Last weekend, I went on my first baby-free vacation with three of my best friends to New York. After 15 and a half months of being within boob-shot of my son at all times, I was really looking forward to some "Me" time.
Time to shop. Time to drink wine. Time to dance.
Time to literally, let my hair down — because no one was going to pull it. Or puke in it!
Hmm... On second thought, both of those things still could happen depending on how hard we decided to party. Regardless, you get my point...
Hello. It's me again. The mom whose son still doesn't sleep very well at night. He's 13 months old. I'm at the point that I want to scream whenever parents complain that their 3-week-old baby that wakes up every 2-3 hours.
"Oh yeah? You've been going through that for 3 weeks now? That must be really hard on you. I've been going through it for 62 weeks. And three days. Not that I'm counting."
Cole is an incredibly strong and agile little beast.
Despite our secret wishes for him to be interested in crocheting and stamp collecting — I'm pretty sure we have a hardcore athlete on our hands. We're still hoping we can convince him to sign up for an obscure sport like fencing or water polo, but I'm pretty sure our future weekends will be spent at hockey arenas. And soccer fields. And baseball fields. And basketball courts.
My son is 15 months old, and much to my surprise we are still breastfeeding. And still loving it. Except one of us is loving it a little too much it seems.
I've been obsessed with names my whole life. When I was little, I gave names to the bunnies in my wallpaper border. In University, I wrote a whole essay about the importance and power of names. I've even named my reproductive organs: Eggnes, Eggelica, and Carrie — my uterus.
See, I'm obsessed.
I also have an ongoing list of names on my phone, and like to practice pairing them up with my son Cole's name:
I really try not to judge other moms and parents. I've made it a rule not to do this.
But of course, I do this. We all do this. We are Judgey McJudgersons. All of us.
Yes, even you.
In fact, the people that claim "not to judge" are often the most Judgey of all. They come with a black robe, white curls, and a wooden mallet. The Supreme Court Judgers.
I don't know if you know this or not - but I get to watch movies and TV shows for a living. It's a pretty tough job, but someone has to do it. My husband hates me if I ever complain "But honey - the movie was soooo long. And with the sun coming in through the window, I almost fell asleep at my desk!"
I get no sympathy.
But it's okay, I realize I have a great job and I work with awesome people on top of it all. My boss is also fantastic.
*hoping my boss is reading this and will now give me an incredible bonus and substantial raise*
Alright, my son is 14 months old, so we definitely have this whole "parenting" thing down now (sure we do...) I can't even remember what life was like before I had my son. What did I do when I came home from work? I must have had so much free time! Why didn't I run marathons? Or write novels? Or solve the majority of the worlds problems? Surely I had bucketloads of time to do all of these things!
I remember you when you were full of enthusiasum. I remember when you were full—period.
Now, after thirteen months of breastfeeding, I Iook down at you and I wonder, "Where did you go?" You didn't even leave a note to say goodbye. What you did leave, however, is empty space in my bra cup.
I feel sick to my stomach with guilt that I haven't posted here in so long. But you see—I have a good excuse: I was too busy being sick to my stomach with a nasty virus, and was in bed for five days. I lost seven pounds in two days, missed three days of work, and remembered what labour pain felt like.
Most new moms wonder, "What will happen to my body after I have a baby? Will my vagina heal? Will my stomach heal? Will that dark line on my tummy disappear - and how did it get there in the first place? Will I go up a shoe size? Will I go up a dress size? Or ten?"
We all ultimately wonder, "Will my body go back to normal?"
Most experienced moms can probably agree on the answer to that question: No. Your body won't be the exact same as it was before you had a baby.
Last weekend my husband and I, along with our two about-to-be-wed childless friends, went out to see a comedy show in Toronto's east end called "Time Out." It is a stand-up comedy night by parents for parents. This monthly event is hosted by the talented and beautiful Erin Keaney, and I was very excited to check out the show.
If you've been following my blog, you'll know that in December my husband and I took the plunge and moved to the suburbs. You may also remember that around that same time, we bought a mini-van.
"Cool" and "urban" quickly slipped off the list of words used to describe us as a couple — and what a relief!
I am normally a pretty laid back, fun-loving, and kind person. I smile. I say "please" and "thank-you," and hold doors open for little old ladies. I've even been known to put my car in park and run across the street to help a disabled/potentially homeless man pull up his pants when he suddenly fell to his ankles (he was using a walker and wasn't very able-bodied.) This is a true story.
But if you'd like to see the other side of Jen Warman, all you need to do is wake up my sleeping baby.
It's my second week back to work, and I can't help but think: "How do people do this? This whole "working" thing? This whole getting dressed in the morning thing?"
Don't get me wrong: staying at home with Cole was a TON of work. He is active and busy and we always did a lot with our days. But I was able to stay in my PJs if I wanted to. And I didn't have to brush my hair (okay—let's be honest: I still don't brush my hair. Seriously. I just found a mini dreadlock while combing through my hair with my fingers at my desk. Sigh.)
If this white screen were a piece of paper, it would have wet wrinkly puddles of tears on it. I don't feel like there are any words to describe how this past year has made me feel. My life is forever changed, and in the best way possible. My baby boy turns one today, and my heart just keeps exploding with fireworks. Every time he smiles, every time his mischievous eyes twinkle.
Last Friday, during our crazy winter snowstorm, I got a text message from my good friend Kristen: I have an extra ticket to see Lady Gaga tonight—you want to come?
I gazed down at my three-day worn...err...seven-day worn baggy jogging pants. The ones with the ripped pockets and paint stained legs. Then I looked over to my active 11-month-old who was chasing the dog. Hmm—an excuse to leave the house, get dressed, and rock out to a musical legend? Let me think about it.
From everyone. Everywhere. All of the time. In fact, it started when I was pregnant and hasn't stopped.
In all honesty, it doesn’t really bother me when people offer me advice. One thing I have learned, however, is how to tell when you’re about to receive bad advice.
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