It is not the ability to carry and birth children that makes women stronger. It is the ability to let them go, that does.

I said this earlier this evening during a text session with a lovely mommy friend of mine, Tessa. We were commiserating about a sad story we’d just learned about, a woman who, at the age of 24 and months away from giving birth to their first child, lost her husband, who was proudly and bravely serving our country in Iraq when he was killed in an explosion. We were trying to imagine losing the love of your life, then giving birth and having to navigate the world of parenthood alone, all while grieving and trying to adjust to your new normal. Which of course led to a discussion on how heartbreaking raising children is. Which led to tears and the ugly cry face.

It takes incredible physical strength and stamina to carry a child in your body. It takes extraordinary strength and will to then give birth to that child. But the real test of strength, that comes after. Giving birth is hard. Being a mother is heartbreaking and wonderful and devastating and impossible and the hardest thing anyone can do.

When our babies are first born, they NEED us. For basic survival. But as we get older, as Tessa said so eloquently this evening, it becomes pretty apparent that we need them so much more than they need us. From day one, our job is to nurture them and raise them and teach them and encourage and support and love them AWAY from us. Our job is to get them to the point, as adults, when they no longer need us. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and so, so heartbreaking. Everyday, Dylan does something new, learns something she didn’t know yesterday, and while it fills me with so much joy and pride and love that I may burst, it’s also tinged in sadness. Because that is one more thing she doesn’t need from me. One more way she’s becoming herself, and taking with her a piece of myself. I guess I’m doing my job well.

I’m sorry for all the melancholia today, I certainly don’t want to bum anyone else out. And believe me, even the sadness and heartbreak is exciting, because it just means my baby girl is growing up, and that means a whole new world of stuff to experience with her. This is an amazing journey, one that, in a lot of ways, I was not prepared for. But it is one that I am so grateful to be on, sadness and all. She may not always need me, but I will always need her, and that will be enough. For us both.

Me: Sweet girl, are you hungry?

Dylan: Gleep toof danfy (uncontrollable laughter, finger in her nose).

Me: Ok. Um. You want some chicken? Maybe some avocado?

Dylan: Bobobobobobo, baby (hey! a real word!) baby baby baby, cat, skleepo.

Me: Soooooooo, is that a yes? Or do you want pasta? Fruit? Goldfish?

Dylan: *farts* (more uncontrollable laughter) burp! Burp! Burp! (laughter)

Me: (stifling laughter) That was NOT a burp, that was a toot. And it stinks.

Dylan: (runs around in circles) Burpburpburpburpburp!

Me: OK, I’m gonna make you some chicken, we’ll see what happens (REALLY hoping she’s just saying the word, and not actually farting in circles).

Dylan: Yum! Cado! (Dylan speak for avocado)

Me: Ok, so you want avocado instead? No problem! And maybe some fruit?

Dylan: Gleep toof danfy (uncontrollable laughter, finger in her nose)

Me: *bangs head slowly on wall*

Aaaaaaaaaand, scene.

Or is this just about the CUTEST kid you have ever seen???

It’s ok, go ahead. You know you wanna say it. I won’t tell anyone.

I was in the most glorious mood today. Well, after Dylan’s nap time meltdown and non taking of the nap, that is. I am rarely in a super fantastic, happy, joyful mood. Just not me. I’m a lovely person, it’s not like I’m some morose Debbie Downer that no one wants to be around. I’m just not a bubbly, smiley person. Except today, I was positively beaming. Why, you ask?

BECAUSE FALL IS FINALLY HERE BITCHES! October-December is my most favorite time of the year. It brings me such joy. And yes, I do realize that *technically* it’s been fall since September 21st, but I live in Southern California, in The Valley, natch. It was one hundred fucking degrees last week. But today, TODAY, finally felt like fall. It was warmish/coolish all day, and then as soon as the sun started to set, it got pretty nippy. And as I type this, I am wearing pants, a sweater, socks, and slippers, and like the true old lady I am deep down inside, I still have a chill. Yahoo!!!!!

You see, all the best shit happens in the fall (Supreme Queen Dylan’s birthday notwithstanding): Halloween (awesome), Thanksgiving (fattening and awesome), Christmas (fattening and awesome with decorations and presents) (and yes, *technically* Christmas is in the winter but don’t harsh my mellow). Hot tea and snuggly blankets and heaters that make the house smell warm; rain and short days and air that feels like it’s biting your nose. Pumpkin EVERYTHING. Or, if not pumpkin, mint and eggnog and nutmeg. The best food to eat that you don’t cook the rest of the year because it’s too goddamn hot to roast a stupid turkey in July. Thanksgiving! Pie, pie, pie, Cool Whip, pie. Yummy smelling candles. Fall festivals. CHRISTMAS. Fucking Christmas, man (so nice I said it twice). Disneyland during the holidays. These things, even the mere anticipation of these things, make me gloriously, deliriously, unabashedly happy.

