I made a quasi resolution in the beginning of year that I didn’t share with anyone, because I was absolutely positive that it would be broken, like, later that day. The resolution was to go the entire year without buying anything NEW for me and the girl child. Meaning, not paying retail for clothes and such, with a few notable exceptions: underwear/lingerie (because EWW), shoes (also, eww, and I realize that many people buy perfectly good shoes secondhand but let me assure you that I cannot be one of them {this one applies only to me, because kids shoes are freaking expensive, yo}, work out clothes (too much…personal sweating), and a bathing suit (again, this applies to me, not the diaper clad small). The shoe rule will work in my favor very, very soon, when I get my grubby little hands on the most adorable pair of crocheted Toms. For me. And I guess one for the kid too.

A little background: I worked in retail for a very long time (12ish years?), and working in retail is the quickest way to develop a little, ahem, problem with shopping. You see it first! Brand new! At a discount! It’s hard to resist the siren call of the perfect boyfriend jean or LBD, even if you already have both hanging in your closet at home. When I got pregnant, my husband made me promise I wouldn’t go overboard on buying baby stuff, and I didn’t, for the most part. I knew that buying tons of cute and expensive clothes for a newborn was literally throwing money down the drain, since we probably wouldn’t be leaving the house for quite some time, and when we did, it wouldn’t be to anywhere that a onesie and bloomers wouldn’t be appropriate. And I was lucky enough to have a lot of awesome moms who gave me tons of clothes and gear, which is the way to go. So I stayed in control with baby stuff. And being pregnant and then postpartum makes clothes buying excruciatingly nightmarish, so my own consumption has slowed quite a bit. But the last time I cleaned out my closet, I found so much stuff with tags still attached, it really got me thinking. Why am I buying stuff that I may never wear, and paying full price?

Hence, the Nothing New Resolution. About a month ago, I participated in a clothing swap with some other women and moms, and I scored some great pieces (and got rid of quite a bit of excess in my own closet). And today, my lovely friend Tessa and I attended the presale day for LA Kids Consignment Sale. It’s a giant sale that happens about 6 times a year, where anyone who wants to can register and sell their baby gear, clothes, furniture, toys, etc. We did not participate as consigners (oh my god the time involved in that), but we did purchase passes to shop the sale a day before it opened to the public (consigners and volunteers also get the shop early, for free). I didn’t really know what to expect, so when I walked into the WAREHOUSE, I started hyperventilating a bit at the sheer magnitude of what was before me. It. Was. MASSIVE. Rows and rows and rows (and rows and rows and rows) of clothes, books, toys, strollers, swings, bouncers, cribs, gliders, potty seats, and on and on and on (seemingly into infinity). Anything that anyone can possibly even think of wanting for their baby or kid, was there. The best part? It was there, in (mostly) great condition, for a fraction of what you’d pay retail. Bouncers for $20. Books for .50. High end strollers like Quinnys and B.O.Bs for $80. It was a bargain oasis.

Since it was my first time, I went in without a game plan, and that’s what you need for this kind of shopping. You need a list of must gets, you need shopping partners, comfy shoes, and time. I had an awesome (but equally flummoxed) partner in Tessa, but nothing else. Hell, I even brought the kid. We did browse some, and I did end up scoring some good stuff: 2 pairs of shorts, a skirt, a tank, a pair of sandals, and 8 books for $20. That alone is reason enough to hit up the next sale, which incidentally, is only a month away!

So I’m starting my list now, in preparation for the April sale. I want to get most of her summer wardrobe, a lot more books, and I really want a jogging stroller so she can go on runs with me. And I’m sure I’ll find a few extra goodies too. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go the whole year without buying anything new, but the LA Kids Consignment Sale will make it pretty much a cinch for the girl. I don’t know if I can swallow paying full price for stuff anymore, knowing that I can get it for $2. I’m a smart girl.

