My Resolution for 2019? Overcoming Imposter Syndrome

I was sitting in the mulch with my legs crossed and my 1 year old son in my lap when the dreaded question came.

"What do you do for a living?"

Up to that point, I'd been enjoying myself. Sarah, the caregiver for the two girls that Millie, (my oldest child) had just befriended at the playground was an intelligent and easy going conversationalist, and it was nice getting to know her. Of course she asked the question.  They always did.

What did I do for a living?

I felt a sinking feeling.  

I did this watercolor illustration, called "out on a limb" when I was working on getting my book published.

Are we talking about what paid the bills?  Or what I DID, like with all my time when I wasn't taking care of the kids? Are we talking about what funded my health insurance?  Or what bought me my sanity, and sense of vocational purpose?

The truth is, between the hours of 8-6, I was fearlessly MOMMING.  With my baby bjorn flapping courageously in the wind, and more baby fluids than I like to admit donning my shirt, I spent my days cruising the playgrounds, kids museums, and supermarkets with my two children in tow.  But, in the evening I was transitioning into a new career.  On average I was putting in 5-6 hours of work a day, and I was even starting to earn a modest income from it, which is why I have no idea why I turned to Sarah and answered her.

"I don't have a job."

Ugh. I wanted to kick myself.  Sarah immediately corrected me because of course as we both know that caring for children IS a full time job, and an important one.   Ultimately, I still felt a sense of dissatisfaction though, because it wasn't the job I had chosen for myself.

I should note here that I have been a stay at home mom previously and been 100% rewarded by it. It's a hard ass role, and a worthy pursuit.  But this isn't an article about that. It's about how, after years of my dreaming of being a full time artist and writer,  I was suddenly incapable of telling people about it.

Between the hours of 8-6, I work for this man.  He's a pretty strict boss, but at least I get to go to work in my yoga pants.

So what was wrong with me? Why didn't I look at her, and say, "I'm an artist." Truthfully, it's because I felt like I would be lying.  Imposter syndrome- the sneaky suspicion that your accomplishments are really just luck and you are actually a phony who doesn't know what they're doing--- is common in many professions.  As an artist, I know I'm not alone in wondering if I'll ever really feel like I deserve to claim the title.

My husband didn't get it.  "But you ARE and artist." He pointed out, when I told him later that night about my conversation. "Did you think she wouldn't believe you?"

"Well, it's not paying the big bills yet." I pointed out.

"You published a book."  he reminded me. "Like, last month."

That was true too.  Why didn't I tell her about the book?  AHHH.  I'm the worst.

I totally did not even mention this.

Here's the weird thing-- I'm really excited about my new career, and I TOTALLY believe in myself.  I think that making stuff and writing stuff is what I'm supposed to be doing with my life. I know I'm good at it, and I think I can be REALLY good at it if I put in the time to pursue professional development, learn from other artists, and practice every day.

 But society has trained me (and all of us) to downplay our accomplishments, and to avoid bragging. If you ask me to sing the praises of my best friend, I can spout off 50 reasons why she's the most incredible unicorn to ever walk the earth, but if you ask me to describe my best qualities, I'll murmur something self deprecating about crafting with glitter, and perhaps decoupage. And then, I'll remind everybody that I make art rather than clean my house, because GOD FORBID ANYONE THINK I'M BEING TOO BRAGGY ABOUT THE GLITTER, and also my career ambitions MUST be a reflection of my failed domesticity.

One of my fabric designs- "Persimmon Floral." I love this pattern, even despite its disappointing lack of glitter.

That day at the playground was a wake up call for me.  It took years of work, saving, and scraping for me to be able to even consider pursuing a creative career.  It's a temporary window, and it's frankly a privilege that many talented artists never have.  So, I'm not about to waste it.

In the months since that conversation, I've taken real steps into moving past my imposter syndrome.  I ran a successful holiday pop-up shop, which allowed me to do some market research and generate start up capital for my future business endeavors. I created an email listserv and posted to social media-- asking for people to support my creative efforts.  And--perhaps most importantly, I stepped into public, looked people directly in the eye, and told them I was an artist. 

In the year ahead of me, I'm taking things a step further.  For me, 2019 is the year I take on imposter syndrome, and crush it. Here are three ways I can start:

1. Oversharing on the internet.  I'm only partially joking about this.  Imposter syndrome fuels isolation, and I want the people in my community who are in my same boat to know that we're all in this together.  Also I want the people in my community to know that the baby fluids on their shirt are hardly noticeable, and that I think they have shimmery mermaid hair.