Plus, Dylan is old enough this year to participate. And care. And have fun and eat and open presents and oooh and aaah over Christmas decorations. I’m MORE excited by the prospect of her excitement than anything else. Which, I’ve come to discover over the last year, is what parenting is all about, really. My happiness is now directly correlated to her happiness, so I’m getting happy over how happy she’s gonna get. It’s like some weird happiness wormhole.

One more thing that makes me happy, the happiest of all maybe (besides the kid. And Christmas.): CANDY CORN. CANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORNCANDYCORN. Oh my sweet Jeebus, I love me some candy corn. I’m looking to take down bags 1-4 in the next week or so, then rest, then 5-8, rest, etc. It’s a science, you know. Too much up front can really fuck you up. But space it out, and oh man, it’s like deliverance in a bag. And I am ready to be delivered.

So, I was all set to write an uppity, happy happy joy joy post about my trip to the Dr. Drew show last week, and all the fun that I had, and all the cool shit I got for free just for sitting in the audience on a really stupid talk show. I was all set to write that post, and hit publish, and pat myself on the back for another post up. And then, my sister sent me this link:

And I couldn’t write that post anymore. Frankly, after watching that video, I couldn’t do much of anything for a while, besides try not to burst into tears and hug Dylan until she begged me to stop. If you haven’t seen it yet, this link is to the video currently viraling its way across the world wide webs. It shows a little girl, a toddler, 2 YEARS OLD, being hit by a van that then drives away. And then, AND THEN, being left on the street, bleeding, ignored by no less than 18 people. 18 people who walked right by her, some stopping to look at her bleeding, mangled body, before going on their way. Then, inconceivably, she’s hit by another car, that also drives away without stopping. I have to warn you, the video is VERY GRAPHIC and so heartbreaking it’s hard to put into words. I watched it, then I watched it again, and I just couldn’t write about being happy. Not today.

18 people walked by a little girl, a baby, as she lay injured in the street. Finally, mercifully, a woman drags her off the road and apparently screams for the child’s mother, who then rushes to her. The little girl is taken to a hospital. The little lay in a coma for 4 days. The little girl died today, of injuries that would have been treatable had any, ANY, of the 18 people who walked by, or the driver of the van that ran her over in the first fucking place, had bothered to stop. Or call emergency services on their phone (it happened in China, I don’t know what their 911 is). Or yelled for someone else to do so. 18 people and 2 drivers. I just, can’t. Wrap. My head around this.

And I can’t stop thinking about that little girl. I wonder if she was conscious. She appeared to be moving at first, but stops. I wonder if she screamed, or cried, or whimpered. I wonder if she saw those people walk by her, if she called out to them. I wonder if she called out for her mommy. I wonder if she was in pain. I hope not. A million times over, I hope not. And I wonder about those people, the people who happened upon a bleeding child in the middle of the street, and DID NOTHING. I wonder what their reasons were, if they even matter. I wonder how they are able to sleep at night, or get up in the morning. How they can look in the mirror. If they have kids, I wonder how they are able to kiss them and hug them, after letting that little girl die. I wonder.

Watch the video. As hard as it is, watch the video. Because, and I say this as a parent, but more as a human being, I don’t want to live in a world where not only does this horror occur, but one where people halfway around the world can choose to ignore it simply by not clicking a link. I’ve been agonizing over this, for a couple of reasons: one, I have a baby, and so help me God, if there were ever an instance where someone did not help her when she needed it, I would hunt them down and it would not be pretty. And I just keep thinking of that baby, and her parents, and my heart hurts. For them, for her. For us all.

Watch the video. For us all.

Ok, so I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. I haven’t actually, um, *technically* been away from Dylan in a while. Like, since she was born. Which was 14 months ago. Which qualifies as a while, right?

There have been 4 (FOUR) times in the past 14 months that I have been without my daughter. The first 2 were postpartum check ups after I delivered, in August and September, about 45 minutes each (and FUN, obviously). I went to dinner with my husband in January, and in March, we went to a friend’s wedding. So, in total, I’ve been away from Dylan for approximately…6 hours. In over a year. I didn’t think it was weird UNTIL I JUST TYPED IT OH MY GOD I’M SMOTHERING OR HELICOPTERING OR WHATEVER THE NEW TERM IS AND SHE’S ONLY A YEAR OLD. Ok, that felt good. Moving on.