Now, if only they had this sale for grown ups. I want to start thrifting, but am clueless as to where to begin. So if you’re a thrifting mama (and I know some of you are masters, judging from my Instagram feed), I would love some tips/advice/pointers. I’m willing to pay more than $2 for my stuff. But not much. Like I said, I’m a smart girl.

From the First Addition Dictionary of Dylan Rose:

JUMP (actual word): dump (Dylan-ism)

FORK: f*ck (this one brings me endless hours of entertainment)

SPOON: poon (combine with FORK for an extra kick)

APPLE: ass (can be used with any of the above for even more inappropriate laughs)

BLUEBERRIES: booze (even more awesome when she asks for them in public)

Right now, she’s putting together sentences using 3-4 words, so you can imagine how often I try to work these words into our conversations. Getting her to ask for a fork or spoon to eat her apples and blueberries is like the Holy Grail of toddler-speak in our house right now.

I’m expecting my Mother of the Year trophy aaaaaannnnnyyyyy day now.

Having a baby WRECKED my memory. I used to pride myself on being able to remember everything, without having to write stuff down or leave myself reminders. Not anymore. Now, I remember stuff, but stuff that has literally no bearing on my life. Like, I remember the phone number for the first house I remember living in. But I can’t remember my own phone number. Like, my CURRENT phone number. My brain is filled to the brim with completely useless crap.

Which would suck, except I’ve apparently given birth to Little Miss Memory. Dylan remembers everything. Where she left a toy a week ago, where I hid the cookies when I thought she wasn’t looking, what happens on the next page of a book, what happens in the next scene of a show or commercial she’s seen once. To wit: she started doing this weird “NOOOOOOOO” thing and then cracking up, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what the hell she was doing, until I saw a commercial on the Disney Channel for some DVD, and a character in the movie says it in the commercial. The scene doesn’t even last 3 seconds, and we’ve never seen the actual movie it’s from. You know how people say that kids are sponges? There is evidently a ring of truth to that.

Now if I can just remember to tell her to remember the stuff I have trouble remembering.

Dylan’s a talker. She starts yapping away the second she opens her eyes in the morning, and literally does not stop (save for the wonderfully quiet 2 hours of nap time) until she finally konks out at night. I don’t know WHERE she gets it from, although my long suffering husband would like me to point out that he is, by nature, the strong and silent type. And I think I was just insulted.

But I digress. Let’s get back to my adorable little squawk box. Now, Dylan’s always had a lot of words. She seems to pick up a new word really easily, and it usually only takes her hearing it once before she remembers it and uses it correctly. Which is awesome! And scary! I can’t even tell you how many blessings I’ve counted that she hasn’t started using any of my, um, saltier word choices. I’m getting much better, but I’m not gonna lie, I’m still a fan of the four letter words.

But now, she’s not just speaking in words. This kid has decided to start speaking in sentences. Like, 3 and 4 word sentences. “I has snack?” “Mama pick up?” “Bath so fun Mama!” “Go outside for bubbles?” I still chuckle every time she says something. It is seriously the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. And I especially love it when she answers my question with an actual thought out answer. Like, if I ask her what she wants for lunch? Nine times outta ten, she’ll tell me what she wants. It’s almost always some kind of cookie, but hey, can’t blame a girl for trying.

It’s all so exciting. But it’s also heartbreaking. She’s not a baby anymore! When did that HAPPEN? She’s a year and a half old. In 6 months, my baby, my sweet, tiny baby, will be TWO. I don’t think I’m ready for that! I think she may be ready though. “I big Mama!” Yes, baby. Yes you are.

I haven’t been able to find my words lately. I wrote last about my dad, and I needed to be silent after that. For a bit. I needed to just let that be. Last week was hard. But it’s done now, and it’s a little less hard.

I asked Dylan a question the other day, something innocent, something in passing, fully expecting to answer for her, like I’ve been doing for all her (little) life so far. “No want mama.” I smiled a thousand smiles, to hide my tears. Who cries when their child answers their question? I feel like I can’t keep up. Sometimes I don’t recognize her, my own baby. Not a baby. Maybe that’s why I don’t recognize her, I still think of her as my baby.