2. Working on my elevator pitch. Usually, when I'm meeting people for the first time, by the time I'm done introducing my work I can feel the shame and doubt start to creep over me. "They know you're full of shit!' imposter me says to real me. And then, real me is like, "Shut up imposter me! I hate you!" And then a nasty fight ensues after which we all must sneak chocolate ice cream directly from the carton in order to feel better. In 2019 I will work on developing a memorable 1-2 line explanation of what I do. I will practice this "elevator pitch" constantly until it becomes something can deliver smoothly. Once I feel comfortable describing--nay--PROMOTING my work, then I won't have to fight with myself about it, but I'll still probably sneak the chocolate ice cream cause it's the PERFECT DAYTIME FOOD.

3.  Not comparing myself constantly to my idols. Sometimes "staying current" in your field comes at the high cost of keeping up with your heros. In 2019 I will NOT call my sisters crying because I just listened to a Tyler Childers "tiny desk" concert and now I think I'm a terrible songwriter.  I will also NOT freak out and delete my instagram account because every surface in Holli Zollinger's house seems to be covered in attractive succulent arrangements, whereas mine seems to just be covered in yesterday's spaghetti noodles.  Instead, I will just repeat this to myself: I am not them.  They are not me. They were where I was once, and I am lucky to have them.  

So that's it.  That's what's going to happen. I'll keep you posted on my progress as I tackle my self doubt, and PLEASE let me know if you need some love in order to overcome yours.  In the meantime- I want to hear your best "elevator pitches" and/or your own experiences with imposter syndrome.  Post in the comments below, or on facebook.  I'll be in the kitchen, sneaking some chocolate ice cream :) 

How my 5 year old turned me into a designer.

I've been an artist ever since I was old enough to scrawl crayon on the walls of my bedroom, but if it weren't for my daughter, I don't think I would have ever taken the step into becoming a designer.

I grew up in the Appalachian mountains of NC, but Millie  (my oldest child) was born in Ohio.  When she was 4 years old, we picked up and moved back to North Carolina and it was really, really hard on her.  In addition to leaving her school, home, and all the friends she had ever known, she also had a brand new baby brother who suddenly took up all my time.

I was in heaven-- I was back HOME.  Back in the south, around all of the plants, animals, river hippies, rednecks, and pimento cheeses that I grew up around, but Millie was miserable.  Any time I wasn't actively engaging her, I would find her sitting alone in a dark closet sucking her thumb.  Millie is an artist to the core, and one day she drew this picture of a sad unicorn which perfectly expressed both of our feelings about the situation. I knew something had to be done.

Millie drew this picture of a sad unicorn a moth after our move to NC

That night, I started drawing coloring pages for her. Just black and white drawings that she could color in during the day.  For me, it was a way to show her affection during those times that I had my hands full with the baby.  As the subject matter, I chose plants and animals native to the southeastern US, so she could learn about her new home, and feel a little more connected here. 

 

It worked. Every morning, Millie woke up and I provided her with a new coloring page. Cottontails, Eastern box turtles, dogwoods, passionflowers, etc...  Each day, she grew a little happier and settled.  One day, while on the phone with my sister, Kelly I updated her on Millie's progress.  Kelly too had moved far away from home, and said "you know, I wish I could get these drawings made into sheets or something for my son's room." That was it.  I called my cousin, who had studied fibers and textiles at SCAD to get some advice, and a few weeks later I had created my first fabric design. 

I wouldn't say the rest is history-- but it's certainly evolved from there. You can check out my new website and etsy sites to view some products that grew from that beginning-- and you'll be able to see that many of my original drawings for Millie are still use use in these designs. 

Most importantly, Millie has settled in to NC, and is loving it.  She has started school (more adventures on that to come,) and is now an unofficial expert on all things related to NC wildlife. 

Ben's Birthday Time Capsule- 1 year

Today, my sweet son Ben turns 1 year old. There are still days I look at him, and I can’t believe he’s actually real.* ** *because sleep deprivation is making me hallucinate
** ok fine, and because he’s a legit medical miracle

For his big sister, Millie’s first birthday, I made her a time capsule highlighting all of her favorite items and activities. Then, I lovingly hand knitted her a special gift, and baked her a carrot cake using organic carrots and agave nectar.
If Ben ever asks, I want you to tell him that I did all these things for him.  But, the truth is, I woke up this morning and said “well, I guess I should get Ben a cake.” I drove to Food Lion 1 hour before his party, where I purchased some truly delicious cupcakes, which SOMEBODY had lovingly made from scratch—presumably while I was relaxing with my morning coffee.  Now that I’m an experienced mom, I'm staring to learn which corners to cut.