As I was saying, I really, honestly didn’t think it was that weird. I mean, I don’t want to be away from her. Really. I know every mother says that, but I know some moms, and they don’t mean that shit. People ask, “What about you? What about your time?” I have time to myself, time with my husband. It’s called bedtime. And that’s perfectly fine with us. We’re not big “going out” people, never really have been, so there’s no where we’d want to go that we couldn’t take the kid with us. Dinner? We’re not in the habit of eating at fancy schmancy places that cost $200 for two people, so she comes with. Shopping? Um, if you have a kid, you know that everything we buy forever and ever now is for her, so makes sense to us that she come along. I’m not a girl time kinda gal, so no mani pedis for me (I’m sorry, I don’t know those *I’m sure they’re lovely* ladies, I don’t want them in between my toes). I hang out with my sisters (with the kid), I hang out with my friends (again, kid), I spend time with my husband (duh, kid). And that’s my happy little life. Right now, it works for us.

So when I got the opportunity to go somewhere, somewhere cool, that I couldn’t bring Dylan to, I have to say, I was a little hesitant. I mean, there’s the problem of finding childcare when you’ve never really needed to look for it (that’s why God gave us siblings you guys). And then I started to get a little, I don’t know, anxious, I guess. About being away from her. My dear, fellow Mom friend Tessa was kind enough to invite me to a taping of the Dr. Drew show tomorrow, and I’m REALLY excited, but also? Also? Sad. Because, and bear with me cause I’m about to get hella crazy on you right now, I fear that in the 4 hours I will be sitting in Dr. Drew’s audience listening to him counsel drug addicted, pregnant teens (not really but ZOMG WOULD THAT NOT BE AWESOME) Dylan will change somehow. She’ll learn a new thing, or stop doing an old thing. I’m afraid that when I get back with hopefully some good swag with memories and smiles, she’ll be different. Crazy, right? I know. *Sigh* I know.

But I’m going to go, and I’m going to have an amazing time. Dylan will be beyond fine, excited even, since she gets to spend 4 unsupervised hours with her Dad, which undoubtedly means sweets and treats and Mom returning to a house disheveled. I mean, I’ve got to start giving her some space, you know? Not for me, but for her. God forbid she be the kid whose Mom is a sobbing mess on the first day of preschool (which, incidentally, I’m supposed to be researching NOW? The fuckity fuck?). She’s getting to be a big girl. Time for Mama to start growing up too, I suppose.

I’ll tell you guys all about Dr. Drew next time. Fingers crossed for swag deep, meaningful life lessons!

I can *barely* stand the cuteness on a regular day. And then I get a picture like this. And my heart breaks into a million pieces, for the millionth time.

Dylan, my JUST TURNED ONE YEAR OLD DAUGHTER, did a somersault today. All by herself. Just put her little head on the ground, stuck her butt up in the air, and whoop! There she went, ass over tea kettle. Now, I am generally not one of those overreacting moms, the ones who carry around a bottle of hand sanitizer on their mom-belt and have every square inch of their hardwoods covered with those God awful giant foam puzzle pieces. Kids fall, they get ouchies, they cry. Sometimes they get a little bruise from running head first into the wall during a rousing game of Chase the Cat. Sometimes, they even bleed a little, like when your just learned to walk baby thinks it’d be a good idea to practice running, towards the coffee table, which incidentally is sweet little baby lip high. My point is, I’m a pretty laid back momma, and these little Rights of Passage don’t really freak me out (beyond the initial OH MY GOD I BROKE MY BABY THIS BEAUTIFUL BABY WHOEVER TRUSTED ME WITH HER NEEDS TO BE SHOT five seconds after you hear a “clunk”).

But somersaults? The fuck? Aren’t those a little advanced for someone who, let’s face it, has AT BEST a rudimentary grasp of how the mechanics of her wittle chunky baby wegs even work? I think I remember the first time I ever did a somersault, and I think it was in junior high. Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it was probably close. I mean, what’s next? Head stands? Jumping up and down on one leg while rubbing her tummy and patting her head? Double Gaynors out of her crib in the morning? Just when you think you’ve got the next few months figured out, your kid goes and does something like this (fucking SOMERSAULTS man), and now you’re Googling how to baby proof every inch of your goddamn house and ordering 20 sets of those *not so bad* giant foam puzzle pieces to prevent your offspring from doing some kind of permanent damage in the process of learning the ropes. It’s stressful you guys. Seriously.

