The stuff memories are made of

So while walking Scotty around our neighborhood this morning, it suddenly occurred to me that I was in the midst of one of those moments. The kind of moment that will flash before my eyes when I see Scotty walk across the stage during his commencement ceremony, or the kind of moment that -- and I don’t mean to sound morbid -- I would be so glad I experienced if God forbid I was on my death bed.

I looked down at Scotty -- my healthy, happy son -- and realized how blessed I was to be in that moment. At first glance it was just another morning: we were doing the same walk on the same route at the same time. But fast forward several years, and it will be the stuff that memories are made of.

I think this is precisely what they mean by living in the moment.

And speaking of moments, quite a few have passed since my last blog post. Three months to be exact. The primary reason for my disappearing act is that things have been good. Really, good. Scotty and I have been soaking up summer with gusto, often spending most of our days outside…

Here’s Scotty at the park on the swings, which he really likes.  

When I say he likes the swings, I mean he REALLY likes the swings. 

So much so, this is the stink face he gives me when he has to get off them.

He also loves our twice-daily walks. Here he is smiling at Riley, the dog around the corner.

Here we are at the lake.

Here he is in his kiddie pool.

And here’s the three of us at a BBQ in New Jersey.

And as fun as all this was, it’s all rather boring to write about.

Not to tempt fate, but our lives have been fairly bereft of those little earthquakes; you know, the kind that used to rock my world as a new mom (i.e. How do I get my baby to sleep through the night? How do I take a shower when Scotty and I are home alone? Is all of this drool really because of teething? Is he pooping enough?) Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have motherhood all figured out. (Case in point: I’m already freaking out about having to drop Scotty off on his first day of school, and that is several years away.) But right now, we’re in a really comfortable, cozy groove.

The kicker is, comfortable and cozy doesn’t always translate into compelling reading.

Not that I am only compelled to write about problems. It’s just that, some of the stuff that happened during my first year of motherhood was so bizarre, I couldn’t help but write about it.


That said, I’ve met some really awesome people writing this blog, and I’ve missed interacting with you and reading the response e-mails you’d write me about things that happened when your kids were little. So with summer drawing to a close -- and Scotty’s first birthday staring us in the face (Gasp! Where did the time go? Sounds cliché; I know), I only felt it natural to share with you a quick update on Scotty’s progress…

A lot has remained the same: I’m still nursing; still doing the cloth diapering thing (We even did it during our six-day vacation to New Jersey, and it wasn’t hard, I swear; once you go cloth…); and Scotty is still growing like a weed. At last check he had a 37 ½-inch neck and wore a men’s size 12 shoe. Seriously, though, he’s over 25 pounds and wearing 24 month clothes and some 2T. At 11 months. That’s my (big) little man child, sigh. It should come as no surprise that he is not a finicky eater and pretty much enjoys everything from eggplant to avocado, tilapia to peanut butter Cheerios. He’s also crawling at warp speed and pulling up to stand on everything he can get his chubby hands on: people’s legs, furniture, and even the walls of his Joovy (it’s a playpen). He can walk if we hold onto his fingertips, so I know it’s just a matter of time before he takes off solo -- and I’m secretly a little misty-eyed about it.

Furthermore, he loves playing patty-cake and enjoys listening to virtually anything by Dr. Seuss (The Foot Book and The Cat in the Hat are both in heavy rotation. Translation: I know them by heart.) He is also crazy about the original How the Grinch Stole Christmas -- It is August and he still can’t get enough -- and Yo Gabba Gabba.

But back to this blog and why I may be going into hiding (again) for a while. When I launched the blog, I hadn’t even given birth yet. Therefore, much of what I wrote about had more to do with us -- my husband Scott and me -- and how we would navigate this thing called parenthood. But now, as Scotty grows into his own and develops his own personality, I’m not sure how I feel about sharing his life on the World Wide Web before he’s even old enough to ask for it. After all, when it comes to the Internet, what you post and display never goes away.

I’m not saying that this is goodbye; I will most certainly post again, and I plan to add another post in a few weeks to celebrate Scotty’s first birthday. But going forward, my intention is to write more about things that affect me as a mother as opposed to making Scotty’s life an open book.

That said, I sincerely thank you for allowing me to share my journey thus far with you and for the words of wisdom you’ve shared with me along the way.