One thing I definitely DON'T want to cut corners on though, is this time capsule blog post. Ben does some truly adorable things right now, and I am powerless to remember them because I now have the brainpower of a hamster who has been staying up all night and chugging Four Loko. One day I'll emerge from this fog, and then I'll sit Ben on my lap and read this to him:

  

Dear Son, 

Happy birthday sweet boy!! Today you turned one! I have never met a sweeter baby (during the daytime) and I love everything about you (between the hours of 6am-7pm,)*
 *until the moonlight drifts through your window, and transforms you into a hellish scream demon bent on the destruction of my very soul.

Things you like:

Books: You love books.  It is really REALLY cute.  You love turning their pages, and can sit by yourself for long stretches, totally entertained by the written word.  Then, you ceremoniously break them upon the spine and tear them effortlessly until they fall, vanquished, like so many corpses among your literary battlefield. You are my precious gem.

This horse painting. No artist mother could ask for a more gratifying son-- you are the ultimate audience. Each morning, you stand beneath this painting and shriek urgently until I lift you up to lovingly stroke the noses of your horses, and each evening, you must tell them goodnight before entering your crib. When you pass your horses at any time of day, you call to them shouting "NEIGH! NEIGH" and listening, as if expecting to hear their whinnies in return. 

Blueberries.  Oh my god, look at you.  Yeah I just can't.

Daddy:  All day long you you talk about Sean. Any time I answer the phone you gurgle, "Dad, dad, dadda, dad, DAD!" And I'm like "I KNOW BUDDY, I LIKE HIM TOO!" #thatshowwegotinthismessinthefirstplace (Heheheh.)

Sister:  Is she the coolest girl in the world?  Yes, possibly. And you LOVE to watch her go.

Me:  Yeah, I guess you like me as well.  Sometimes you like me SOOO much that you miss me at 4:30 in the morning and decide to wake up early so we can hang together. I complain about it a LOT now, but when you're a teenager and don't want to snuggle with me anymore, I know I'll look back wistfully. I may just go and wake you up at 4:30, just for old times sake ;).


Things you don't like:

Diapers:  To say that you don't like diapers is an understatement.  As best I can tell, you are a devout member of a secret baby religion that abjures the use of all diapers and diaper products. The look on your face when I change you is one of shock and moral violation. During each cleaning, you try with all of your newly learned motor skills to escape the sinful absorption of that which you have forsworn. 


Sleep. I know I've hinted (subtly) at this earlier in the blog post, but Ben, you really don't care for sleep at all. Lately I've been wondering if you're consuming some sort of allergens through my breast milk and have thus compiled this list of foods I regularly consume:

• Hot Toddies
• Artisanal Ciders 
• Pimento Cheese
• Oatmeal
• Chocolate baking chips, consumed directly from the bag, like an animal. 

Based on this list, I think I'll eliminate oatmeal from my diet and see if that helps.


Ben, when Sean and I decided to move forward and try to have you, I had no idea how much I would be tested along the way. You've put me through hell sometimes baby.  But hell, you were worth it. I can't believe that I get to be your mother. Waking up every morning to that smile, those hugs, and your soul crushing sweetness-- even 4:30 doesn't seem so bad. 

I love you forever my sweet boy. Now please, go back to sleep. 

Love,
Mamma

My dog, Cricket, Schedules a Performance Review with Me

 Recently, my dog Cricket scheduled a performance review with me.  She wanted to discuss my ability to fulfill my duties as her dog owner (now that I have two kids,) and also the pork tenderloin that was left out on the counter.  Now, I'll be the first to admit that Cricket's life has been hard with the arrival of a new baby and multiple moves, but I still thought her reflections were a little harsh.  Here is a transcript of our conversation:

Cricket:  Thank you for coming in today. Please, have a seat.
Me: What it is that you wanted to talk about?
Cricket: (glancing at the pork tenderloin on the counter) We'll get to that in a minute.  First, I want you to tell me, in your own words, how you think you've been performing as my owner.
Me: (Looking down guiltily) Well, I think I've had a lot of new responsibilities with the new baby, and it's been hard to make sure everyone's needs are met. 
Cricket: I see. And do you think that you've been putting out your BEST WORK in respect to me? 
Me: No, I guess not. 

Cricket: Thank you for admitting that. Now let's get down to business.  It has come to my attention that there is a pork tenderloin, there on the counter. 
Me: Yeah, I know-- I was so tired I forgot to put away dinner last night. 
Cricket: I can see that you are overworked. From now on, I will put away dinner for you. 
Me: That's so thoughtfu--- wait NO, Bad dog. 


