Tag Archives: you may judge me for this and I may not care

If I am plugging away next to you at Barnes & Noble, don’t do these things:

1. Talk loudly to yourself. I always feel like it’s rude to not respond to you, especially when you speak in rhetorical questions–Where did I put that dictionary? Can you believe some people?–but you’re clearly having that conversation with no one in particular.

2. Breathe like you are snoring. I am tempted to jostle you awake, but it turns out you’re just way too zoned into that video game on your phone to notice everyone thought you were experiencing severe sleep apnea.

3. Make a weird phone call, forcing me to eavesdrop every single syllable. Anything medical applies here.

4. Dress cuter than me. I’ll be in sweats. Plan accordingly. Yeah, white skinny jeans and summer scarf, I’m looking at you.

5. Stare at me. I’ll take care of the staring around here, thankyouverymuch.

6. Be a high school couple. It takes every ounce of self control for me to not go buy you Bibles, condoms and Invisalign.

7. Play Gloria Estefan on the loudspeakers. Just…no. No, no, no, no, no.

8. Read something with an awesome cover. I just want to creepily make my way behind you to read a paragraph or two.

9. Read something I’ve been wanting to read. See #8.

10. Bring your child. I’ll feel guilty for ever leaving mine and get lost watching your 2-year old play with the trains. Major stranger danger alarm.



Sunday Runday

Yet again, you can thank my husband’s off-handed comment about the likelihood of
a morning run for the actual completion of a morning run. Sunday morning I was out of bed by 6:05 and out the door by 6:20. This one’s free: running before the sun comes up is not as hot as running in the heat of the day. Times a million.

It was still humid, and my dri-fit tank was soaked during the first mile, but there was a gigantic difference in how I felt running in the dark versus running in the afternoon. Genius award for me. I ran five miles for the first time since 2011. I did the math during the run to make sure that’s true. Five fun, progressively faster miles. It was so fun I actually took a few pictures and debated tacking on another half mile or so, but I didn’t want “fun” to turn into “utterly regrettable.”


This is what a neighborhood looks like in case you haven't seen one. I sure thought it was worth capturing.

This is what a neighborhood looks like in case you haven’t seen one. I sure thought it was worth capturing.


Another perk of early running: hiding your water bottle behind a decorative rock without fear of tampering.

Another perk of early running: hiding your water bottle behind a decorative rock without fear of tampering.

After scrubbing off the stink of long run success, Addison and I booked it to church. I worked in the nursery, and this week was a bit of a doozy. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, especially if you ever leave your child in a nursery setting. I like babies, I really (usually) do. But the thing with your own mess monster is that you LOOOOVE them so much, it makes up for the gooeyness/smelliness/general unsanitariness that comes along with their existence. Sunday it was a lot of other people’s kids’ messes and tantrums, compounded by my own kid refusing to evacuate my arms. Wisely, they only schedule nursery workers once a month so those fine folks can catch their breath and soak their work shirts in Clorox for a solid 21 days.

Nothing a grande iced coffee and nap couldn’t fix.

My husband will be so disappointed that I waited until now to mention the Dolphins won their season opener. Go Fins! Fins Up! Fin in the Water! And anything else the cool kids are saying this year.

We were on the way to a dinner at church Sunday night when I heard a thwapping outside my car. In celebratory fashion, Clayton had secretly attached his Dolphins flag to one of my rear windows. Secretly because had he asked if he could affix flapping aqua and orange oceanic sports paraphernalia on my car, we all know what the answer would have been.

I’m doing my best to roll with it this year, to wear my pre-approved, non-bad-luck-causing shirts like a good fan, and decline Sunday afternoon social invitations on our behalf without even mentioning them to Clayton. And I do really like the post-win good mood that lasts for the whole week after a game…or until the Jets win. So  yeah, in all seriousness and for the health of our family, Go Fins.

After dinner Addison ran around looking adorable and showing off a new pair of kicks she got for her birthday. No, I do not mind her gooeyness at all.

