution stopped the tooth-gnashing habits of both me and Michelle. I'm not sure I can bite The Boy, though. On the other hand, nothing else has worked. Ideas?

Brat? No. Hooligan? Maybe.

Does he look like a hooligan?

The Boy was playing with all the other babies when I picked him up from daycare today. He spotted me, I waved. He giggled and waved back. I noticed a red mark on his forehead and figured there'd be an incident report waiting for me to sign in his cubby. The daycare actually calls them accident reports, but I always hear it as "incident," like the police reports I sometimes have to review in my reporting job. The idea of my kiddo as a tiny criminal, complete with mugshot, makes me chuckle, especially because these reports usually read something like, "Reached for toy, slipped and bumped head," or "Tripped and fell onto bookcase." 

This one said: "Altercation with another baby. Was scratched on head." It really was an incident report.

I spoke with Ms. A, an eyewitness to said altercation, and apparently no one is really sure which baby started it. She was getting another baby settled in the room when the second lady on duty, who was busy with a diaper change, shouted, "Oh! they're fighting." Ms. A broke it up. 

"They just looked like they were wrestling. Just little wrestlers," Ms. A told me. "You know he's at the age where they're so curious ... they were wrestling."

Think spending a week roughhousing with his two cousins, my sister's 3-year-old and 21-month-old boys, might have anything to do with this? I'm putting this in the baby book: First altercation, Jan. 6, 2009.

Between this and the accidental headbutt that might or might not have broken my nose last week, I might have to research wrestling coaches. 

Does this sound like a seal?

Peanut started coughing a bit this weekend and was a little fussier than normal but nothing out of the ordinary. She was sleeping, playing and eating well and didn't have a fever. We made sure to keep the humidifier on at night to help ease things.

But this morning, when I got her up to eat, she was coughing and it sounded awful. I thought maybe it had a seal-like quality indicating croup but I wasn't sure. She still smiled at me and ate well and only got fussy when I stuck the blue bulb up her nose to suction her.

(A little side note: One of my first memories is my loving mother sitting on me, pinning my arms down so she could suction my nose out. She says if I would have blown my nose as a toddler she wouldn't have had to resort to such measures. Now I fear I am scarring my child for life using the little medieval torture device).

As I listened to Peanut's cough, I had an internal debate of whether I should rush her to the emergency room or just go to work and send her to the sitters.

I went with the latter but not without the mind-numbing crushing guilt. As drove to work, I almost turned around three different times to be back with my Peanut.

I called my mom and my sister and they both told me not to worry. But, alas, that is not even possible. I once freaked out because I couldn't get in touch with my husband for three hours. He was home with Peanut for the morning. I left work in the middle of the day near tears contemplating what I was going to do when I walked into the house and found their lifeless bodies. Halfway home, he FINALLY called and said they had been napping and he didn't hear the phone ring 12 times. I then began contemplating killing him.

Anyway, I called the sitter twice to check on Peanut. Both times she said Peanut was fine but not great. I decided to call the doctor who told me to bring her in. Thank heavens for doctors' offices with night hours.

As it turns out, her cough was like a seal and the doctor said it sounded like she might have croup. To be safe, he gave her a steroid shot and we came home to snuggle. She's now sleeping soundly in her room with the vaporizing on full blast.

I'm going to have a head full of gray hair by the time this child turns a year old.

No means no

Biting issue aside -- must. NOT. bite. the baby toes -- I think The Boy might actually be getting the concept of "No." 

We went over Saturday to our friends' house to meet their new little guy, who arrived just before Christmas. The Boy was exploring their living room, of course going right for the camera, video camera and remotes on the coffee table, but was distracted easily by new rattles and silly noises. When he began opening and shutting the drawers and doors of their entertainment center, I told him no and asked him to shut the drawer. And he did it. Granted, he opened it again. BUT HE SHUT IT AGAIN when asked. Before we left, The Boy even patted -- well kinda-sorta grabbed at in a friendly way -- the new baby. 

I figured the good behavior was a fluke. Kids always are angels in front of strangers, and The Boy really likes our friend Kevin. 

But tonight, The Boy went to open the pantry cupboard. Sometimes I let him play with the boxes in there, but it was almost bedtime and I didn't want to clean up the mess. So I said no. You know what? He listened. He cried. He whined a little. But he did not open the cupboard. 

I'm sure some of you are rolling your eyes right now. Saying no is not rocket science after all. I thought so, too, until I was faced with that face. And those chubby cheeks. And the little mischievous giggle. My college friends called me The Bitch, but my natural tendency is to be The Yes Man when it comes to my child. My sister, who has two boys 15 months apart, says it gets easier, and I see that. Saying no to a whiny 11-month-old is possible in a way telling a 5-month-old to please-for-the-love-of-god stop screaming isn't. Practically speaking, the 11-month-old knows what you're saying. Still, discipline is a conscious effort for me, a constant reminder to myself that I don't want The Boy to be the nasty kid or the smelly kid or the mouthy kid. 