Cricket: (Shuffling papers) Okay moving on.  There was the incident in the woods that i think we need to discuss. 
Me: The one with the dead rabbit?
Cricket: MY dead rabbit. You took it away from me.
Me: I didn't want you to get sick. Who knows how it died?
Cricket: I DO! IN MY COLD ICY JAWS OF UNERRING DEATH!
Me: (Looking doubtful) sure....
Cricket: What? You don't think I could do it?
Me: Kill a rabbit? No, you're like, 100 years old. You lack the agility. 
Cricket: AGILITY!??? Didn't you see what I did to the stuffed duck you gave me for Christmas? TOTAL EVISCERATION!
Me: Whatever, you still can't eat that Rabbit.
Cricket: This is unrelated, but can I go in the woods? 
Me: No. 

Cricket: Okay, but I have another complaint. Why won't you let me lick the baby?
Me: I do.
Cricket: In the face. I want to lick his face.
Me: You lick your butt. 
Cricket: Do not!
Me: Do too! You lick your butt almost constantly.
Cricket: You are overprotective. 
Me: ......

Cricket: ......
Me: What are you doing now?
Cricket: (innocently) with what?
Me: Your face
Cricket: I'm begging.
Me: For what?
Cricket: For you, know, any scraps that may have been left out on the counter. 
Me: Cricket no...
Cricket: Big or small.... you know just poor, neglected Cricket hoping for some affection from a once doting dog mom. 
Me: Fine. 
Cricket: Wait really? 
Me: Yeah, fine I'll cut you a piece. 
Cricket: Holy Shit are you serious??
Me: Yeah, why not. Here you go. 
Cricket: Okay, give it here!

(slurp slurp slurp) 

Me: Hey, while you're here, why don't you just sign off on my evaluation?
Cricket: oh, yeah, OF COURSE mom.  
Me: I see you just changed my performance rating to "excellent." 
Cricket: (Still slurping) Oh yeah, you're the greatest Mom.
Me: Thanks Cricket, I love you. 
Cricket: Mom? 
Me: Yes?
Cricket: Can I go in the woods?
Me: No. 

Update: We went in the woods.

Dear Son, You puked in my face

Dear Son,

I am writing this letter as a place marker, so that I will always remember this day.  Today, (on your father's birthday) you threw up directly into my face. You did so with great force, and also volume. Your precision was shocking for an 8 month old baby. Your dinner, was peas.

 

Here is a drawing I did of you puking directly into my face.

Why am I telling you this?  Because never, for the rest of your life, will I let you live this down. When you ask me why you can't borrow my self driving car to go on your first date, I will say it is because you threw up in my face.

Let me give you some context. It was your father's birthday and I was determined that we should all have a good time.  I got you and your sister dressed in adorable outfits, and I went so far as to put on makeup. Do you know how hard it is for a mother of two young children to put on makeup? I'm lucky if I can put on pants.* On this occasion, not only was I wearing pants, but I had on boots with a heel. I am basically a hero.

*Last weekend I was in my cousin's wedding, and a trained beauty professional was talking about waxing eyebrows, something I haven't done in literally a year.  All I could think was "oh shit, should I feel shame at my lack of personal grooming around this beautiful woman? And then I was like, "Naw, I've got on pants."

Because my valor knowst no limits, I also decided to take you and your sister with us out to a trendy Durham restaurant.  There we sat, a portrait of an adorable family, drinking hot toddies, eating local cheeseburgers, and wearing pants-- all of us.

I SHARED MY BURGER WITH YOU, SON.  Out of love, and also a strong desire for you to not scream in public, I gave you pieces of my local, organic cheeseburger.  I did not share my hot toddy with you, although in retrospect maybe I should be more open to potential solutions that will help you sleep through the night.  As we waited for dessert, you began to get fussy, but I was like NOT TODAY, KID.  We are going to have a NICE FAMILY DINNER, DAMMIT.  Then, I expertly flew you like superman above my head.

I am such a great mom, I told myself as I zoomed you, precariously above my makeup-ed face, look how I calmed this kid down to stop him from ruining Sean's special birthday dinner!  That's when you did it.  You vomited. (Not spit up, not drool, but REAL ACTUAL PROJECTILE STYLE VOMIT) directly into my face. 

I spluttered.  I spat.  I groped blindly for the napkins Sean was quickly handing my way.  You gurgled contentedly.  Mommy, you're silly! You said.  The vomit did not stop at my face.  It dripped down my shirt, and into my bra.  I took out my nursing pads, which were soaked, and laid them on the table of the trendy Durham restaurant.  Our waiter passed them by without comment, but he did offer to refill our Crème Fraiche.


