We moved into a new-old bigger house a year ago. Between having a third child and my work-from-home job, we wanted more space to live and breathe. Not to mention we wanted to be able to have friends over more comfortably.

Top of my list of requirements was that we have nice outdoor space, good indoor-outdoor flow, and a barefoot backyard. Ha ha! Upon moving in, our new-old home had none of those things: instead there was broken glass, rusty nails, mud pits, wild onions, rogue bamboo, falling-down fences, construction material, old windows, a large wall mirror and two toilets. Not kidding.

I really wanted to send my five- and seven-year old out to play and sit outside with the toddler without saying, “NO!” every other minute.

My friend Jeanine is a talented landscape architect in her real job and was willing to do some brainstorming with me in exchange for favors to be named later. She drew up sketches and scoured pinterest and Sunset magazine for so many amazing ideas that it was hard to narrow it down between her woodland fantasy, Asian escape, and Berkeley craftsman designs.

See my fantasizing on the Outside Space pinterest board to peek into all the fun in my imagination!

Eventually, Jeanine helped focus our fantasies before I hired a contractor to get it done as fast as humanly possible. I irrationally wanted to complete the work in time to throw a birthday surprise BBQ for my husband (last weekend) and not waste a moment of Summerfun time.

Whenever our backyard guy would ask a question about details, I just kept showing him this photo (in tiny version on my iPhone) and we did our best to emulate it.

[Photo by Jennifer Cheung for Sunset Magazine]

In addition to the adult entertainment zone — minus toddler-burning firepit — we wanted fruits and veggies; play space; grass for cartwheels; and a little woodland path for getting lost. Reading this, I sound crazy to myself. I’ll show you a few before and after pictures if I make it all the way to the AFTER state.

Inspired by the gals at Go Mighty and a grant from P&G, I am well into the DURING state of transformation. We did create mini fruit orchard complete with an apple tree (four kinds of apples on one tree!), pear tree, and Meyer lemon. I also planted some cherry tomatoes and strawberries.

It’s all been said before: breastfeeding is natural and beautiful and we should be able to do it whenever and wherever baby is hungry (except in a bathroom, if baby gets hungry in a bathroom, baby should wait a minute). Consequently, I am embarrassed to be embarrassed about nursing.

I offer a few anecdotes to illustrate my point:

* * *

When my rookie baby was about one month old, Whitney’s son was a very skilled seven-month old. I mean that kid could laugh and suck on his own feet; the two of them made nursing look easy. Whit and I were on my couch feeding our babies when my Father-in-Law decided to take a picture of us.

I couldn’t decide if I wanted to die on the spot or yell at him, “No freaking photography while I breastfeed!” I said nothing, but clearly, eight years later, I’m still bothered.

* * *

When my firstborn was about three months old, we made the epic trip from California to Ohio and then Massachusetts to show off the First Grandchild to all his adoring relatives. I was visiting my stepmom when nature (duty?) called and I sat down to breastfeed on the couch with a blanket draped discreetly over my shoulder. My youngest brother could see my baby’s wiggling feet, and having absolutely no idea what could be going on, asked, “Hey, what’s he doing under there?” as he grabbed my covering away. “NOOOO” I whisper-yelled in slloooowww moootion as my brother backed away in confusion. Yeah, that was cool.

I’d like to say I laid the foundation for my little brother to become a lactivist when his own wife began to breastfeed years later, but the truth is, I was just embarrassed for him to see me nursing. And of course, embarrassed that I was embarrassed.

* * *

My second son was about five months old at my other brother’s wedding and associated events. I told myself that breastfeeding was womanly and maternal rather than fixate on my floppy body and desire to wear Spanx all the time. But each time the my nursling and I sat down for a feeding session, we’d be asked by one of my family members to sit further and further from the main action until I was either in a coat closet or a bathroom alcove.

Here in Berkeley, we’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about nursing. In fact, we’re more likely to be stared at for giving a bottle.