Dylan, meanwhile, totally didn’t even realize what she’d done until she looked up at my face, which went from being obstructed by her butt to full view in a matter of seconds. And thank Jesus for small favors. Because I’m telling you, if she puts two and two together, and figures out that the motion of head down/butt up can, when done fast enough, propel you forward in a super cool flip, well. Then I will have lost all control, and will just give up and hang trapeze bars from my ceiling in defeat. It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure. All the baby books I pretended to read said somersaults are the gateway flip. We don’t stand a chance.

We lost an amazing man today. He was an innovator, a visionary, a kind and caring man. I’m typing this on one of his many, many contributions to our tech world. Steve Jobs was a God among men, in the eyes of many. He was also a husband, a son, a brother, a father. And he was 56.

A lot of people will have a hard time wrapping their heads around that. He was 56. And cancer took him from us. From his loving wife, his children (oh my, his poor children), from the millions of us around the world who never, ever met him, but let him into our lives and homes and hearts and minds on a daily basis. I, unfortunately, am not shocked. I am saddened, and angry, and empathetic to the pain his family will endure in the coming days and weeks and months and years. But I am not shocked. If anything, I’m surprised it took as long as it did. He got 3 years and 50 weeks longer than my father.

On February 2, 2010, my father, my sweet, loving, hilarious and brilliant and tough and special father, died at home. He had just come home, having been released from the hospice that cared for him in his final days, into the loving and terrified arms of us, his children. He came home the afternoon of February 1st. He died in the early morning hours of the 2nd, less than 12 hours later. This probably sounds like the end of a long, brutal, drawn out battle with a horrible disease that just wouldn’t give up. The sad fact is, my father, who never went to a doctor because guys like him didn’t go to the doctor, was diagnosed with end stage metastatic pancreatic cancer on January 16, 2010. He died 16 days later. Fuck cancer.

16 days. 16 days from our forcing him to go to the hospital (we could see he was sick, we just didn’t see it in time) to bringing him back home to die where he wanted, surrounded by his family and animals and facing the sunrise. 16 days. We didn’t even know he had cancer until he was dying of cancer. Fuck cancer.

Pancreatic cancer is a monster. Seriously. It is almost always diagnosed in the metastatic stage (meaning after it’s already spread its poison to surrounding tissue and organs and bones), so treatment is limited and rarely as effective at treating it as other cancers. While there are some factors that put some people at a higher risk for PC, the real bitch of it is that it can strike anyone, any time. It’s almost always asymptomatic until it’s too late. And it has one of the lowest survival rates outside of 5 years of all cancers. I hate it. I hate all cancer, but mostly pancreatic cancer. I hate anything that doesn’t fight fair, and pancreatic cancer is the very definition of not fighting fair. Fuck cancer.

I hope to one day write about those two weeks, and the month or so leading up to it, and the months after. But to be honest, even 1.5 yrs later, it’s just too hard. Too raw. Too sad. And I’m still too angry. I want to write it for my daughter to read one day. I want her to know her grandpa as I did. I want her to know that he knew she was coming, and he tried to hold on until she got here, but he unfortunately brought a knife to a gun fight, and he was quickly overwhelmed. I want her to know all this, so I will wait to write it, until the pain and anger has taken it’s permanent place in the pit of my heart, and is not so fresh and real. When I stop wanting to scream “fuck cancer” from the top of my lungs. Fuck cancer.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. But I think it should just be CANCER Awareness Month. Wear a pink ribbon or no ribbon, run walk in someone’s honor, make a donation to research. Just be AWARE. Because let me tell you, there is no worse time to become aware of a disease than when it’s killing your father.

FUCK CANCER.

Dylan is 13 months and 25 days. So that means, a little over a year ago, I was just some poor schmuck who had NO IDEA what was about to slam into her life like a runaway Mack truck. A little over a year ago, I was just a giant, miserable, bitchy pregnant lady who was so caught up in trying not to spontaneously combust at 10 months pregnant in the dead of summer that I was blissfully unaware that the worst was yet to come. A little over a year ago, I was the new girl, the one who all the moms who’d come before showered with their (sometimes) valuable, (quite often) useful, (occasionally ridiculous) advice. It was an interesting time of change and growth and all around what-the-fuckness that warms my heart (and chills my soul to it’s very core).