I looked over at Sean. "To me that seemed horrible." I said.  "Did it look as bad to you as it felt to me?" (You know how these things are, sometimes they seem dramatic to us, but they don't actually look like a big deal.) 

"Do you remember Nickelodeon Slime?" Sean answered in return. I hung my head in shame.

The hipsters around us were young and childless. They went about their lives, sipping their hot toddies and avoiding eye contact, but I know they saw it happen. Can you imagine what they must have thought of us? "The most wretched couple was in the restaurant tonight" they probably told their girlfriends, or cats, or tattoo artists that evening. "This poor woman got slimed directly in her face."

 

This is what the hipsters saw.

So, my darling son, tonight you carried the day, but at the rate I'm going I think I'm actually going to emerge the victor of our ongoing battle of embarrassment.  Afterall, you're going to grow into a sensitive, intelligent, and socially attune young man, and I'm only going to give less of a damn about what people think as I get older.  When you're a teenager and you ask me why I'm embarrassing you, I'll be sure to remind you that it's because you puked in my face.  My gut tells me you'll probably just roll your eyes and say, "Mom, please go put on some pants." 

 Love,
Mamma

Sean and Katie's Place, Take Two

First family selfie in the new yard.

When I first started writing this blog, the tag line was "A blog about our first house, our first baby, and our adventures along the way." I'm really glad I documented some of this stuff--especially the stories about Millie---because I don't remember any of it. Apparently, my brain is like "I'm just going to block out any memories involving xylophone music, cool?" And I'm like, "No brain! I want to remember this stuff." And my brain is like "I NEED THIS, OK."Consequently, Millie's early years are just one slobbery, screamy, cuddly blur to me. Five years later, we seem to have circled back around.  New house. New Baby. New Sean and Katie. (Again.) This time, I know how important it will be for me to write it all down.

We welcomed our son, Ben in July, and moved out of our beautiful first home in Oberlin, Ohio a month and a half later.  After crashing with friends in NC and renting a truly tiny apartment, we've finally settled into our new house.  IT'S A GOOD ONE. We found a place in the country, with a super big wooded lot. Like-- ten acres big.  We've got a creek in the back where we can sit and drink beer in the summer, and by "summer" I mean "in March" because we live in North Carolina now, and it's delightfully mild here. According to my neighbors, there is even a white deer that lives in our woods. Obviously I've been freaking out about that because A WHITE DEER IS BASICALLY A UNICORN. And then, they told me that the horse farm down the street raises peacocks and sometimes they escape and run wild through the woods, and now I'm like "THE WORLD I LIVE IN IS MAGIC, AND ALSO HOW DO I BUILD A PEACOCK TRAP?"I know at this point you have a lot of questions.  Have you started building trails into your forest? (Yes.) Has Millie started her wilderness skills survival training yet? (Yes.) What are you going to name your peacock? (Reginald.) Is it pretentious for you to refer to your grounds as "Pemberley?" (Try and stop me.)

Anyways to update you all, I'm including some photos of the new house. I also have a before and after to show off of our guest room because I know how much you like makeover magic!

Cricket surveys her new kingdom, on the alert for any rogue peacocks.

Look at this flippin deck!!!

The guest room when we first moved in. This carpet smelled like funky mouse balls.

The guest room after Sean finished with it. #seanwillyoumakeoutwithme?

The white deer living in our woods. *visual approximation

All in all, things are going well for us.  Of course I'm going crazy trying to take care of a new baby and an almost 5 year old through all these moves, but that's a different blog post. Now, if you;ll excuse me, I need to go to home depot-- Millie and I are going to build a peacock trap.

#reginald
#tryandstopme

Let's talk about baby sleep

Welcome! Scroll down to the bottom of this post to "resources" for the free white noise recording. 

When you are the parent of a young baby, one of the first questions that people ask you is "how are they sleeping?"  If you have asked me this question recently, you've probably gotten a tearful, long and incoherent answer to this question.  The short answer is NOT WELL, and I've been feeling very, very sorry for myself.

Sleep, precious sleep.

The fact is that Ben is almost 5 months old, and he has already had 3 different houses.  Until recently, Ben had no sense of normalcy, and it was really affecting his sleep. As of this morning however, EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT, because last night Ben SLEPT FOR 8 HOURS STRAIGHT AND NOW I CANT STOP TYPING IN ALL CAPS I'M SO EXCITED AND I FEEL LIKE I COULD ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING AND ALSO I'VE HAD LIKE 3 CUPS OF COFFEE AND HAND DECORATED 15 CHRISTMAS ORNAMENTS*. I'm going to tell you how he turned the corner, but first I'm going to explain where we started from.  This is best represented in the form of a short play, which I wrote in a sleep deprived stupor just after Ben hit the dreaded 4 month sleep regression:

 *These are the ornaments.