Peace and peanut butter Cheerios,


Courtney

Guess who’s coming to the delivery? And following you home afterward…

As I write this post, I have four friends who are pregnant, and all of them are due fairly soon, in July or August. Having just gone through the miraculous experience of childbirth myself, I can’t help but remember all of the “hows” that are part and parcel with having a baby:

How to determine whether you already have everything you’ll need…basically how to balance life with your new addition…and, perhaps, how to keep well-meaning (for the most part) relatives from crashing the delivery, and subsequently, your home.

The other day, one of my expectant friends requested that I send her The Lemon Clot essay, which I had found on the Internet last year while I was expecting. Never heard of The Lemon Clot Essay? (More on that in a minute.) Her request just got me thinking about pushy people who want to impose upon a mother’s childbirth experience.

We’ve all heard them from somewhere or another: Horror stories about relatives who think it is their God-given right to have a courtside view of your southern hemisphere when it’s Go Time, or worse, how said relatives arrive at the door -- unannounced, might I add -- under the guise of providing “help” for the new mother.

First things first: The delivery room. Why on earth would anyone insist on being present for such an event? Let me rephrase: for someone else’s event. If the new mother asks for your presence, that’s one thing. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about people who lobby for a spot next to your OBGYN; the kind of people with such a sense of self-entitlement that they think the show can’t go on without them; the kind of people that labor and delivery nurses have actually been trained to gently break the news to that, “I’m sorry, you are not welcome in the room as so-and-so DELIVERS HER BABY.” With the mother doing the heavy lifting (er, pushing), the father doing the cheerleading, and the OB and/or midwife steering the ship, what on earth is left for a fourth pair of eyes to do besides sit there and stare?

Thankfully, I don’t have a horror story of my own because everyone got the memo; Scott was the only person present for Scotty’s birth. My mother said it best: “You and Scott conceived him alone, so you two should be the only ones there for the delivery, if that’s what you choose.”

But if other expectant women feel differently, that is their right. I get how perhaps some women can want their mother, sister, or dear friend on the cheer squad as well; again, I’m not talking about that. My beef is when people blatantly disrespect a woman’s wishes to deliver her baby in a way that she will be most comfortable with. What makes a third party feel entitled to a seat at the table? This always leaves me scratching my head.

A woman may end up delivering her baby in peace, but she’s not in the clear just yet: Then there’s the “afterbirth,” or more specifically, those who show up out of nowhere after the birth because they want to “help” you.

First off, Babies are not milk. They don’t expire. Do brand-spanking new parents not have the right to bond with their child during the first few precious days of their baby’s existence? In most cases, I believe that parents would be more comfortable with hosting guests after they’ve had an opportunity to get to know their little guy or gal. I understand that friends and relatives will be excited to see the baby, and for that, parents should feel abundantly grateful -- I know Scott and I were. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to show off my little Scotty, too…just not before I’ve had a chance to cut off my hospital bracelet.

But back to this whole vague notion of “help.” It is quite ambiguous. Kind of like the phrase a little bit or almost. After reading several discussion threads on baby forums, I’ve come to learn that, quite often, the word help is really code for “All I plan to do is sit and hold your baby and pass it around like a Thanksgiving Day turkey; I’ll take a break only when I’m hungry, and then I’ll ask you what’s for dinner.”

Uh-uh. Sorry. That’s not the “help” a new mother needs. The kind of “help” that is most helpful is the kind that involves doing a load of laundry, perhaps running to the market, or cooking a meal.

Lastly, there is the issue of privacy. Who wants to host guests when all of your bathrooms will probably have sanitary napkins the size of Pull-Ups on display? (Yet another byproduct of giving birth.) Or better still, when your top shelf is engorged to your chin? I mean, who would want to bear witness to this time in a new mother’s life? Besides, the grandmothers of the babies, of course; they get a pass. Heck, they’ve seen it all anyway.

Thankfully, I dodged another bullet, here, too. In the weeks leading up to and following Scotty’s birth, Scott and I had the support of our mothers who provided genuine help when needed, and breathing room when that was needed, too. It was a wonderful experience that I am grateful for. I didn’t have any impromptu visits, and, frankly, I’m grateful for that, too. Scott and I hosted a “sip and see” for family when Scotty was 10 days old, after the three of us had had a moment to breathe, adjust, and get to know each other -- and after I had a better grip on my hormones.

I know, I know. Some people will think that I’m one big, heartless meanie. But if you think this is bad, have you ever read The Lemon Clot Essay by “Sharon 1964”? Or Who Can Even be on the List to be Considered to Stay at Your Home After Childbirth, also by “Sharon 1964”?