But now that Dylan is 13 months and 25 days, I am no longer the new mom. I’ve made it through newborn. I’ve breastfed, sleep trained, been vomited on, survived on 4 hours of sleep in a 48 span of time, made/ate/cleaned up dinner while rocking a baby on one arm, been through teething (ONGOING OMG ALL THE TEETH), and I’ve come out virtually unscathed. Sure, I’ve cried more in the last 13 months and 25 days than in possibly the entire 29 years before. Me and a goodnight’s sleep said our goodbyes right around the same time my boobs took over as ruler and supreme being in the house. And I have neglected to shower/put on makeup/brush my hair and/or teeth on way more days than I care to recall. But, I’ve also laughed more, and loved more, and been more fulfilled and challenged and satisfied that I could have ever DREAMED of being. So I guess right now we can call even Stevens.

But, the whole point of this post, is that I’m not the new mommy! Meaning, there are newer, GREENER mommies, with newer babies! And I am one of the experts now! Ok, maybe “expert” is too strong a word. But, I have been through it, so that qualifies me to dispense advice. Apparently. Disclaimer: I am by no means a parenting expert, unless you call making it 13 months and 25 days without serious incident (and with most of my sanity intact) and a super amazing baby to boot, being an expert. If that is indeed how you measure expertise, than fuck yeah I am! I still find it odd that people ask me for advice, but whatever, who am I to judge.

So, without further ado, the little bit of (sometimes) valuable, (quite often) useful, (occasionally ridiculous) advice that I’ve been able to remember after 13 months and 25 days of living in a semipermanent state of half consciousness and a near complete reboot of my brain via Newborn Amnesia:

-First, this shit is HARD (deep, I know). Don’t be all, “Oh, this is easy, I can totally do this, I don’t need _________”. You do need whatever or whomever you filled that space in with. You need them and it and all their cousins.
-Second, seriously, SLEEP AS MUCH AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN. When people tell you to sleep when the baby sleeps, they aren’t fucking kidding around. There will come a time when you will re-enter the world of the living, and resume(ish) your regular routine, but the first 2 months is not that time.
-Breastfeeding hurts, even if you’re doing it right. It would hurt if you were the goddamned poster child for How to Breastfeed a Child Correctly. There is no way or scenario or situation in which the first 2-3 weeks of breastfeeding are not going to hurt. Because there will be a human being sucking on them with all of their worldly might in an effort to quell a seemingly never-ending hunger. And all that sucking takes a toll. Go ahead, suck on your finger with even a little force for 10 minutes, see how that feels. Go ahead, I’ll wait…Hey, back so soon? I’m sorry, whassat you say? Finger hurts a bit, does it now? Yeah, now imagine that being a part of your body that is only supposed to be treated with gentle, loving care (save for the occasionally naughty tweak to get the party started). Catch my drift?
-Babies cry. That’s what they do. They cry, they eat, they cry, they poop, cry some more, sleep a tiny bit, cry, cry, fart, stare into space with crossed eyes, poop, cry, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat. And cry. This is ONE HOUR OF YOUR DAY WITH A NEWBORN. So multiply that 24 times. And there’s Tuesday! Seriously though, if you were the one parent who was able to stop their baby from crying every single time they cried, you’d be rich, and could hire someone else to stop them from crying. Get some earplugs. Or not, you really do get used to it, I promise.
-Learn to do stuff with one hand/arm. Because, if you’re anything like me, you’re gonna be carrying that baby around for 99% of the first few months of it’s life. So start practicing when you’re pregnant, tie one arm behind your back and cook something, or start small and make a sandwich. Then work your way up. You’re gonna want to be able to do at least 60% of your normal routine as an amputee.
-Start stockpiling books/DVR’d tv/movies now, because you’re going to have a lot of time to kill. A LOT. If you’re going to sit on the couch rocking a baby to sleep for 3 hours every night, or up all night in a wicked feeding/sleeping vortex, then you may as well have some mindless entertainment to fill the void. And tv sucks at 3am, just so ya know.
-Most of all, most, most, most of all, please know this: you’re doing it PERFECT. There is no right way to be the mother to YOUR baby, except the way you’re doing it. You are the most perfect mother that baby could have ever hoped for. Trust in yourself. You are all that baby needs. Well, you and a really good swing.

So, there you have it. My best stuff from The Newborn Years. Also? It gets so much easier. And more fun. Soon, I promise. The first 3 months is mostly so you have ammunition when they turn into son-of-a-bitch, jerk ass teenagers, and you can scream at them about the amount of stitches you needed in your hoo-hah or the way your nipples used to bleed the minute you they so much as looked in your direction. You’re making memories here people. Enjoy it while you can.