I started working today, from home. It’s been so long, I feel out of the loop. Old. Used up. I’m lucky to have found something that allows me to stay home and still be her mom. I wouldn’t have been able to leave her everyday. Even today, my first day, my heart ached for her. I missed her. How do you miss someone in the next room? I’ll be able to work around her, so she never misses me. Because that sort of the point, isn’t it? Absorbing all the bad so they don’t feel it? I’m learning that.

I feel anxious about work. I like it, am looking forward to it, but it’s been so long since I’ve had to be anything other than mom. I don’t who that other person is, anymore. I hope she’s still here, out there, somewhere. I catch glimpses of her on occasion, like seeing your reflection in a window as you walk by. I speak of her as if she’s a different person, separate from me, because I think she is. I haven’t made her and I whole yet, I don’t know how to do that. I hope she’s there. I hope she isn’t mad that I left her so long ago.

I hope she comes back.

-linking up with Just Write

I talk a lot here about being a mom, but I don’t write very often about being a wife. And I’m going to be honest: I find marriage to be infinitely more difficult than parenthood. Being a parent comes very naturally to me: I work off instinct, gut feeling, and a lot of common sense, and that’s done us well so far. That’s not to say that I have not struggled some days or weeks. Having a kid is ridiculous. But I am (for the most part) confident in my abilities as her mother, and his as her father. I am not always confident, however, in my role as wife. I struggle. Some days, a lot. I have a hard time straddling the line between selfish and selfless, giving too much and not giving enough. It’s a delicate balance that I’m not sure I have a firm grasp on.

Where parenting comes easily, naturally, without forethought, marriage is the opposite. Marriage requires time and care and constant energy to feed it and nourish it and help it thrive. Unfortunately, once you have a child, all of your resources are shifted to that new relationship, that new life. I think we (or maybe it’s just me, I don’t know) tend to take our partners for granted once we have that new person to focus on. It seems daunting, after a long, hard day of being a mother, to then have to turn around and be a wife. And I fail at it. More than I am ready to admit. I’ve repeated to myself *several* times over the last few months: having a clean house doesn’t make me a good wife; putting away the laundry doesn’t make me a good wife; cooking every might does not make me a good wife. Basically, I’m a great housekeeper.

Today is our third wedding anniversary. The last year was hard, in many ways. Life doesn’t always work the way you want or expect it to, and a lot of stresses have crept into our life, into our home. Our connection hasn’t always been strong, but it’s here. It has always been HERE. Buried under a bunch of other shit, yes, but it’s here. And that gives me strength. I love my husband, more today than the day I married him. He is my partner, my support, my future. I just need to remember that. We need to remember that. As important as our responsibilities are as parents, our responsibility to each other is just as important. Our connection to each other is important. For us, and for Dylan.

3 years doesn’t seem like a long time, but it can feel like an eternity (in a good way). I’m proud we’ve made it 3 years (and a baby!) with our love and respect for each other in tact. That is not an easy feat, and we are more than aware that many couples aren’t as fortunate. Dylan is my number one priority, and she always will be, but that doesn’t mean that my marriage has to be number two. I’m starting to understand that they are not mutually exclusive. We can be amazing parents, and have a solid marriage. Just as long as we give it the time and attention is needs, and deserves. We owe it to our daughter, and to ourselves.

Happy anniversary my love. I love you more today than I did three years ago. And that’s saying something, because I loved you a lot three years ago. You made me a wife, and you made me a mother. But most importantly, you made me, and continue to make me, happy. I love you. Here’s to 30 more…

You know that thing where you put your kid to bed one night, and then wake up the next morning to an almost completely new kid?

Yeah. THAT. Like, 7 days a week.