* * *

I don’t remember seeing anyone use a nursing cover or Hooter Hider until my sister-in-law used it on a crowded ferry boat. I was so impressed that she could talk to her father or be in photos while she breastfed, like it was no big deal. I truly believe nursing covers are a great solution for many moms who otherwise might fear leaving the house during a possible feeding window.

If you’re embarrassed to be embarrassed, here are 7 legit-sounding excuses you can use for having a cover:

1. I find it’s great for when I’m snacking I don’t drop food on his head.
2. My baby is so messy and this keeps things neat.
3. I keep it on-hand for when I’m with my Father-in-law / boss / jackasses.
4. I’d hate for my baby to catch a chill (or sunburn!).
5. My baby gets so distracted.
6. My husband gets so distracted.
7. This cover is like a pretty dress or accessory just for me!

Here are 7 adorable nursing covers if you, too, suffer from being either embarrassed to nurse in public or embarrassed about feeling that way! Like I mentioned, they’re also great for pumping.

My favorite and most highly rated, Bebe au Lait AKA Hooter Hiders, comes in a ton of different patterns. On Amazon, prices range from about $21 to $33. They hold up well wash after wash and make a great hand-me-down gifts. I inherited my SIL’s and passed it along to a friend. Here are a few I like:

Sevilla cover by Bebe au Lait >

Hooter Hider in Darjeeling print >

Bebe au Lait Ascot (so cute as a dress, right?) >

Newer on the scene are these Balboa Nursing covers developed by the famous Dr. Sears. They look pretty great and are priced in the same range ($25 to $35). Like the Hooter Hiders, there is a discreet pocket and some terrycloth on the inside for wiping as well as a wiry mechanism that lets you maintain eye contact or see what baby’s doing under there.

I like this one but there are a bunch of great choices.

Balboa cover in the sundress-inspired Lola print >

Keeping with the theme of booby puns, this one from Udder Covers also claims to be machine washable but I mistrust the model’s lack of eye contact. At $18, this one’s a bargain, but will it last? I don’t know. I’d want to feel it before buying it.

On the plus side, I could wear use this cover someplace other than a garden party and still be appropriate.

Udder Cover, heh >

Rounding out the field for the Less than $20 category are these from Trend Lab. Meh. They look like art smocks or tablecloths to me but maybe you love them.

Trend Lab, Versailles print >

Going in another direction, I love the easy functionality of this clever infinity scarf that doubles as a nursing cover. Nothing to pack and find, it’s just there ON YOU when you want it. I can’t vouch for it’s efficacy, but it’s certainly creative.

InfinityMOM nursing scarf >

Bottom Line
If I had $15 to spend on this category of super-specialized baby gear, I’d check Craig’s List for an old Bebe au Lait (I see them right now even in my overpriced part of the country for $5 to $12).

Related:
My very strong opinions about Nursing Bras
My very strong opinions about Nursing Tanks + Tops

Not sponsored. Some links go to Amazon and we do get a few cents for those purchases.

“You might live to be 104 years old,” my mom said to me recently.

“Please, no,” I joked, thinking of all the ailments and losses I would have to endure to get to that age. On the bright side, I suggested to her, if a one-hundred year life is the new normal, maybe we could relax a little about work-life balance. There’s plenty of time for everything.

When my children are grown, I can kick off a new career path, developing my skills from age 50 to 60 and then reaching the top of my game at 68, enjoying a position of authority and mastery through my 70s at which point I will begin to wind down til I pick up a few hours of interesting work here and there in my early 80s. Finally, at 84, I’ll be ready to rest and focus on self-care. Twenty golden years ought to be enough, don’t you think?

The thing is, we don’t know when the last day is.

When Julian was born, he had a pair of pajamas that I hated because the phrase on the chest read, “If they could just stay little,” which is apparently the Carter’s layette tagline. I felt like I was waiting for him to get bigger, to smile, to sit up.