#adorbs

Why I need Coffee: 
A mother's tale of infant sleep 
By Katie Hayes 

Cast: 

Katie: A tired Mommy

Ben: A four month old baby

7:00 pm:
(The family is eating dinner)

Ben: THE BABY IS TIRED. I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open.  I'm the tiredest baby who ever lived. PLEASE put me to bed. PLEASE PLEASE? Oh my god I'm so tired. Mommy, have you no mercy in your empty, cruel soul? 
Me: Ok, let's go to bed. (Lights go out, swaddle goes on.)
Ben: I am not tired. 
Me: What? You said you were!
Ben: I would never say that.  You're imagining things. Let's cuddle. 

10:30
Ben: OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!
Me: What?
Ben: My pacifier fell out.
Me: That was like, hours ago.
Ben: Yeah, I know, but I just now realized it. 
Me: Ok, here it is.
Ben: No. That's not good enough. 
Me: What? You said you wanted it. 
Ben: I want the real thing.
Me: Just take the pacifier. 
Ben: Titty. 
Me: You're not hungry.
Ben: (singing, to tune of "funky town") Won't you take me to. Titty tooooooown!? Won't you take me to. Titty town.
Me: Not now Ben.
Ben: Tiiiiiity Town!
Me: Fine, just sleep afterwards okay?

12:15
Ben: It's time for my workout!
Me: What's up? I heard yelling and grunting.
Ben: I'm trying to roll over. 
Me: Can you do that tomorrow?
Ben: (Rolling) Look at my skillz, Mom.
Me: You're going to get stuck like that. 
Ben: No way, I'm basically a professional. 
Me: Ben, Listen--
Ben: AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHH!
Me: I told you you'd get stuck. 
Ben: Titty.

1:45
Ben: Just leave your titties in here with me, ok?
Me: That's not how it works. 
Ben: Why do you hate the baby?

3:30 am:
Ben: I feel refreshed!
Me: Go to back to sleep Ben.
Ben: I could never sleep on such a glorious day!  I love you MOMMY! I'm so happy to seeeeeee you!
Me: It is night time. 
Ben: Says you. 
Me: Says everybody, it's 3 am. 
Ben: You're so pretty Mommy. You look like a model. 
Me: (softening) Aww thank you sweetie! I--
Ben: Let me eat your hair. 
Me: Go to sleep. 


4:15 am:
Ben: MOM! MOM! MOM!
Me: What?
Ben: You told me to tell you after 45 minutes was up.
Me: I would never say that.
Ben: Ok whatever, but since you're here (Lowers gaze.) 
Me: Why are you looking at me like that?
Ben: Like what?
Me: Like I'm a cheeseburger.
Ben: Who said anything about burgers? I'm more of a milk and cookies sort of man. 
Me: Ben, no--
Ben: Minus the cookies.

You get the picture.  Pretty much every night my baby had turned into an attention seeking titty-gobbler who tormented me and Sean. It is not an exaggeration to say that many nights he was up once an hour.

I was desperate, my life was in total chaos, and that is when I started working with Kaylan Adams, an infant sleep coach who I met through my sister.  At first I was reluctant to seek help because, after all I am an experienced mother who has successfully guided one baby through colic, xylophone music, and other infant horrors.  But, Sean had a different opinion.  When I told him about Kaylan's business he said: "She is a genius, There is no amount of money I would not pay in order to sleep at night again."  So, I took Kaylan up on her offer to help, and she sent me a bunch of materials for her online course "Start Strong." From this course I identified several different areas where I could improve.

 My first shocking discovery was that Ben was severely underslept. I hadn't previously realized this because I hadn't been writing anything down.  When Millie was a baby, I charted her sleep, feeding, and pooping cycles with a the precision of a scientist.  However Ben and I are usually on the go--trying to keep up with his four year old sister. My day was much too packed with me playing "Captain Barnacles" from Octonauts to actually take notes on my son's sleep. Once I started writing things down, I realized that he was only actually sleeping between 8-10 hours a day, instead of the recommended 13-14. 

There was also a lot of stuff in the course that I was already doing-- for example coming up with a clear bed-time routine.  What I liked about this information is that it forced me to really examine my practices and ask myself what was working, and where I was cutting corners.   