Dylan’s a year and a half old now, she’s not a baby anymore. *SOB* She’s a bonafide little girl, in more ways than not. Sure, she’s still in diapers (but not for much longer, fingers crossed, I’m beginning my potty training research soon), she’s still on the boob (even though the weaning is going well, I’ve eased up a bit, I’m just not ready to stop completely yet), and she babbles on nonsensically for hours everyday in her own little baby babble. But lately, in the middle of all that chatter, I’ll recognize a word, or two, or five. Words that I didn’t know she could say. Words that I didn’t even know she *knew*. She has opinions. Very, very strong opinions, on everything from food (I can get her to eat pretty much anything if I bribe her with blueberries first), to music (when we’re in the car, she tells us “NO” as we scan through the radio until we land on a song that is to her liking). She answers me when I ask her questions, she asks me questions or requests specific snacks and books and movies. It’s like having a conversation with a very little drunk person with attention deficit disorder.

In the car on the way home from the mother ship yesterday (read: Target), I sneezed. And from the back seat, in a her little squeaky toddler voice, Dylan said, “Bless mama”. And then I died.

I’m loving this stage of kid. I’m watching her brain grow, everyday, and that blows. my. mind. She’s counting, putting words into sentences (“I has snack?” and “I have poop!” are her most used right now), entertaining herself. It’s a fucking blast, man. I wake up every morning excited for what she’s going to wow me with that day. Which is a nice change from waking up every morning staring another day of exactly the same in the face. Toddlerdom is winning for me so far.

Please let my willful ignorance go on for a little longer. I’m more than aware that I’m roughly 6 months away from the terrible twos. Let me revel in my not-quite-terrible toddler for just a while longer. You can point and laugh soon enough, don’t worry.

Dylan got Jello for the first time today. And I bought stock in Shout! Stain Remover.

Her spoon accuracy is hovering around 40%, and Jello is way too slippery to eat with a spoon anyway, so we call it a finger food ’round these parts.

She was a little annoyed with me that I kept pestering her with photo requests, what with the bowl of pure sugar sitting in front of her. She humored me, but just barely.

“Mo mama? Mama? Mo? Mama mo peeze? PEEZE MAMA MO?”

This onesie just became play clothes.

This all happened this afternoon at around 3:30. Since then, she’s asked me for ‘lo ELEVENTY BILLION TIMES. Apparently, there *is* always room for Jello.

I hear the unmistakable “thump” of girl hitting floor, and then a split second later, the wail. I dry my hands and hurry to her, ready to snuggle and soothe and kiss her bumps to make it all better, the magical healing power of mommy. She sits, waiting, her beautiful brown eyes pooled with tears and expectation and just a glimmer of mischief. The thump wasn’t so bad, the bump, imaginary. She does this sometimes, tests me, to see how fast I will come, how many kisses I will give, how long I will rub her back to quiet her hiccuping sobs. When it’s a real thump, she comes looking for me.

Sitting on the floor, rubbing the barely bump, I think about how easy it is now, to make her feel better. A few tears shed, a bruise, the occasional busted lip from her feet not being able to keep up with her heart. Even when we scold her, and the corners of her mouth turn down and her bottom lip starts to quiver, all it takes is a hug, some kisses, reassurances that we love her, love her, love her, and all is forgotten. Truthfully, this is one of my favorite things about being a mom: the ability to make her feel better, to take away her pain, to make her feel safe. To turn her pain into laughter. Mommy magic.

I don’t want to think ahead to when my magic no longer works. I don’t want to know that one day, my baby will hurt and be sad and feel pain that I cannot take away. I don’t want to accept that one day, she won’t be my baby. At some point, it will take more than a tickle and kiss to make the tears stop. I dread that day.

So, until then, I will kiss every bump. I will hurry to her when she cries, rub her back, wipe away her tears, and I will ignore the smile that plays on her lips when she calls for me. When she calls out for mommy to come and give her some magic, even when she doesn’t need it. I’m hoping, in the way that moms do when we know better but don’t want to know better, that all the times I kiss imaginary ouchies and put band aids on invisible boo boos will add to some kind of magic bank. And when the time comes that I’m not able to make her hurt go away, she can dip into it, and use it to soothe herself, to dry her own tears and heal her own pain. And one day, she’ll use some of that magic on her own baby. Until she figures out how to make her own. I hope.