These stupid jammies wanted him to remain a wobbly-headed cross-eyed newborn forever? Eff that.

Now my kids are at an age that I love. They still need me terribly, but not every second. They can buckle their own seat belts and put on their own pants. They invite me into their secret clubs and make me drawings. Some days I think I want to freeze them at this age because I know this happy balance of dependence and independence won’t last forever. Suddenly I have empathy for the author of that embroidered message, “If they could just stay little.” It must have been written by a parent my age, or even one who has 30 years on me.

Today’s my fortieth birthday. It’s got me thinking.

My 70-year old self would probably look at my life today and say three things:

1) You should have worn the bikini. As much as I dislike my lower abdomen with it’s stretched out uneven flesh, it’s not going to get any better. I’m a native Californian who spent her teenage summers unselfconsciously in a bikini. After Julian was born, I converted to a one-piece to hide my squishy belly. I’m sure as my body ages, I will look back at my strong, cancer-free, 40-year old body and wish I could have brought it with me into the future. If you are reading this and you are 26, you should probably go put on a bikini right now. When you’re 40, you might wish you had not wasted anytime being embarrassed about the way you look.*

2) Get a mammogram. I didn’t need Angelina Jolie to add this to my to-do list. It was already there. Laying around my house somewhere is the doctor’s order for the test, requested by me when I was 39. I set out to do 40 self-care tasks in the forty days leading up to my birthday, and I’m getting close. I’ve had a facial, seen the doctor, made a dermatologist appointment to get my moles checked, donated a “stretch” sum of money to a cause that matters to me, increased my water intake, improved the ergonomics of my workspace, and more. I know, I know, getting my breasts squished by an x-ray machine is simply a sensible way to celebrate one’s birthday.

3) If they could just stay little! Seriously, lady? Did you just quote that trite and stupid phrase to my face? Oh, wait, it’s me talking to myself. Yes, I’m sure at 70 I’ll be wistful for the days of my grade-school aged children, and that’s what “little” will mean to me by then. A major perspective shift for me this year is to realize that it is a privilege to get older, and not one that everyone gets to enjoy. When 8-year old Martin Richard died in the Boston Marathon bombing, I thought about how grateful I need to be for every age and stage I get to have with my children and the rest of my family. I lose a lot of sleep worrying about accidental death and random violence. My husband and I ventured through our 20s and 30s together and I am feeling lucky to turn 40 alongside him. The bright side of my neuroses is that is that every day that neither of us gets hit by a bus gets counted by me as a win.

My wisdom ends here. I’ve been a parent long enough to hold a PhD in it, but someone already took that title. I’ve been a woman long enough to know that it’s time to treat myself to a couple of bras that fit. And I’ve been a Gen Xer long enough to have worn Flashdance-inspired dance clothes to school in the 80s, learned to swing dance in my 20s, developed a website for my wedding guests in 2001, and now wonder if the aches and knots in my right forearm from my mouse-clicking and iPhone addiction will lead my entire generation to early arthritis.

This is 40 going to the beach. Yes, in a bikini. No, you can’t see it.

What do you think your future self would tell you?

*A bikini is a metaphor in this scenario. Maybe your bikini is a short haircut; opening a retail store; a tattoo.

This post about cleaning up life’s messes was sponsored by Huggies.

In 2005, I purchased a refillable tub of Huggies baby wipes that I still use. Last week, I intended to purchase the latest formulation of Huggies Wipes (the ones with NEW Triple Clean action) but instead, I bought EIGHT NEW TUBS! Holy cats, sometimes online shopping really is too confusing for me.

In all likelihood, I will donate the bonus tubs to Help a Mother Out to help needy baby bums, but part of me was at least a little excited to plop the tubs in every room in my house (and car!) so I’ll never be more than 10 feet from clean hands and faces.