A grass4


A grass sun ig

Moderate Effort, Maximum Embarrassment

This morning Clayton and I woke up nice and early for a 5k at our local zoo. I “accidentally” waited until last night to inform him it was a 7:30 a.m. start, not 8 a.m. Oopsies, we already paid! My bad, Dollface.

Unreasonably, I decided to shoot for a PR/check off an item on my Under 30 wish list, despite a serious lapse in training. Meaning I did not train. I know better than to assume I’ll push myself to a PR effort, especially going Garmin-less; I absolutely will not. So my secret weapon in this run was Clayton’s snobby athletic superiority and his claim that I can “definitely” go faster if I try harder. I’m still not quite as convinced as he is, but if he’s next to me or, better yet, a few steps ahead, at least I’ll definitely move quicker than normal just to shut him up.

The race probably started earlier to beat the heat and humidity. In theory, anyway. To actually beat the humidity it would have to start in Rhode Island. The race started about 10 minutes late. Not the way to the heart of Floridians already drenched in sweat walking from their cars to the start line. Even that little window allowed the humidity to climb from miserable to haha why are you idiots outside in running clothes.

My sister in law was on Addie duty, and the four of us had just moseyed on down near the start, fake stretching and ignoring that feeling of having to pee a sixth time, when all of a sudden the big crowd of people surged forward. I didn’t hear an announcement or gun. Just a rush of hot air whooshing by and a sudden moment of panic that the world was ending because we missed the start! Yeah, the world wasn’t ending. We just walked like four steps and got in the middle of the pack. Sometimes I’m a stickler for rules.

The course was pretty narrow for the number of runners, and I missed most of the view of the Hillsborough River dodging people in front of me. Running through the zoo may have been cool for people without annual passes that don’t go once a week, but Mama has seen that same monkey 15 times and would love for you to not stop abruptly to look at it. Again, very narrow with LOTS of zigzagging.

I was struggling at the end. It was muggy and we were running through a boring parking lot. Clayton somehow talked me into booking it the last 0.1 mile. Bad. Idea. I ran through the finish (picking off Miss “pink visor” that Clayton kept pointing out as our target, might I add), slowed for about 1/8 of a second in an attempt to have my shoe timing chip cut off, and realized things were about to get real up in that zoo. And also up in my throat. I jerked my foot away from the kind and understanding race worker and jello-walked to a cluster of bushes right next to the finish line. I then proceeded to complete about four cycles of dry heaving/pacing back and forth behind a stranger’s car. I may never reach that level of attractiveness ever again.

I heard the race worker tell Clayton two more times that he “needed” my race chip. Dude, you NEED me to not puke on your crisp, orange, zoo-issued polo. I assure you that is your most pressing need right now. It was both mortifying (it’s not like I busted out 6 minute miles…talking to you, GI system) and gratifying to experience that running rite of passage. Would I have preferred to experience it alone, hunched over foliage in my own yard? Sure, but where’s the fun/blog entry in that?

You see where I’m going with this, yes? Leading with all the excuses so that the big let down at the end seems expected and justified.

Oh, and I have exercise-induced asthma.

And I didn’t properly warm up.

While I did technically PR (as a Noa; who knows what those college 5k times were, before I discovered brown ales and hosted another human in my loins), I didn’t hit my goal time. By 25 seconds. That doesn’t sting at all. I made a fake-puking, chip-stealing loon out of myself to miss my goal by 25 seconds.

I’m still pumped to have broken a 10 minute/mile pace without really running beforehand. Certainly not impressing anyone, but it just sounds so much faster to me for some reason. And when scrolling through the results, I’ll be honest: it was thrilling to see my name before the pace number jumped to double digits. I hate talking about times because I know I’m slow, but dang it, I’m not the slowest!

Once I could see and stand straight, I turned over my apparently invaluable timing chip and waited as my husband grabbed every free item at the post-race party. Granola bars for toddlers even though we don’t have a toddler? You bet! Tiny packets of strange spreadable sunflower butter? Pack it up! Gargantuan moldy oranges that have no place to be stored in our fully loaded stroller? Two, please!