Between, Kaylan's course, sleep training, and  the reintroduction of "THE THUNDERSTORM," (A white noise recording that Sean made that now plays continuously in our home,) we now have Ben back on track in terms of his sleep. He consistently sleeps 14 hours a day, with one long (6-8 hour) stretch at night where I can get a little bit of rest.

When I walk around this weekend, I can't wait for people to ask me how Ben is sleeping. They'll still get an earful-- but this time it will be hopefully be hilarious stories about Sean accidentally shaving his beard off, or me fleeing from the grocery store like a coward.  If they're lucky, they may also get a hand decorated Christmas ornament, but that of course depends on how much coffee I've had.

Resources:

Video recording of "the Thunderstorm" an hour long white noise recording that plays continuously while our kids sleep and makes me want to continuously make out with my husband, who created it. #seanwillyoumakeoutwithme

Update: I buy my t-shirts in the grocery store now

I've never been an overly fashionable person. I remember after Millie was born I struggled with the question all first time parents ask themselves-- can I wear jeggings now that I'm a mom? Or, did the birth of my first child somehow lock me into the clothing I already owned, barring my access from all future fashion trends? Could I indeed wear jeggings in 2013? Reader, I tell you I could.

But now, after the birth of my son in 2017, I am older and wiser. I find myself liberated from the pangs of uncertainty regarding my wardrobe. I am living back in the south,  I am operating on very little sleep, and I WILL WEAR WHATEVER GARMENT MOST EASILY ALLOWS ME TO TAKE MY BOOBS OUT IN THIS BOJANGLES. * **Period.
*To breastfeed, of course
** #freebojangles tho

Tonight, I reached new levels of relaxation, when I bought some high quality ladies' apparel in my local Kroger grocery. Naturally, I had waited until both of my children were asleep to go grocery shopping, because-- and I say this with love-- children are monsters.  Earlier today, I had failed to buy a carving pumpkin at the Fresh Market because Ben would not stop screaming.  Most likely, he was simply outraged at the price of artisanal pumpkins, but he elevated his concern to such levels that I could no longer focus on my grocery list. We walked out of the store, which probably saved me from buying a $15.00 jar of imported capers.

This evening I trotted through Kroger, hunting after the items I had failed to buy this afternoon. In the middle of the candy isle I saw it-- a giant display of star wars t-shirts. Hold the phone. I said to myself. I can buy clothes in the grocery store now? IS IT SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE TO BUY MY SHIRTS IN THE KROGER? I asked myself? No of course not. WOULD OBI WAN KENOBI HAVE DONE IT? Yes. Absolutely. I think i can say with 100% certainty that Obi Wan Kenobi would buy all of his shirts at the grocery store, because Jedi's don't have time to fuck around with driving to Kohls.

So, I grabbed the t-shirt and bought it. It's an awesome find, featuring a picture of Chewbacca with a caption that reads "Wookie Of The Year." Hahahaha! Even as I type that I am cracking up. Whoever made this shirt is a marketing genius, and the folks at Disney's apparel wing are not paying them enough. 

Seriously, give this person a raise.

 Anyways, thanks to whoever made this shirt, and had the vision and leadership to broker a merchandising deal with Kroger.  You are a model of corporate innovation. My only complaint is that the cut of this shirt favors a 13 year old boy, (undoubtedly your target audience.) As of the time of writing, I have taken a pair of scissors to the t-shirt, in order to give myself easier access to breastfeeding in the bojangles.

The Grapefruit I Will Never Eat

There's a grapefruit on my kitchen counter and it's reminding me of all my inadequacies as a parent. I should have fucking known better.  I should have learned by now not to buy fruit that can't be consumed one-handed.  I am a mom.  I cannot reasonably be expected to get out a bowl, peel a piece of fruit, divide it into edible pieces, separate the fruit from the nasty skin, eat it, and then wipe my hands WITH A NAPKIN of all things.  Can you imagine? A NAPKIN. Christ what was I thinking?

I knew better in the grocery store.  I knew I should have gone with bananas or something.  Or apples. You can't go wrong with apples.  You can eat them one handed AND you can cut them up to take to the playground as a snack.  Oh JESUS I am out of apples and I am about to take my kids to the playground.  I have a mutiny on my hands. I guess I could pack up this grapefruit, but OH WAIT THAT WILL NEVER WORK.

I will never, ever eat this.

You know what?  I'm just going to throw this thing away.  It's taunting me, and making me feel undue pressure. I will try again in another year.  When I am not breastfeeding, I will have the capacity to peel and eat citrus without having to enlist childcare services. It's probably all shriveled up inside anyways.