{Cue the evil genius music}

These are the boys I live with:

When I first became a mom, I thought that wipes were just for cleaning butts, but now that my kids bring home a series of little messes, I think we’ll have some active containers long after the diaper days are over.

These are the messes I typically tackle with wipes:

• FOOD: yogurt goatee, buttery fingers, “I do it myself” applesauce in the hair
• Bodily fluids: Diaper stuff, eye gunk, and super snotty noses
• Outside dirt: garden variety black fingernail stuff
• Paint: finger paint, face paint, spray paint, you name it!

I keep wipes tubs in the kitchen, nursery and minivan. I subscribe to a steady supply of wipes refills so I never run out.

Last month, Milo and some buddies turned a lovely backyard birthday party into a mud-pit in a matter of minutes. What the?? He needed the hose (see above) and then still had to come home naked wrapped in a blanket. His clothes required some aggressive hosing and they were also saved. Of course, some messes are too big for wipes alone, but I was happy to have them after touching this kid and squeezing him into my car!

Do you have any creative uses for baby wipes?

+++

This post was sponsored by Huggies. All experiences and opinions are my own. They meant to send me a new tub of wipes for testing but I accidentally ordered eight. Win win, I say.

Huggies Natural Care® Wipes with NEW Triple Clean* layers are gentle on baby’s skin and thick enough to clean. Interested in trying out this new product for yourself? You can become an Official Huggies® Tester at Huggies.com/Tester.

For coupons and rewards, visit the Huggies® Test Town! Or check out the Huggies® Facebook fan page to learn more.

I just read a novel in which one of the characters was an economist who specialized in the study of Happiness. He had created some formula, which I won’t be able to document exactly right, but the jist of it was Happiness = Reality – Expectations. Maybe there was some more complicated math in there, but the simple way I’ve captured it here makes enough sense to me. If your expectations are greater than reality, you end up with a negative number in the Happiness department. Unexpected awesomeness is the recipe for total bliss. That is, when what we expect is nothing special — and our experience exceeds it.

Going into Mother’s Day, I felt bombarded by media messages about it being the most beautiful day ever, and I felt worried for moms who tend to have high expectations. When a friend on Facebook posted about wanting brunch and jewelry, I wrote over on the Giggle blog that we are responsible for our own happiness, so if you want those things, I think you should probably secure them for yourself.

I loved several of the posts I read about Mother’s Day, and the things my real-life friends said aloud, about the confounding feeling of wanting to be left (the hell) alone, but also wanting to do the fun parts of parenting, the things that make us feel loved: receiving hand-drawn cards and snuggling. Grocery runs were on many women’s lists of things they’d like to have erased from their typical Sunday responsibilities.

My day was 100% satisfying. With Ryan’s help, Scarlett bought me a tiny stuffed hedgehog that I once said was cute in a Barnes & Noble, which showed me how much she wanted to please and surprise me. Julian had picked out a baseball hat for his Little League team that I can wear to his games. In Ryan’s words, “Welcome to Your-kid-is-old-enough-to-choose-gifts-for-you Day.”

In the morning, I took my mom and my children to a butterfly exhibit in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. The kids resisted at first, but when I reminded them it was my special day, they stopped complaining. Back at home I ate leftovers I was looking forward to while Ryan prepared lunch for the kids. In the afternoon, we took a walk to get fancy popsicles — mine was Burnt Caramel. Afterward, my husband took the kids to the park and as they headed out the front door, he called out to me that I’d find wine chilling in the fridge. For dinner, we had Indian take out, my fave, which he ordered and picked up.  I noticed that he had bought several dark chocolate treats and stashed them in my normal spots, and I selected one to eat while we caught up on The Office after putting the kids to bed.

Mother’s Day is frankly not that important to me, and maybe that’s why I was so pleased with my day.  Also? Since I had already decided I wasn’t responsible for discipline for the day, there were less power struggles than usual. How did your Mother’s Day go? Were your expectations met or exceeded?