We met up with my sister in law and Addison for some necessary photo ops with livestock and an abbreviated tour of the zoo, mainly just to see the baby elephants. I wasn’t crying when they locked trunks in sweet baby elephant love, they kicked up dust in the air, I swear.

Just when it couldn't get any grosser after that run.

Just when it couldn’t get any grosser after that run.

zoo 5k fam

Have a baby. You deserve it.

On the fence about procreating? Here are 10 completely selfish reasons to get busy gettin’ busy.

1. You know that moment in Target or the grocery store when you realize you’ve been talking out loud to yourself, either reciting your list, the other errands you have to do or that Ke$ha song you heard right before coming in? When you’re accompanied by a baby you can easily recover with a quick, animated “What do you think about that, peanut?” directed towards the shopping cart. That’s right – you were talking to the baby the whole time.

2. It’s totally forgivable to forego showering, using makeup and general hygiene as long as your kid has on a coordinating, adorable outfit. Preferably with an ironic slogan on it, like “I was partying all night in my crib” or “Spit Up Distance Champion” or whatever.

3. Boobs.

4. Really don’t feel like driving four hours to that creeper cousin’s wedding even though you RSVP’d months ago? Babies can EASILY develop a cough the night before dreaded events.

5. I have been late to everything since I started driving. As of July 15, 2012, it is no longer my fault that I show up 15 minutes tardy for every party.

6. Naps are more acceptable for mothers. Oftentimes encouraged.

7. I spent about half as much money on groceries for the first six months of Addison’s life because her gargantuan carrier took up the entire shopping cart, only leaving room for the bare essentials to be carefully packed in around her. Coffee. Creamer. Something chocolate. And done.

8. My running pace has increased thanks to the 40 pounds of resistance provided by the jogging stroller. I have also abandoned my iPod in favor of being serenaded by baby babbling.

9. “Honey, I really need a night out with the girls. You know…all that taking care of the baby and everything.”

10. Boobs.

Am I missing anything?

A face

A face2

A blueberry face

The Birth Story, Part 3

(Part 1 here. Part 2 here.)

Thanks to God’s infinite providence, the doctors had changed shifts, and my absolute favorite doctor from my practice was on duty. She was much less strict about the time limit (I didn’t have any signs of infection yet) and worked with me to try and stick to the non-surgical labor I wanted.

Getting the epidural actually proved more difficult than anticipated. My stubborn defense is that the doctor did a lousy job of explaining what he was doing and alerting me when/where I was going to feel touching or poking. Basically, I was a big, fat flincher. I flinched so hard right before he stuck the needle in that he jumped backwards.

Finally, we conquered that hurdle and soon I was reclined and relaxing on the bed. Around 9:30 p.m. my doctor checked me again. (For anyone who is counting, this makes the 107th time I was checked.) Six centimeters! Woohoo! A hundred hours of labor to get one and a half centimeters, add drugs, and I get to six in an hour and a half. Someone’s uterus was obviously not relaxing going the natural route, but I won’t name names. I was completely thrilled with my progress, and my doctor was convinced I would be at 10 centimeters and ready to push in an hour or so.

Clayton’s mom had arrived by this time, and she hung out with us for awhile, along with my parents who had been invited back to the room once the epidural took hold. We were all in pretty good spirits.

The doctor checked me again around 10:45 p.m. To my surprise and disappointment, I was only 8 centimeters. And I had a fever, suggesting I was finally starting to get the dreaded infection. I know in my core that if I still had the doctor who was on duty in the morning, I would have been wheeled into the operating room at this point. But Dr. Peden agreed to give me just a bit longer, and I am forever grateful to her for honoring my wishes in a safe, reassuring way.

During the next hour, I tried to prepare myself for a C-section. If I had not progressed appropriately, I knew that was what the baby would need to avoid an infection. Honestly, I accepted it. I was ready to undergo the procedure that had topped my list of fears my entire pregnancy. If Addison needed to come safely into this world via surgery, I would give that to her. I fully anticipated that was going to be our story.