They’re below…and they’re graphic; consider yourself warned:

The Lemon Clot Essay

by Sharon1964

You will be leaking out of places you don't want to leak out of. Do you really want to stand up from the couch and have your father's parents see that not only have you bled through your pad, but the blood is now running down your leg. Do you really want to say, "honey, can you come with me to the bathroom, I am bleeding all over and I feel a huge bloodclot coming out"... in front of them? Contrast that to "mom, I need your help please, now, I'm bleeding all over!" Does your husband really understand the volume of stuff that will be coming out of you, the possibility of lemon-sized clots of blood? Not 2-dimensional lemon-sized, but huge, round, 3-dimensional lemon-sized?

How many bathrooms do you have? If only one, do you REALLY want to have to make it "guest-level clean" every time you leave it? Do you really want this gang of people ogling your diaper-sized pads, peribottle, tucks pads, and all the other supplies that will be in the bathroom? Even if you have two bathrooms, that means you can't use the main bathroom, because you still have to leave it "guest-level clean" every time you use it.


Do they really plan to do something other than hold the baby, pass the baby around, and sit around expecting you guys to wait on them? Are they going to sit and stare at you? Thirty minutes after they arrive, and baby wants to breastfeed, are they going to quickly and willingly LEAVE your home so that you can breastfeed in the privacy and comfort of your space? Or are they going to hang around outside, waiting for you to be done, and knocking every so often wanting to know if they can come back in? Yeah, that's great for breastfeeding.


Or better yet, are they going to blow you off, saying "it's no big deal", and expect you to breastfeed in front of them? Even experienced moms need several weeks of practice to get good at it, so to speak, so that they can breastfeed wherever they want. Learning to breastfeed is not a time for people to ogle and stare at you.

When your breasts are engorged and painful and you want NOTHING to touch them, what then? Does your dh think it will be okay for his dad to stare at your huge naked breasts as you walk around topless?


What if your birth is smack in the middle of their trip? So what are they going to do the first few days, before baby? Are they going to sit and stare at you, waiting for the big moment? Then what? Are they going to camp out in your hospital room every day, all day? Yeah, that's great for resting. What happens when you leave the hospital and they beat you to your own home, and all you want to do is lay down in your own bed? Are they going to leave graciously, or are they going to sit in your living room, eating your food, messing up your house, and making noise, so you can't nap?

Does your DH (dear husband) normally allow people to invite themselves over to visit you guys without even ASKING? You guys are setting yourselves up for a lifetime of this. Then you will be blamed when you try to tell them that it is not a good time for you.


Does your DH understand ANY of these things?? Does he not understand that it is NOT about entertaining guests, but about recovery from a major medical procedure (either vaginal or c-section)? Does he not understand that you just grew another human being in your body, and will have just gone through the process of getting it out?? This is going to be an exhausting, messy, wildly hormonal time. Does he not get that??

Who Can Even be on the List to be Considered to Stay at Your Home After Childbirth

by Sharon1964

You know, nobody gets to stay in your home after birth unless they are helpful. So is his mother going to.... wash your bloody underwear in the sink? Clean and disinfect your toilet and perhaps the bathroom floor after you spend time in there? Clean up lemon size blood clots that come out of your vagina if you need help? Get hot washcloths and lay them on your naked engorged breasts? Hold a cold wet washcloth on the back of your neck when you break out in a sweat all over?


Is she going to cook for you and clean for you and do the laundry, and make sure you are stocked with diapers and wipes and clean blankets? Is she going to allow you to breastfeed in private in your own living room by either going to her room or going outside? Is she going to allow you to pick up your own crying baby? Is she going to ASK you if you would like her to get the baby for you since you may be sore? Is she going to disappear when you want alone time with your new baby and your husband? Is she going to refrain from giving you advice but instead ask you what you need?


And what's his dad going to do? Is he going to cut the grass and take out the garbage and make runs to the store for juice and milk? Is he going to wash the car or walk the dog or change the cat litter box?

No? Yeah, that's what I thought.



I told you they were harsh.

What was your childbirth experience like? I’d love for you to share. Please post in the comment box/section below…

Photos of recent family firsts

If I've learned anything being a mom it's that you should truly celebrate the little things. Don't get me wrong, should I score a huge book deal -- or, heck, finally nab a book agent -- my husband and I would surely pop a cork. But I've come to appreciate the run-of-the-mill triumphs, too.