I was separated from my first baby, Julian, for the first hour or two of his life. While I was incredibly curious to see him again — this person whose very existence I had invented now existed in the real world! –  I guess I was also very patient. I don’t remember being overcome with anxiety in the way I would have been six months later if I was hanging out at a hospital and my baby boy was being tended to in a separate room. When we were reunited I was excited to get on with my mothering duties, to attempt nursing, to check out his body parts, and to begin memorizing his face.

If he was laying in the nursery among a heap of other 3-hour old babies, would I recognize him? I didn’t think so.

It struck me in the first few days that I wasn’t head over heels in love. I was proud. I was protective. I wanted to do everything I could for him, but it wasn’t the insta-love feeling I was expecting.

Yesterday, Jennifer commented on the post Stuff Newborn Moms Should Know, “I wish someone told me that I may not bond with my baby right away. I didn’t dislike him, but he just seemed like someone else’s baby at first…”

This resonated with me. I wasn’t worried that we weren’t bonded, and today my big boy couldn’t be more bonded to me, but I did remember thinking on the day following his birth, “Why don’t have have the instinct to kiss this baby? I am his mother!”

When my friend David, a writer and father to twin boys, published this (must-read for expectant dads) essay about feeling a primal protective instinct upon meeting his babies more than affection for them, I saw how many readers were comforted by hearing that someone else did not feel lost in a Hallmark card of joy and beaming emotion.

What his writing made me realize is that I felt something much closer to instant love with my daughter, my second born.

I didn’t take Quantitative Methods of Sociology for nothing — well, maybe I did to satisfy a math requirement — and I quickly identified three differences between meeting my son and meeting my daughter. 1. My son was born via C-section; my daughter born vaginally; 2. My son is a male child; my daughter female; and 3. My son made me a mother; my daughter was born to a woman who already understood what being a mother feels like. And this third reason is where I find my explanation.

I had already experienced parental love, two-and-a-half years worth, when Scarlett was born. It was at times the cavewoman style that David described, but it was also the Hallmark type, and the type that makes parents feel heart-wrenching empathy for all other parents. You know what I’m talking about: every news story about a missing child becomes your child. You have nightmares about Tsunamis just from watching the preview of a movie in which a family gets swept away from one another.

Once you’re in the club, there’s no turning back. You’re a lifer. So let me suggest that loving your own child is like riding a bicycle. Acquire that muscle memory, and it comes easily at each new opportunity.

We are at a conference for the rest of the weekend, so I am re-posting this one from a couple years ago.

Heather and I both live in Berkeley where houses are small, and expensive nonetheless. Our neighboring city Oakland is pretty much the same.  If you’ve seen the show Parenthood, which is set here, well, let’s just say that the houses in which those characters live would be in the top 5% for spaciousness.

The other day I went over to my friend Karin’s house for the first time since she’s been married and had two sons. When she opened the front door, the first thing I saw was a queen-sized air mattress taking up her entire living room floor. I asked if she had weekend guests, and she sheepishly explained that she and her husband actually sleep on the air mattress and let their baby sleep in their room while their toddler hogs the room that is intended to be shared by the brothers. Eventually.

They were struggling to figure out how to put two kids in the same room such that they would allow each other to take their naps and sleep at night.

I had no advice for her, although since my kids are older and have been sharing a room for a long while now, I could hardly register the situation as a problem.  I remember letting Scarlett cry it out and Julian, age 3, just slept right through it.  I now realize every toddler does not sleep as soundly as Julian, who could be carried into a playdate if he had fallen asleep in the car, plopped on the host’s couch, and be jumped on by his excited little friend, and sleep through the whole thing. As I drove home from Karin’s, however, I suddenly remembered a few scenarios that may have comforted her.