linking up with Heather of the EO and Just Write

Dylan is 17 months old (OH MY GOD), and still on the boob. Not a lot, just at night and before nap time, but enough that it’s still a pretty big part of our life. She’s never gone to sleep without “milkies” beforehand, and when she wakes up at night (normally 1-2 times, but sometimes more. MUCH MORE.), she doesn’t go back down without a little of the magic juice. Which, you know, isn’t terrible, by any means. But that means that no one, not even dad, has ever put her to bed or down for a nap but me. It also means that no one, not even dad, has been getting up anywhere from one to four times a night for a year and half with her, but me. And before you ask, she won’t take a bottle, never has (I would like to thank my breast feeding “support” group for that one, since they told me that if I gave her anything but the breast for the first 6 weeks, she would reject my boob and I would fail as a mother, so I was terrified to give her a bottle, and never did), and I stopped pumping a long time ago. I had a freezer full of milk that my nipple snob of a daughter wouldn’t drink from a bottle, so pumping just seemed…dumb.

So she’s been on the boobs for her entire little life. And I LOVE that I’ve been able to nurse her for so long, and I don’t want to stop completely. But you guys? I am tired. Like, really, really tired. The good nights are awesome, if it was all good nights, I’d nurse her into preschool. But lately, it’s been a lot of bad nights. She’s getting older, more aware, SMARTER than shit, so she’s starting to realize that bedtime? Sucks. And for the last 3 weeks or so, she wants no part of it. We have a routine, we put on jammies, listen to some music, snuggle with dad for a while, then me and the girl go to her room, she gets the milkies in her rocking chair, I give her tons of lovin’, put her in her crib, and voila! Out like a light. Except for the last 3 weeks, she hasn’t been out like a light, so much as she’s been up as soon as I’m out the door, throwing her pacifier and asking for milkies. So, I’ve been going in, giving her more of the good stuff, laying her down, at which point she jumps up and does the same thing all over again. This can go on for up to an HOUR some nights. An hour of mini nursing sessions, until she’s decided she’s done, and then she just lays down and fucking knocks out. It’s so annoying. And exhausting. And frustrating. Not only does she do this at bedtime, but she’ll also do it when she wakes up at 2 or 4 or 5 in the morning. I have considerably less patience at 5 in the morning, and it’s those times that have me leaning towards weaning (heh, did you see what I did there? I’m so clever, even when I’m exhausted).

I gave it a try last night, and had mixed results. She went down great, one nursing session, and I only had to go in once to soothe her (no boob). But then she woke up at 1 in the morning, and no
amount of mama cuddles would do. She wanted the boob. And she wanted it BAD. So bad, in fact, that after going into her room 5 times to soothe her and snuggle her and rock her and give her the paci she hurled across the room, I was at the end of my rope, and caved. I gave her the boob. I DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT ONE NIGHT YOU GUYS. My first night of weaning was an epic, sucky fail. In my defense, I limited her boob time to one minute, just enough to calm her down and weigh down the eyelids. But still. After almost an hour of crying and screaming and me withholding the magic milk, I caved. And she totally knows it. She’s no dummy. She knows that I’m weak, and she will ultimately prevail. The balance of power (if there ever was one) has shifted greatly.

Tonight is going better, but it is young. I know that it’s going to be hard, and it’s only been two nights so far, so I’m not completely discouraged. And I don’t want to give up nursing all the way; I would still love to nurse before bed and before nap time, because I love those moments with her. I’m not even expecting to cut out all nighttime nursing-I realize that she’s still young enough to cycle out of sleep and need some help getting back down. But right now, she knows that every time she wakes up, she gets the boobs, and she’s holding that over my head like a sword. So we just need to start cutting back, slowly, and get to a point where she knows when she gets it, and when she doesn’t. Daytime weaning was easy for us, and I guess I figured (stupidly) that nighttime weaning would be just as simple. Once again, I was wrong.

For once, I would like to not be wrong. Wrong sucks, and always seems to result in less sleep for mama.