Around midnight, Dr. Peden returned for one final check. I locked in on her face, trying to read every eyebrow twitch as good news or bad news. Then she smiled. “9.9,” she said. “I think we can go ahead and push.”

I was ecstatic and filled with relief. I thought it was over, that we had reached our destination. I was so, so wrong.

The Birth Story, Part 2

(Part 1 here)

When we arrived at the hospital, I was taken to a room in the Emergency Department so that the on call OB/GYN from my office could make sure my water had broken. It had. Unfortunately I wasn’t dilated at all. She then casually mentioned that I would be taken upstairs to start pitocin. I’m sorry, do what now?

My doctor explained that because my water broke, I would need to deliver the baby or at least be in hard labor within 12 hours to avoid getting an infection that could pass to the baby. This was vastly different than what I understood from our conversation weeks earlier in her office; I thought I had 12 hours to try and have contractions on my own if my water broke. Nope, 12 hours to get the baby out. Time clock: started. Strike two.

My doctor agreed to give me a couple of hours to see if I started having stronger contractions or progressed at all before beginning pitocin. I didn’t. And what had been one of my greatest reservations had to take place. I got an IV and started on pitocin to induce labor around 10 a.m. With the IV, I could only move around with the bulky cart attached to the drip bag. Strikes three and four. I don’t know what game we were playing, but my birth plan was definitely losing.

The contractions began getting stronger and more noticeable. For several hours I was handling them well. Clayton would rub my back and a birth ball and I became besties. Lying in bed was horrendous, so that was nixed pretty quickly. My parents visited for awhile (another no-no on the original plan). At first, it was a welcome distraction to have other people to talk to and laugh with. They brought lunch for Clayton while I munched on the hospital’s finest ice chips. So cliché.

Unfortunately, their visit stretched into the time the contractions crossed over into the much-harder-to-manage range. I had shown my parents how to see the contractions on the monitor, and every time I was about to have one, my dad would announce it from looking at the monitor before I had felt it yet. “Here comes one,” he’d say, making me unable to relax for any extra seconds I might have had before feeling it myself.

My mom could tell we were entering the no talk, no laugh zone and told my dad it was time to go. It was early afternoon when they left, and after that, things got real. The back rubs no longer felt good and Clayton needed to stay a good three feet away from me during contractions. The birth ball was losing its magic. I’m shuttering a little just thinking about those few hours and feeling perfectly content at the idea of Addison being an only child.

The pain got intense. I was having strong contractions every one and a half to two minutes. Despite how uncomfortable it was, I figured at least things were moving along and I could tell through the strength of the contractions that we had to be progressing. I decided I wanted the epidural around 7:30 p.m. My nurse wanted to check me one last time before she left at 8 and asked if I could hold off on getting the epidural until then. I was at the point in labor when I measured time in contractions. I honestly didn’t know if I had that many epidural-less contractions left in me, but I agreed. But I negotiated a 7:50 check.

One and a half centimeters. Thirteen hours of labor for one and a half centimeters. I was stunned and disheartened and totally discouraged. I wanted the largest cocktail of pain meds this place would serve me. I had just writhed in pain for hours and it was completely useless (according to my less than trustworthy reasoning).

Beyond being completely demoralized, my not progressing also made the C-section conversation relevant. We knew that there was a chance I could be forced to go that route if I didn’t get far enough along in the 12 hour window after my water broke. And now I had hit the time limit and was at a ridiculous one and a half centimeters.

The Body Issue

I’ve debated writing about this for awhile for fear of being judged shallow or having the “wrong” priorities. But here’s the deal: having a baby demolishes your body. I read a lot about how the body changes during pregnancy and what each alteration is doing for the baby. Surprisingly, my growing abdomen didn’t bother me at all during those 38+ weeks. Lots of people love a pregnant belly and my friends and family obviously embraced the changes.

picnic island nat

About 12 hours before my water broke

The Then

But then the baby came out. She weighed 8 pounds. Not 35. The day I went home from the hospital, I had packed the most unflattering, body-hugging nightgown/dress. I tried to hide myself heading down the elevator and getting into the car. When I got home, my well-intentioned brother who had no experience with pregnancy, childbirth or the aftermath looked at me and said, cautiously, “So, not trying to be mean, but now what happens to…all of this?” And waved his hand over my midsection, which still looked like I was stowing away a baby.

nat abn hospital

I shrugged it off at the time, knowing that the few days after delivery were not going to be my most attractive. My midsection was the least of my worries.