When Heather’s baby #2 Milo was born, she worried that his night wakings would disrupt Holden’s sleep, yet she and Alec had learned from their rookie parenting stint that they prefer not to sleep in the same room as the baby. Therefore, baby Milo slept in his infant “bucket” carseat in the office area just outside their room. Every night. For four months.

When my own second child was born, we made half of our bedroom into a babycentric space, expecting her to stay with us for a couple months.  She tricked us by being a good sleeper for about a month, but then lost her knack for staying asleep past midnight. Taking a cue from our good friends who called their children “swing babies”, we set up the automatic swing in our bedroom, and there she slept, swinging at full speed, all night long. For three months.

And Julian? He slept swaddled and strapped to a changing table pad on the floor when we visited our parents for the first few months.

My point is that we do a lot of crazy shit as new parents. We sing potty songs, attach electric pumps to our breasts, and read books to kids who can barely hold their heads up. Sleeping in your own living room is the least of it. (That reminds me…  my second cousin’s husband used to sleep on the porch.)

If you’ve got two children who share a room, tell us more.  How did you do it?

On vacation! Please enjoy this post from 2010.

Julian noticed that I have been sewing a few things for Scarlett and asked me to make something for him.  I had hidden two plain Old Navy ringer tshirts in my closet, intending to embellish them in some way for him, but had not yet decided how.  I knew he really wanted to be surprised with something new.

I linked to this tutorial last week and thought I’d have a go at it last night.  I cut the tie shape from a work shirt that Ryan had tossed in the Goodwill pile. I used fabric glue to set it in place and then zig-zag stitched around the edges.  Not sure how it will hold up in the wash, but I thought it was darn cute when he wore it today.

For Julian, the best part was that when he woke up this morning, he found a post-it note on his bed frame that said

Find a new shirt on the coffee table.

Love, Mommy

When I heard him thump rapidly down the stairs at 6.30 am this morning,  I knew he had read the note.  Seconds later, he burst into my room cradling his new shirt, telling me he loves it. A lovely SuperMom moment for me.

This post was sponsored by UrbanSitter.

My very first time with a babysitter, I was so choked up with emotion about leaving my five-month old in anyone else’s care that I had to excuse myself to another room and cry for a bit (while she was still there!). There was so much to communicate and I had no idea how to say it all.

Since then, things have gotten a lot easier; I am eight years into my parenting journey and have 3 sons so I know a thing or two about their needs. Also, I am more comfortable with leaving my children in another’s care and I have a solid network of sitters. I maintain an evolving list with their evening routines, forbidden foods, and emergency contact info on my fridge for reference.

Despite my preparations, I still find that there are surprises with every new caregiver. Most of the differences are minor and I don’t sweat it (like when the kid’s bedroom doors are left open, which we never do at sleepytime) but other discoveries make “the list” for next time.

This piece of legal paper lives on the side of my fridge forever. The top part includes my kids’ names and birthdates, so I don’t need to frequently update ages, as well as our address and emergency contact info. The bottom part contains my peculiar instructions.

In addition to my overly thorough notes, I have the verbal instructions. I realize that what’s normal for me, might sound wacky to you so I offer a partial list of what I tell a new babysitter in the hopes that if I show you mine, you’ll show me yours:

• Take off your shoes, wash your hands. I’m a nut about this. If I see them do it first thing, I can relax. Otherwise, ummm, please don’t touch my kids or their food.
  Pro tip: If you’re weird like this, tell the sitter before they come over, so you’re not accusing them of being unclean. AWKWARD!
  
