Out with the old, in with the pressure.

Dear reader,

Well, we more or less survived the holidays. Eli went through six (yup. 6) rounds of Christmas with various family members, and made out like a bandit at every single one. The past few days he has had this expectant look on his face that clearly says “presents? Where are today’s, mom?”. And I can’t blame him. That was whole lotta Christmas for one little dude. Fortunately, the nightly panic attacks about bedtime are starting to diminish a little bit now that we’ve been at home more consistently than on the road, so I think he’ll make a full recovery.

Every year we find ourselves staring at the promise of a clean slate, and new beginnings, and it happens. The resolutions. This year, I shall lose eleventy five pounds!” “This is the year I quit drinking!” “Marriage! This is MY year!”, and usually I’m on the bandwagon. Resolutions are good things, unless you have the tendency to do what I do.

I make a few resolutions, and honestly intend to keep them (as do we all), but then instead of being a thing that is supposed to be good for me, and help me to be a better version of myself, the pressure of failing to meet my goals on this new trip around the sun starts to eat at me. The minute I miss a day of running, or meditation, or I eat meat on a designated meatless day, or I have two glasses of wine, or, or, or (etc.)… I panic. I have failed. I messed up, and once again am not perfect (there’s that perfectionism problem rearing it’s ugly head again). I will beat myself up over whatever insignificant thing it is I have done, or not done, and then resign myself to the fact that I am a failure.

How ridiculous is that? Pretty darn, I’d say. So this year, instead of making a list of things that I know I will fail to keep (start making all of Eli’s meals from scratch was one of them, just so you can see the bar to which I was aiming), I decided not to. Instead of trying to squeeze more hours into the day, and convince everyone around me that I am in fact, Wonder Woman, I am going to focus this year on cutting myself a little slack. On doing the things that have to be done without feeling guilty for not enjoying them (who in their right mind ENJOYS washing diapers?). On doing the things that I enjoy without pressuring myself to put out a perfect product (art is NEVER finished, even once it’s in the frame). On being present wherever I am, instead of always frantically thinking “oh, crap! What’s next?”. The beauty of this plan? I am GOING to fail at least once. And it’s ok. Learning to fall with style is a part of life. I can hack it.

Until next time, dear readers.

A “nobody warned me how hard it was to help a baby detox from the holidays!” me


Well, I’m officially a mom.

Dear Reader,

Why am I just now “officially” a mom? I have clearly been a parent for over 8 months now, so why is it just now official?

Orange puke.

Gross? Yes. But I would relive that moment a million times if I had to.

Here’s what happened. My sweet boy has been in the throes of teething for several months now. He still has no teeth, but he DOES have the drippy nose, constant drooling, and the need to gnaw on EVERYTHING that tends to accompany teething. Another lovely side effect?

Nausea. Poor buddy.

One day this past week, he seemed to be having a pretty good day. Ate with abandon. Was playing happily. Insisted that he have some of mommy’s hummus, in the way that only a baby who has a tendency to grab all the things can do. I wasn’t worried. He’s had hummus before, and loves it. But on this day he apparently had more of a nasal drainage problem than I noticed initially. That + garlicky hummus = orange puke. All over his doting mother’s new white skirt.

Why does this incident make me a mom “officially”? Because I didn’t even notice.

I was standing there, holding my poor, puking child, and I didn’t notice. He was throwing up all over me, and I didn’t even notice until after he was done being afraid, and decided to be impressed with himself (really. He was quite proud of the sheer volume of what was coming out of him. Giggling, even).

As gross as it all was, I can’t tell you how empowering that was. I wasn’t freaked out. I didn’t panic. I just held my sick boy, and let him get all the “yuck” out of his system until he felt better. And I didn’t bat an eye.


A “oh, and I had food poisoning this week too. It’s been a fun week at our house” me

This? This is a happy boy. I think we need a puppy.
This? This is a happy boy. I think we need a puppy.