In the first two weeks, I got down about 20 pounds from my heaviest pregnancy weight. It was encouraging, and I figured it was a sign that my body was going to bounce back quickly. And then that little weight loss factory completely closed up shop. Stalled all production and  locked the doors and windows. Nada. Nothing. Nil. I didn’t lose one pound for about two months.

first walk nat clayton

About a week and a half after delivery

Now, no one means to make you feel bad, but once there is a baby to play with and talk about, the conversations directed to you are frequently body-related. I was often faced with well-meaning “you’re looking good”s and “have you lost weight?”s. The problem was that I hadn’t lost weight and didn’t feel like I looked remotely good. Those comments only reminded me of how unhappy I was with my figure.

About 3 weeks after I had Addison I started doing light weights for my upper body in a last ditch effort to slim an ounce or two from my arms before my brother’s wedding. It was a lost cause. However, the wedding proved to be a glaring indication that my perception of my body was so grossly unhealthy and skewed. When it came time for the bridesmaids to put on our dresses, I almost had a complete breakdown comparing what I [thought I] looked like to what the other girls looked like. Their boobs were proportional. I thought mine spilled out of my strapless dress. The other bridesmaids’ dresses cinched in at their waist. I saw myself in a light pink column of fabric with nary a waist in sight. Their arms had definition. I saw every imagined extra fold of skin on my arms.

That day, I did my very best to keep myself together and redirect my focus. Of all the things to think about that day, I knew my overanalyzed body image didn’t even deserve to make the list. So I blinked back tears and tried to avoid the room in our suite that was wall to wall mirrors. Unfortunately, I also tried to avoid the photographer.

Thankfully, throughout the day I began to feel a little more comfortable and not deathly afraid of a camera flash. When I saw the pictures from that amazing day, I was so very disappointed in myself. Not because I looked fat and ugly, but because I looked beautiful. And there wasn’t one minute during the celebration that I allowed myself to feel it. I was tormenting myself about my appearance, and because of that, there are a slew of pictures I wish I had but refused to take.

The Now

And here we are today, almost four and a half months since meeting my little peanut pie. I have lost a few more pounds…s  l   o   w   l   y. To be brutally honest, I still hate how I look in the mirror and in pictures. One of the hardest issues for me is not feeling like myself. For months, I have not recognized the curves and the softness that I see staring back at me. I don’t know who that person is, and I still have not learned to accept this new shape. Instead, I try to hide it or avoid it. Witnessing me getting dressed is a whole ball of fun for my husband as he dodges the dozens of articles of clothing tossed around the room before the final ensemble is settled on.

I feel like I have been at a crossroads recently where it’s time to shut up about my hang-ups. Even though I am convinced everyone—family, friends, Facebook friends, strangers, Facebook strangers, cashiers at Target—are judging my appearance, the reality is that no one cares. The only one scrutinizing every pound and cursing at the scale is me. It is easy to throw into conversations that “it’s so worth it, though” and smile affectionately at my kid. I know my lines in this play. The real work now is to actually claim that belief and force myself to grasp what that easy sentiment means.

I had a baby for crying out loud. My body, with the teeniest bit of assistance from the hubs, created a human being. The most perfect, adorable, hilarious, smart, chubby little girl. My extra pounds were what nourished her. My extra skin is what held her. My labored breathing allowed her to have strong, hearty lungs. My gigantic boobs are what sustain her and give her those kissable cheeks. While my crazy brain has perfected the art of compartmentalizing my adoration of her and my self-deprecation, I need to begin using the former to combat the latter.       