• Clean up the mess you make. I don’t need my house to be magazine-ready when I get home but please tidy up the dishes and food prep stuff as well as the toys you got out.
  Pro tip: For this reason, I nearly always ask sitters to make dinner so they’ll do the clean up.
• Keep up with the toddler. The little guy is the craziest. No matter what, always have one eye — if not hand — on him; the bigs will probably be fine.
  Pro tip: I have safe zones set up in every room so adult caregivers can go to the bathroom or open the oven door.
• Lights out at bedtime. I was surprised to learn that my toddlers negotiated for the lights to stay on… and the sitter wondered why they didn’t fall asleep. In our house, lights go off, all the way off. No matter what the kids say.
  Pro tip: I have the whole bedtime routine written down for reference.
• No toys in the bed. Again, my kiddos negotiated for puzzle pieces and blocks to be in their beds overnight. Huh? Actually, that one probably goes into the category of bedroom door left open and other things that are no big deal.
  Pro tip: Let go of what you can. Bedtime 15 minutes late? So what!
  

I’d love to hear what’s on your “list” of instructions for babysitters. Does anything unusual make the cut?

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This post was sponsored by the fabulous folks at UrbanSitter.com, who make it so easy for you to find sitters that your friends and contacts already like. All experiences with sitters described above really happened to me.

If I were a lady at Downton Abbey, my wishes would be obeyed with great haste. Food and nurslings could be summoned with a tasteful ringing of a bell and sent away with the same simplicity.

Instead, I live in the real world where I was a demanding and hormonal hot mess without the courage or words to ask for what I truly wanted. If only Anna had been around to read my mind and care for me.

Since I’m a mother blogger, inclined to take notes and stash them away for later reference, I had the “presence of mind” to write down how I wished people would treat me. I also had goals for how I wanted to spend my time with my newborn (but still not the manners or voice to ask for these things appropriately). Uhh, what’s wrong with this picture?

These opinions are raw, unfiltered, and TRUE. I might try to deny them if you corner me, but the fact is that I wrote this list when my third son was one-week old.

The stuff I wish my parents and in-laws (or household staff!) would do for me in a perfect world:

• Cook all my favorites without me having to shop or meal plan or think about it at all.
• Play with my big boys and help them feel special and cherished.
• Dishes!
• Fold the laundry and put it away.
• Keep my house tidy or make it tidy.
• Go away when I want space.
• Change all the diapers unless I feel like it.
• Leave the TV off unless I want to watch.

Wow, I’m a bitch.

First week goals.

Because I have done this baby thing before, my plans are realistic:

• Short walks each day. Go after a feeding and stick within a block or two, so I don’t even need a diaper bag, which I am not mentally ready to assemble.
• Nursing support group. Yes, I’ll need to face packing a diaper bag and getting myself there, but my nipples can hang out freely.
• Nap around the clock.

The end.

Did you also want everyone to simultaneously help you out and get out of your way? What would you add to my list of unspoken goals and desires for the hormonal roller coaster first week?

photos: newborn, Heather Flett; Anna from Downton Abbey, ITV

The jury is in and it turns out that while I am no longer a rookie baby mama, I’m still a total rookie at having three children. Not that I’m a pro with the baby, but this newest little guy gets to deal with carpools instead of mommy and me swimming classes; he’s more accustomed to riding along at a cookie decorating party than under the parachute at a Gymboree free class.

Whitney and I created the Rookie Mom Weekly Challenges to help new moms have more fun with their babies because it is fun to have a little mission. In that spirit, do as I say, not as I do.

I’m here to report on my adventures with Sawyer during months 10, 11, and 12:

40. Throw yourself an inside-out party to celebrate your baby’s 40th week on the outside! Wah. I did not do this. I did it with both older sons though. To celebrate Holden’s 9 months on the outside, we had cocktails and sushi grown-up style.

41. Test-drive some free music and movement classes. Yes, so fun! We *heart* Music Together. Lucky me, I already knew all the words to every one of the songs from our session because Holden had this series before.

42. Take a pumpkin picture. I took a splendid photo of Sawyer and his best gal, Emily, but he was already a man of 14 months by the time Halloween rolled around. Near enough.