Here, I celebrate a few:

First up: Scotty recently had his first visit to the park, and subsequently, his first ride on the kiddie swing. He was a bit ambivalent at first, but after a few pushes, he didn't want to get out. And judging from my boy's pants, it looks as though a flood's a comin'. (Those size 12-month pants have since been retired.) And why Scotty is shooting his fist out like Joe Louis, I have no idea.

My first official Mother's Day. I was "with child" on Mother's Day last year, and it was a special day indeed. But now that I've got eight-months of hands-on mothering under my belt, well, I feel I've earned my stripes a bit. (I know, I know, wait until Scotty hits the teen years.) About what's going on in this pic: I would have much preferred the brunch at the Dearborn Inn where my mom, Scott, and I went last year, but I simply wasn't up for that with an infant. So instead we went to good 'ol Big Boy: fast, easy, and the aisles are big enough to fit two of Scotty's strollers. (Oh, and their multigrain pancakes rock.) Anyhow, Scotty found the helium balloons the next table over way more fascinating than looking into the camera.

                                                                                 

Scotty's first taste of apple by way of the mesh feeder, which was a gift from my sister-in-laws (thanks, Cassandra and Jessica!). The mesh feeder is basically a little piece of mesh shaped like a pocket, and it holds solid chunks of food for babies to nosh on without the threat of choking. Who comes up with these genius ideas? Not only do babies get to eat the food safely, the mesh feeder also feels good against their gums while teething.

The first time Scotty managed to keep his bucket hat on for an entire walk. He usually chucks it over the tray by the time we reach the end of the block. He loves his baseball caps, but this one, not so much.

First family trip to the park. See that red slide behind Scott? Yeah, well, I forgot how slippery those things are on a hot day. Went down it with Scotty between my legs and mid-slide felt that I was moving too fast so I attempted to break my speed with my ankle. Let's just say that a photo of my blister is not worth posting.

My first day back on the set of a commercial shoot since having Scotty. The locale was WDIV Channel 4 studios in Detroit, and the shoot was for Chene Park, the outdoor amphitheatre on the Detroit River. Marty (the gentleman I am photographed with in the first photo; left) and I are the faces of Chene Park's 2012 summer concert tour. There are 12 commercials in all which should begin running on metro Detroit TV stations shortly. We shot all of the commercials in front of a green screen, which is the backdrop used for TV news weather segments. (When you see weathercasters on TV with a map behind them, they are actually standing in front of a green screen, which allows for the weather map to be visible behind them on TV.) And, by the way, the commercials, for the most part, are only being shot from the waist up, which is why Marty's shirt is untucked and I'm wearing my Birkenstocks! I love working in TV, sigh. The photo on the right provides an unglamorous, yet very real glimpse of what it's like for a lactating mom to be away from her son for more than three hours: I told the director that I had to take a break to pump my milk half way through the shoot. And where did I do this? In the make-up room inside the station's greenroom. (Not to be confused with the green screen, the greenroom is where guests wait before going on air.) Thankfully, this greenroom's make-up room had a door with a lock.

A baby’s close-up; a grocery cart; and a mother’s gratitude.

This was so not your typical week.

For starters, it began with a family outing for the record books: Scott and I were on set to witness Scotty shoot his first TV commercial on Monday. Even as I write this blog post -- a whole four days after it happened -- it still feels surreal. It feels strange, actually.

Some background: The wacky world of television is nothing new to me. But by all accounts, I am considered a late bloomer, though -- or an Old Maid (hey, if the shoe fits…) -- depending on who you ask because after toiling in the industry for years, I finally shot my first national commercial (for 5-Hour Energy) a few weeks before I became pregnant with Scotty. Scott has also shot a national commercial, too, as a spokesperson for Nutrisystem’s NFL-themed “Get Back in the Game” campaign alongside Dan Marino and a few other former professional athletes back in 2007.

Sure, working on-set can involve a lot of waiting around, a lot of time in the make-up chair, and a lot of takes. But for the most part, the experience is as cool as you’d think it’d be: It’s is fun, exciting, and a great way to earn a lot of cash.

That said, Scott and I hadn’t planned on Scotty filming any of his own -- particularly before he could walk and talk.

Here’s how it went down.

My agent called last Thursday and inquired whether I could bring Scotty in to audition the next day (because virtually everything in the world of TV commercials happens last minute; that’s just how it works) for an on-camera role in a commercial for the Detroit Medical Center’s Huron Valley-Sinai Hospital. I was so surprised, I nearly choked on my Aquafina when I listened to her voicemail. How in the heck does a casting director go about auditioning a baby as young as Scotty? I wondered. I had to admit, I was intrigued. I mean, let’s face it: Who doesn’t think their kid is cute enough to be on TV?