It's encouraging to know my efforts to not raise a brat are working, even a little. 

Helper Monkey

My husband is not a fan of yardwork, particularly mowing. We live in Florida, so, you know, it's hot -- very hot -- a lot of the time. And when it's not ridiculously hot, or sometimes when it is, it's also dry, so when you mow, you're really mowing weeds and dust, which you're then throwing up over yourself. This is what he tells me, anyway, because I don't mow. I told him when we bought the house I had no intention of mowing -- gardening and weeding, yes; mowing, no -- so he can't complain. 

But he can plot. He's been planning since The Boy was in utero to give the kid mowing as a chore, calculating how many years old The Boy would have to be before he could safely operate a mower supervised, laughing at the thought of drinking a beer while he supervised, wondering if The Boy could operate an old-fashioned hand-mower at an earlier age ... suffice to say, The Boy as Yard Man is a dream of my husband's.

So, I was only a little surprised to come home today (from some time for Year of the Mom) to find the husband hacking up our back flowerbeds with the assistance of The Boy. Both of them were coated in dirt and sand, but only The Boy was smiling. Daddy might have been sweating and swearing, however, the kiddo was having a great time. My husband really had put him to work, helping to load all the trimmings and weeds into lawn bags. 

"He's a helper monkey," the husband said. I could see visions of The Boy as a lawn-mowing prodigy flash through his eyes. 

The husband moved onto a different part of the flowerbed and a new lawnbag. Behind his back, The Boy stuck with the old bag and giggled as he pulled all the yard waste back out of it. 

We're going to have to work on following directions. 

Liar, liar

Peanut has this wonderful habit of making a liar out of me.

When someone asks me if she is sleeping through the night and eating well, I tell them that of course she is. She's a wonderful baby. We are spoiled by her. If I knew the next baby would be like this, I would have another one right away.

And then I spend the next week up every hour in the night and wrestling her like she was a little alligator trying to get her to eat.

When I think something is wrong and I call the doctor and explain all of her "symptoms" she's fine within an hour, back to her normal, pleasant self with no medical intervention needed.

Well, she's done it again.

I wrote that she wasn't sleeping well and that I thought she was going on a nursing strike. Now she's sleeping from 9:15 p.m. until 5:30 a.m. when I wake her up to feed before I go to work and she's eating like I might take it away from her.

In fact, as I write this, she's still asleep at 9:02 a.m. on a Sunday morning. She got up at 7 a.m. to eat and went back to sleep. Yes, I know. I should shut up and just enjoy the time.

I'm hesitant to write any of this because I fear it might trigger that little censor in her brain and she will revert back to a nocturnal state and refuse to eat.

I figure that there is nothing more unpredictable than a baby's behavior. Just when I think I have her all figured out, she throws something new at me. I suppose that is motherhood.

Year of the Mom

Kristen over at Motherhood Uncensored has declared 2009 the Year of the Mom. She wants moms to take better care of themselves so here is what we plan to do this year:

Michelle:

• Finally use that spa gift certificate Hillary gave me for my baby shower gift in MAY!
  
• Wake my husband up more when Peanut cries in the middle of the night. He could sleep through a tornado but is willing to help out if I kick him hard enough.
  
• Do the "Mommy & Me yoga" DVD more. I bought it two months ago, did it two days in a row and haven't done it since. I blame the holidays.
• Worry less ... OK try to worry less. Fine, I will try to worry less about worrying. It is a start.
• Write and read more and not feel guilty about it.
• Find an outlet either through a church or volunteer program - anything that will get me doing something more than being at work and being at home.

I'll be happy if I accomplish one of these things this year.

Hillary: 

I am going to take at least an hour a week in which I leave my home and do nothing for anyone but me. 

If I go to Target in that hour, I will come home with only cute clothes and stationery, not toilet paper and diapers. If I go to the bookstore, I will drink coffee and read in a chair and not browse in the children's section, feeling obligated to bring something home for The Boy. If I do not have a destination or goal in mind for that hour, I will take the computer or a book and go some place where I can write or read. 

But I will try to have a destination, a date. I will encourage the other mothers in my acquaintance to join me in the Year of the Mom. I will meet them for drinks on a Sunday afternoon or a quick trip to the beach. I will stop feeling like an awkward, nerdy adolescent and suggest these outings instead of waiting to be asked.  

--------------------

So, mothers of the internets, raise your fist in the air, straighten your spit-up-upon shoulders and tell us your manifesto!