43. Try a half sleepover. In the spirit of laying the baby down so Mommy and Daddy can do hands-free adult activities, we organized two different adventures during Sawyer’s third quarter year. First, we spent a weekend with Ross and Karen (and baby Laz) at their vacation house. Next, we invited another little baby-girlfriend to chillax at our house while we played games with her parents. And by “play games” I mean “eat dessert super fast so the baby doesn’t freak out.” Victory.

44. Wear something unusual. I wore a strapless dress. You’ll have to take my word for it because I can’t find the photos.

45. Do what YOU want to do. Constantly. Or at least, we do what the big boys want to do rather than following baby’s agenda.

46. Swap til you drop. Man, I’ve been meaning to do this. I truly love the wardrobe refresh that comes from pilfering my friends’ closets.

47. Join a museum. We joined the Lawrence Hall of Science and the Oakland Zoo.

48. Find some excellent graffiti. Fail. All the good stuff is cleaned up or near railroad tracks. Instead of the “tough” portraits I took of Holden in front of graffiti, Sawyer is posed in idyllic fields with his brothers.

49. Run or walk errands. Yes. We live near our grocery store so I’ve gotten quite talented at balancing the shopping basket on top of the stroller and the bags on my strong arms. Go, me!

50. Launch Camp Grandma! Better late than never. Rather than doing nearly a week away in honor of my biggest boy, we escaped for three kid-free days in a rental car. It was magic.

51. Meet your friends out for errands. Yes, indeedy. My little guy enjoyed many grocery runs with company. We do get around.

52. Celebrate your way. We celebrated big-kid style at Universal Orlando where Sawyer lived out every little boy’s fantasy and defeated a superhero.

Is anyone else doing our 52 challenges? How’s it going for you?

Related posts:

• Eating my own dog food, months 1-3
• Eating my own dog food, months 4-6
• Eating my own dog food, months 7-9
• Eat YOUR own dog food

I’m going to grade myself pretty highly for tackling so many of the rookie mom challenges with my little sidekick.

Oops! My baby is 18 months and I’m just getting around to this report. I’m all set to launch a new series on toddlers. So, get ready for the fun peculiar times!

Aside from childbirth — in which I got a lovely all-expenses paid trip to the hospital down the street for two nights with my husband — Alec and I have never been away from the kids together. (Aww crap, I just realized that I have been telling that story for a while now, but even in the hospital, we obviously had one baby to care for).

When my mom offered to come out from Ohio to watch my three sons while Alec and I enjoyed a mid-week escape, I said, “YES PLEASE!!”. While I may have been fantasizing about two weeks on another continent, we decided for a three-day roadtrip in California. Baby steps. We also agreed that weekdays would be the easiest because the children have school and childcare for most of the day. Thus my birthday getaway and foray into Camp Grandma was plotted.

My mom arrived last Monday afternoon in time for us to share a mother-daughter lunch and pedicure before we launched into kid-care and hands-on training for pick-ups, tantrums, dinner protocol, meal planning, and minivan navigation. In the morning, we did drills on wake-up-and-leave-the-house including quizzes on where we keep clothes, lunchboxes, and coffee supplies. My aunt would join later in the day for an extra pair of hands. I felt ready.

Alec and I headed out the door with our tiny rental convertible and drove off leaving them for some family-bonding time.

Whee!

While we were away, we got a few text updates and photos to let us know that things were going well (enough).

… as well as a few questions about where the heck we keep things.

Luckily, they all got into a groove because our second and third nights away, we were completely off the grid with no cell reception and *gulp* no WIFI.

We returned from our getaway to a family dinner and a birthday karaoke excursion. We hired a sitter so that my mom could join us for an adults-only evening and celebrate the success of Camp Grandma. Please excuse the quality of the iPhone photo in party lighting but I love this picture of me and my mom as I’m singing Radiohead Creep. See the lyrics? Priceless.

I know my kids had a terrific time with my mom. Sawyer, at 18 months, is still asking “Gammy go?” now that she’s returned home. I hope we can do it all again soon.

[All photos from me or my mom]