After talking it over with Scott, we decided to give it a go.

In the 24 hours between my agent’s initial phone call and Scotty’s audition, it was all I could do to not think the worst. Usually, in the hours leading up to an audition, I practice my lines ad nauseum and wonder incessantly about how to wear my hair. But with Scotty, I worried whether he’d pop another tooth and become God-awful irritable, give a huge belch and spit-up his last nursing session on camera, or just be plain The Baby from Hell…because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working in TV is that babies and animals are the worst because you simply can’t control a damn thing they do.

But the audition went very well. The audition was taped for the client (who wasn’t in attendance), so basically all they wanted Scotty to do was sit there, coo, smile, and just be. I brought along his Fisher Price Laugh & Learn Puppy to induce laughter…and it worked.

Wam-bam. In all, I think the audition took three minutes, tops. That said, I doubted Scotty would be chosen. Sure, he was his usual, smiley, easy-going self. But I know enough about this business to know that whether or not you are chosen is not based solely on your performance. The client is going for “a look” and you either have it…or you don’t. Sounds harsh, yes, but that’s the way it is.

So, when my agent called on Sunday to say that Scotty was chosen -- and that the commercial was shooting tomorrow; yikes! -- I choked on my Aquafina again. Scotty and I were in the car, so when we were stopped at a stoplight, I leaned back and told him that he got the commercial. To which he replied: “Omph,” tried to put his big toe in his mouth -- while strapped in his car seat, mind you -- and turned to look out the window.

And that’s when the surrealness set in. He’s just a baby, in the truest sense of the word. This whole experience will be lost on him. It became even more bizarro-world-ish when my agent e-mailed Scotty’s contract, which I signed for him since he is a minor and, of course, can’t even write his own name.

At this point, I wish I could regale you with something more humorous about what actually went on at the shoot…but it was pretty mundane. Scotty was one of about six babies there, and basically the director kept rotating them on-set every five minutes or so because, inevitably, one would have a meltdown and have to be carried off the set -- sometimes kicking and screaming. They were all dressed in plain everyday clothes and were filmed playing on an all-white set. Scotty was cool as a cucumber the entire shoot, thank God, but he didn’t really come alive until another kid’s mom brought a duck bib on set -- which squeaked when squeezed. I guess it did something for Scotty because the picture, above, is one that Scott took while the bib was being manipulated stage right.

I’ve gotta get me one of those bibs…

In other news, I’ve decided to complicate my life by saying bye-bye to Scotty’s infant carrier. His feet are literally hanging off the edge -- and he’s flirting with the seat’s 30-pound weight limit -- so I think those are signs that the seat poses a serious safety risk.

But believe me, I didn’t want to do it. It’s oh-so-convenient to snap that sucker on top of a grocery cart. (Despite the fact that I’m lugging nearly 45 pounds with the combined weight of Scotty and the carrier.) Plus, running errands sans carrier now means that I have to physically carry Scotty around everywhere or pull the stroller out. (I saw this day coming, which was why I recently bought a second stroller that will remain in the car -- and unfolds with one hand.)

Still, I had a moment of silence for the beloved infant carrier that I brought him home from the hospital in (sniffle, sniffle).

Enter the shopping cart cover.

We tried it out for the first time at Kroger this week. Here Scotty is in the floral section. (I thought that would make a better back-drop than the canned goods aisle.) Scotty’s model is the 3-in-1 by Eddie Bauer. In addition to being a grocery cart cover, it converts to a playmat and restaurant highchair cover and even has plush toys attached. I received this as a gift at my baby shower and had been wondering when we were going to put this thing into the rotation. Well, the time has come. Yet another thing I have to stuff inside Scotty’s already bulging diaper bag…

And, lastly, I’d like to extend a huge heart-felt thank you to the women -- and the few brave guys! -- who attended my Chicken Soup for the Soul reading/signing/roundtable discussion on motherhood at the Wayne Public Library this week. I met a lot of new friends who have since become Cribside Chronicle readers, and I can only hope that they will continue to dispense their much-appreciated wisdom on effective parenting.

Thank you, also, to the gentleman who shared with the audience that he weighed 12 pounds at birth. What a way to kick-off the discussion. Now, he was a tough act to follow…