Babies are mysterious little gremlins. One moment, they are chubby happy little things and the next moment, mewling monsters of sleep deprivation. I’m on my second baby and I still find myself staring into his big brown eyes and asking, “What is wrong with you?” Here are seven common problems that plague my babies. Maybe this can help you. But of course, keep in mind, I am no doctor. If you think something is seriously wrong or your baby is running a temperature, always call your doctor.
Lyz is a freelance writer, with an MFA in creative writing from Lesley University. She also works as a blogger for the Huffington Post and a regular contributor to Mommyish, Mom.me and The Real Moms of Eastern Iowa, a hyper-local mom blog and most importantly BabyZone. Her writing has been published in Real Weddings, Guidepost, The Des Moines Register and YourTango, LearnVest, and Babble.com. She has been syndicated on MSNBC, The Today Show Website, Yahoo! Shine, and MSN Glo. She maintains a blog about pants, chicken nuggets and babies over on LyzLenz.com.
My daughter is two-going-on-crazy and, while I do my best not to raise my voice at her, I frequently find myself yelling the most bizarre things. And inevitably, after I yell something like, “Pickles don’t go in my bra!” She looks at me and asks, “Why?”
In our house, bath time is a ritual. It calms, soothes, and burns off some of those whiny minutes before bed time. Also, there is nothing quite like snuggling a squeaky-clean kid. We love bath time so much that we sometimes have baths in the middle of the day just because it’s winter and we have cabin fever. Here are 10 ways we love to make bath time fun.
Besides the obvious ruining of my lady bits and boob biting and bleeding, my kids are doing their best to maim me. Between distracting me with sleep deprivation and outright aggression, it will be a miracle if I make it through this with all my limbs intact. Here are six ways my kids are killing me.
My daughter hopped into her Cozy Coupe and slammed the red plastic door. “I’m going to the Internet to see my friends,” she said, then rolled away. “Did you hear that?” I said to my husband. “Did she honestly just say that?” He nodded.
Before I had kids, I often thought my sister was lying about the things my nephew said. No way he thought bunnies pooped marshmallows. But now, as the parent of an almost 3-year-old, I’m a lot more credulous.
I frequently find myself questioning what I just heard. Did she really call my boobs “milk bellies?” Did she really just try to turn her brother into a snowball with a piece of bread she’s calling a magic wand? Being a parent often means living in this suspended reality—is a small human really rolling on the floor and licking the mud off my shoe? Do I really have to explain why we don’t build poop towers? And as the only adult witness, you find yourself questioning your sanity.
It was only Monday and I was exhausted. Both children had eschewed naps and I had to stay up late to meet deadlines. My husband was working late and no one had vacuumed the floor in weeks. When he finally did manage to make it home after the kids were in bed, my husband found me on the couch, sans pants, slurping coffee and writing.
“Won’t that keep you awake tonight?” He asked.
I shook my head. At this point, coffee was like water. “I’m just so exhausted,” I said.
“But the baby slept in until 5 this morning. Didn’t you get extra sleep?”
My husband’s body is now in a wood chipper.
Here we are, halfway through nursing the second baby and I have to say, I’m impressed. Frankly, I never thought you’d be up to it. You were always on the small side. When all my friends were getting training bras, I was praying to God every night for you to grow. A couple of times, I borrowed my sister’s old training bras so I wouldn’t be embarrassed at sleepovers. That was just the beginning of our love-hate relationship.
Despite being the second-oldest of eight children, I’m not a kid person. I’ve always had anxiety about babysitting and being around groups of rowdy children causes me to curl up in the fetal position and cry. So, when I got pregnant with my daughter, I had a lot of doubts about my ability to be a mother. I read books, took all the classes and gathered advice, but everyone assured me that once I saw my daughter, “It would just happen.”
When my son was newborn, he was easy to please. Just give him some milk, a swaddle and let him nap in the Rock and Play. Now, he’s 6 months old and is a man of many needs and wants. He needs my French fry and wants to grab his sister’s hair. Here are seven items that are saving my life right now that we are halfway through the first year.
During my maternity leave with my first child, I dreamed about hauling the baby to the movies for a matinee. But I was too afraid. What if the baby cried? What if she pooped? What if I dropped her pacifier? The horrors! Since then, I’ve lightened up a bit. I’ve learned that babies aren’t Gremlins. You can take them into public, feed them, and live a normal life with one in tow (You just flash more boob).
Two weeks ago, in the middle of a deep freeze that gripped our area of the Midwest, I took both kids (my 2-year-old and 6-month-old baby) to the movies to see Frozen. My daughter loves movies and my son, well, I didn’t think much about strapping him in the Ergo and bringing him along too, until I got up to the ticket counter.