So I’m trying. I’m really, really trying. Not to lose 15 more pounds but to be proud of all the other accomplishments I can brag about from the past 13 and a half months, some of which are entirely due to this temple of mine. I grew a baby, I pushed that thing out and now I am raising her the best I know how. I know that I won’t ever be satisfied with this current body. I am focused on changing it. But I am also working so hard on not being focused on my body all of the time.

Apparently, it’s a struggle. I would not have written a novella about this if I had done one sit up and out popped the six pack or if I could simply be fat and happy. Neither have been the case. I know that I don’t have throngs of readers, but if you have any experience with this—lost the baby weight in the first two weeks, still haven’t lost the weight, don’t even care about the weight or anywhere in between, I’d love to hear your story! Although, if you fall into the first camp, I have a serious eye roll with your name on it.

And here’s a video that prevents me from feeling anything other than sheer joy and will probably make your life: Addie the Enforcer. I’m not lying when I say she really is so worth it.

I don’t want to wait for our lives to be over at the hands of a 14 year old.

Wait a minute. So you’re telling me that just because I up and had an adorable, sweet baby that in 15 years I have to take care of a teenager?

Well then I quit.

Yesterday my friend and I decided to grab subs at a nearby Publix for a late lunch. We strolled (literally, we had two strollers) around the corner to sit at the tables outside a frozen yogurt shop, across the street from a high school. Ten minutes after we got comfy in our almost-but-not-technically pajama’s, the floodgates of adolescent awkwardness burst forth with innumerable teenage miscreants.

It was like Showtime’s version of Dawson’s Creek. And it was terrifying. I felt like they were closing in from all angles and were going to attack us and our sleeping babies at any moment. Not for flesh, like zombies, which would be entirely more comforting, but to devour any hope that we had of raising decent, fully adjusted children. You know, children that are NOT planning late night secret brawls with the distinct goal of “busting that bitch up.”

Profanity. Cleavage. Sombreros. It was a really weird half hour.

We tried to pick out—if we could find them in the lot—kids that might resemble our future high schoolers. To our right sat the 98 pound hoodlum adorned with a beanie and skinny jeans that was ring-leading the aforementioned chick fight and defending that one time she cracked a girl’s head on a vending machine. She was out of the running (but would later appear in my nightmares knocking down my door and beating me to death with Baked Lays). To our left sat a greasy haired clan of sophomore boys eager to dig into a pack of cigs they stole from some neglectful parent, older sibling or the unsuspecting Circle K owner. They were out.

Then a beam of heavenly light shown through the yogurt shop windows and there she was. Straight blonde hair, a headband no less, sitting perfectly contentedly with her mother AND GRANDMOTHER daintily snacking on a low calorie after-school treat. “Dibs,” I thought. “That’s the one I want!” Girlfriend was even wearing a cardigan. The symbol of all who are studious, chaste and shop at The Gap rather than Abercrombie and Fitch.

I know this is sounding creepy, but we were really desperate for some sort of redemption at this point. Otherwise we were handing our kids over to the smokers who were too young to hold a driver’s license and getting the heck out of there. Game over on the whole parenting thing.

I am trying hard to rationalize this experience and remind myself this was a skewed sample. These were the handfuls of kids who had no pre-planned, free time-stealing activities awaiting them after school…or a ride home, for that matter. We eventually saw the sprightly track team running through the school’s parking lot, which represented the athletes who would be stuck at practice just long enough to miss an invitation to bust any bitches up. And then there were the adorable geeks who were all worked up in a discussion about school supplies. With a glow appearing on her face and no doubt the vision of her future pubescent little boy in her mind, my friend said hopefully, “And it’s not even August!” We loved the nerds.

If I thought my job as a parent was difficult before, this afternoon added to that by pounds and pounds of mascara, low cut tank tops and iPods. I have my work cut out for me, especially with a stunning little lady on my hands.

And if all else fails, Pinterest better have some tips on the kitchen-as-classroom situation because Mama’s little hoodlum is getting homeschooled.

Addie dress1

12 Days of Parenthood

Life with a baby is…different.

Life with this baby is exhausting. Bewildering. Surreal.

