When my son was born, we lived in a small urban townhouse and every square inch of our living space was precious. We had very little baby gear, and only allowed toys that had multiple functions. If it was big, bulky and our son would outgrow it quickly then I didn't want it in our house. I suppose this is officially when I became a Toy Snob.
Recently I've been feeling an urge to eat my children, so I figured I should write about my love for them before I actually take a bite out of their soft little arms.
I don't know what it is about extreme love that makes us want to place our chompers on new baby skin, but we do. We all do. Right? We take little nibbles of their toes and cheeks. We bury our faces in their hair and take long deep inhalations, hoping to capture that smell and memory for all of eternity.
One of my dearest friends just had her second baby. She messaged me desperately saying, "Mayday, mayday, I need your advice! How was Cole with the new baby? I'm pretty sure my toddler hates me! Message me back, or better yet—write a blog post on the topic!"
You're probably reading this with 3 hours of broken sleep under your belt and eyelids so heavy it feels like they're full of cement.
You're frantically drinking your eighth cup of coffee while shushing your newborn hoping that I'll get to the point, stop rambling, and offer you the magical sleep advice you're so desperately looking for.
I totally understand. I've been there, and I still sort of am there.
NOTE: As I write this blog post, I have a sweaty six-week-old baby sleeping on my chest as I sit reclined awkwardly in my computer chair.
The past six weeks since Maeve was born have been hectic and awesome. I rarely get dressed before 2pm, and I don't remember the last time I wore my hair down. Bras are optional these days, and I maintain my hygiene by bathing with my kids. Glamorous, I know.
When I first found out I was pregnant with our second child, my first feeling was one of excitement and pure joy, shortly followed by a genetic emotion in my family—guilt.
I'm 35 days away from my due date, and I couldn't be more excited. I cannot wait to meet this little girl or boy!!! I keep looking back at newborn pictures of Cole and my heart leaps with excitement—"We're going to have another one of these! Eeek!"
If you've been following my blog, you might remember earlier in my pregnancy I wrote a post about the pros of Midwives vs the pros of Doctors. At the time, I had decided to go with a midwife (with my son, we had an OB) and I was very excited about my decision, because I had heard so many great things about midwives.
My dad doesn't like that we call my son's penis a penis. "What else should we call it then?"
"A pecker!" He said, without hesitation. I laughed. Oh yes, clearly that's better.
Every now and then, my dad's red neck shows a little bit, and we get into little debates. Usually he just rolls his eyes at me and smiles. I think to him I look like a politically-correct-quinoa-eating-breastfeeding-hippie—but I'm okay with that. And I'm going to call my son's penis, a penis.
Alright, let's drop the gloves and jump right into the ring:
Who do you trust to deliver your most precious piece of cargo? A Midwife or a Doctor?
I know a lot of people feel very strongly about this topic (second maybe to circumcision) so let's try to keep all shots above the belt here, shall we? (Not to mention, with childbirth, we take enough shots below the belt, literally. Lets give our lady bits a rest.)