Actually, now that I think of it, I could probably send it to work with Sean.  I bet at his office people have free usage of both of their hands, and can peel grapefruits as they please. Those bastards. They probably just sit around eating tropical tree fruits like anything. I bet they are scarfing down kumquats between their conference calls over there. Curse them.  Curse them all.  They do not deserve this grapefruit.

Nope, there is only one course of action.  I will keep my grapefruit--my sweet bauble of ambrosia--on my counter.  There I will dream.  There it will rot. I will keep it there until it becomes green with mold. One day, both my children will be sleeping at the same time and I will go to eat it.  Then, I will discover the mold and throw it out.  Eventually, I'll eat one of the sensible apples I just bought at the store.

This is my life now.

Sarah's Wedding and the Everyday Muffin Tamers

My sister-in-law Sarah is a genuinely thoughtful person, so when she asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding scheduled less than two months after my due date, she did it in a no pressure sort of way.  "I don't want to stress you out," she said, "I know the baby will be really little at that point, so it's ok to say no if you want." At the time, the idea of appearing postpartum in acres of chiffon was not that intimidating to me, because after Millie was born, my body had bounced back really quickly.  In fact, the combination of a 9 month booze cleanse, weightlifting my baby carrier, and breastfeeding had left me with a sort of rocking bod and Michelle Obama arms. Foolishly, I assumed I would tighten up in the same fashion after my second baby.*
*Throws head back and laughs, ruefully. 

Little did I know that the birth of my son would involve doctors cutting through my abdomen, presumably with a buzz-saw, and performing an emergency hysterectomy to remove my uterus, who would later be christened "Cersei Lannister" by readers of this blog. Now, 9 weeks post-surgery,  I am left with a pouchy, still-pregnant-looking stomach and I'm ashamed to tell you how much it bothers me.

So it was with trepidation in my heart that I approached Target last week, seeking some comfort in the form of SPANX. I was prepared to do my duty and honor my friend, but I'll be dammed if I was going to do it without shape-wear.

I found exactly the thing I was looking for. They were sort of a stretchy combination panty-hose/biker short getup, and they are-- undoubtedly-- the least sexy things I've ever worn.  As an added blow, Sean discovered gleefully that they are actually called "everyday muffin tamers." As in their ACTUAL NAME on the REAL, NOT MADE UP PACKAGING FOR THIS PRODUCT, is "Everyday Muffin Tamer." It's ok if you need to take a minute here to laugh at me.

I wouldn't lie to you about this

Well I'm here to report, those things worked.  I would heartily recommend them to any woman who has recently had abdominal surgery and/or a La Bamba burrito. Armed in my muffin tamers, I bravely entered the Bridal Affirmation Suite for my beautification procedures.  For those unfamiliar, the Bridal Affirmation Suite, (or, BAS.) is the central location at any wedding where the bride, bridesmaids, and mothers gather to dress for the ceremony.  Typical activities in the BAS include drinking champagne, applying makeup, and about 4-6 hours of telling each other how pretty we look.*
*which is always true, especially the more champagne we have.

I've been in a BAS before, but never when 9 weeks postpartum.  I would HIGHLY recommend this experience to new mothers out there.  During a time in my life when I'm averaging a shower every 3 days and 4 consecutive hours of sleep a night, I get to go into a room with highly trained beauty professionals that will hide the bags under my eyes and apply false eyelashes to my person? YES PLEASE.  Oh, look, someone brought champagne? SURE I WILL TAKE A MANGO MIMOSA. And also my daughter is in here but there's like 30 doting relatives in here watching her? ANOTHER MIMOSA IT IS.

Thanks to my muffin tamers and the inventors of false eyelashes, I felt confident standing up next to my beautiful sister in law (seriously-- no one that hot should also be that cool!) on her special day.  All in all, the wedding weekend was filled with wins for Sean and I. The kids were relatively well behaved on the 12+ hour car rides there and back. Millie was a flower girl and we made lots of jokes about what to do if she picked her nose during the ceremony. Then, Millie actually did pick her nose during the ceremony, but I handled it discreetly.* Then, the mom of the other flower girls explained to me that since she didn't eat it, we can also count that as a #momwin. Mom logic is awesome.
 *I put the booger inside my bouquet, because I'm classy.

Now I'm back home, and I'm missing the Bridal Affirmation Suite.  I haven't showered in 3 days again, and Millie would probably tell on me if I tried to day-drink champagne while Sean was at work.  However, I'm still smiling, because I've got a secret weapon--not just for wedding days-- but for everyday use. The packaging doesn't lie.  #muffintamers #everyday.