But also hilarious and silly and completely gratifying.

Allow me to share what I know to be true after 12 full time days of baby wranglin’.

Babies are fickle creatures. They can sleep anywhere in any position during the day, but at night they will only sleep curled up in balls on your chest. Any other slight variation, a crib or bassinet perhaps, is quickly (and loudly) dismissed.

Babies wake up screaming to eat, only to fall sound asleep in the middle of a feeding.

Babies wake up if you change them in the middle of a feeding, but then they get the hiccups and can’t eat.

Babies wait until they are diaperless to pee. This includes in the middle of a newborn photo shoot while being held in mid air over the tile floor.

Babies go through more outfits than an Academy Awards host. They will spit up on your favorite stylish onesie and keep the corny gifted onesie squeaky clean.

Babies will make the cutest face you’ve ever seen immediately after throwing a migraine-inducing tantrum. This is probably some sort of built-in safety mechanism.

Babies will act like angels when you have visitors so that your horror stories sound completely embellished and you look like a big fat over-reactor who drew those bags under your eyes yourself.

Babies are excellent post-partum weight loss tools because they sense when you are eating and pee, poop or become otherwise unhappy after you take two bites.

If babies sleep for four and a half hours swaddled one night, they will detest being swaddled the next night.

That baby talk you swore you’d never use and mocked others mercilessly about? Babies flippin’ love it. You will do it.

Babies go through some diapers. I’m not kidding. It’s insane.

Babies hold in their poop until you get to the doctor’s office. Then they let it loose.

Babies make crazy adorable noises that should be played on repeat in high stress environments. It’s hard to be angry with baby squeaks in the background. 

If babies are held for three hours by their Abuelo after he grilled dinner for you, they will smell strongly of barbecued burgers for the rest of the night. This makes fathers more willing to change their diapers.

Babies’ heads might as well come painted like a bull’s-eye for all the kisses that land there. Hairy baby heads get twice as many kisses.

Babies were invented by the people who own stock in the Boppy.

faces instagram  collage

Reasons Why I May Resent My Baby, or First Trimester Blues

1. The smell of coffee makes me want to vomit.

2. I feel more guilty if I eat junk food.

3. I could not properly celebrate FSU’s lackluster victory over UF. With beer or cartwheels.

4. All I have the energy to do is sleep.

5. My clothes are tighter five weeks before “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” says they should be.

6. The smell of…everything makes me want to vomit.

7. I almost sobbed halfway through checking out at the grocery store when I realized I was in the express lane and had a full cart. I seriously had to blink back the tears.

8. My husband makes fun of my burping.

9. I am on the verge of paying an assistant an exorbitant salary to remove any trace of chicken, cooked or uncooked, from my sight, smell and general vicinity.

10. No more running. Which translates to no more runner’s high.Which translates to endless grumpy pants.

11. I can’t brush my teeth without dry heaving. Despite all the unsolicited advice and pregnancy recaps from friends and strangers alike, no one seems to be able to relate to this one.

12. Clayton and I had to pull over on the second day of our trek to Florida because I was having a “I-am-so-tired-I-can’t-go-on-living” meltdown. A Yoohoo, bag of M & M’s and three-minute cat nap at a gas station helped dramatically. (So did swapping out “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” audio book for some seriously awful pop music.)

13. Our life savings has been transferred to Planet Smoothie in daily $4 increments.


Thankfully, I’m well past the trying times of the first trimester and most of that list. Except the occasional teeth brushing incident (seriously, what is the deal with that?) and chicken is still blacklisted.

So far, Mama likes the second trimester burst of energy and appetite. And even though you will probably skip right on over them, much like I would if it was your bambino, here are a few snapshots of Señor/Señorita Coffee Bean. It has a distinguishable head, body, spine and limbs now, which is light years beyond what we saw at our first photo shoot. And we are kind of stoked.

Silly Baby Noa, dry heaving notwithstanding, I can’t quit you.

sono 17 weeks3 (2) sono 17 weeks1 (2)

sono 17 weeks2 (2)