Chomp!

That whole "Do as I say, not as I do" thing? Yeah, that doesn't work. 

I have been chomping on The Boy's toes since he was born because, well, tell me you can resist nom-nomming a set of fat little baby feet? You are a cold-hearted person if you can. I might also have nibbled on his fat cheeks once or twice ... a day. 

The Boy has taken to biting me back occasionally now that he has teeth. Somewhere (lalala -- don't look at me) he seems to have gotten the idea that little nibbles are affectionate. Little love bites. He's only ever bitten me or the husband, and it's always when he's kissing or hugging us. Saying, NO!, when he's laughing and clinging to us is difficult, but we've done it. Firmly even. No biting, I tell him, just kisses, and I illustrate my point. 

But then bedtime comes and I just can't resist those damn toes. 

So I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that just now, as I stretched out on the couch, The Boy removed the teething ring from his mouth and sank all eight teeth into my big toe. 

I squealed, he laughed and then walked to the other end of the couch and laid his head, mouth again stuffed with teething ring, on my thigh. Giggling, he patted my leg. 

Guess I'm going to have to go cold-turkey off the baby toes. 

Happy anniversary, honey

Today marks a special occasion in my relationship with my husband. It’s not our wedding anniversary or the anniversary of our first date. It’s the one-year anniversary of the day we saw the true depth my pregnancy hormones could take me and it all centers around mashed potatoes.

I knew relatively early that I was pregnant. I was probably just shy of 4 weeks. I spent about two weeks smugly proclaiming that I felt fine. No sickness. No fatigue. This was easy. Then at 6 weeks I got sick. Bad. I couldn’t keep anything down except carrots and Clementine oranges. I was sure my child was going to come out the hue of an Oompa Loompa. My morning sickness lasted for the first five months and returned for the last two.

I spent much of my time home on the couch while my husband took care of everything around the house. I felt like such a bum but the thought of food made me sick and I was so tired I could barely get up. If, by chance, I did regain my appetite it didn’t last long. My husband once brought home McDonald’s for his dinner. At that moment I was hungry so I ate it all. And then promptly threw it up. (He is very patient with me. He didn't say a word and just went back to McDonald's for more).

This brings me to New Year’s Day 2008. After weeks of being unable to do much more than throw up and sleep, I decided to make a traditional New Year’s dinner for my husband – pork and sauerkraut. I also planned rolls, mashed potatoes and green beans. Because I hadn't been in the kitchen or at the grocery store much, my husband had to go to the store multiple times for me because I kept forgetting different ingredients. He finally proclaimed he would not be going back.

When I went to mash the potatoes, I realized we were out of butter. My husband said we could not possibly have potatoes without butter but he held firm that he would not go back to the store. Of course an argument ensued. He finally relented and left, only to return 10 minutes later with a bag from KFC.

He didn’t tell me what was in said bag but I assumed there were mashed potatoes. Feeling hormonal, sick and tired from making dinner, I began dumping my unmashed potatoes down the garbage disposal. I admit, this was a bit rash but I was annoyed that he hadn't gone to the store to get butter.

When I opened the KFC bag, I found green beans and little packets of butter.

Here's the conversation that ensued:
Me: Why did you get green beans? We already have green beans!
Him: Why did you dump the potatoes?!
Me: Because I thought you bought mashed potatoes.
Him: Why did you dump the potatoes?!
Me: Why do you keep asking me that?
Him: Why did you dump the potatoes?!
Me: Because I thought you bought mashed potatoes. Why do you keep asking me that?
(insert brief silence here)
Him: Why did you dump the potatoes?!

You can imagine the shrillness and volume increased as the conversation continued.

At this point, I had two raw potatoes in my hands, contemplating how much time a judge would give a pregnant woman for throwing potatoes at her husband’s head.

Finally, he reasoned that to get the little butter packets from KFC, he had to buy something. So he bought green beans.

I proclaimed the entire dinner was ruined because we didn't have mashed potatoes and began sobbing. I ran upstairs weeping like someone had just told me my entire family and all of my friends had been killed. Seriously. I was hysterical. I could not stop crying. All the work and energy down the drain – literally.

My husband fixed a plate and went to eat in his man cave. In his defense, this was the best move. I was beyond reason and I probably would have thrown something at him had he come after me.

Right before the point of hyperventilating, I calmed down and went downstairs to talk. We kind of chuckled at the foolishness of it all but to this day, we disagree on who was right.

The story has become somewhat of a legend in our families.

To commemorate this event, we've decided that we will always eat KFC mashed potatoes for New Year's Day.

And I still say I am right - it would have made more sense to buy mashed potatoes than green beans.