This is the way we learn, the way we learn, the way we learn...

I can't stop singing this song.

Counting, counting, counting is such fun
Count with me, come let's start with one
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten
Wasn't that the best?
I'd love to count again

Over and over again. It's like I've lost all control. I'll be scrubbing the egg yolk off the breakfast dishes and just start singing out loud. I won't even be looking at Jasper -- sometimes he's not even in the room. I'm in one of those zone moments where you just go on autopilot. You know like when you get in the car and all the sudden you're at your destination and you can't remember driving there? Well, that's me with this song.

It's not exactly a new thing, though. Seth's always thought I had an uncanny ability to memorize the words to songs. My sister does the same thing. In fact her friend Hayden once told her that if only she could carry a tune, she'd be a great singer. The same could be said for me. We come by it honestly. Our mother is the queen of this, and you should see what happens when the three of us get together with some Bing Crosby at Christmas.

Without thinking, I used to bust out the lyrics to the Dixie Chicks ("The sheriff tipped his hat and said thank you, ladies..."), Aerosmith ("I was cryin' when I met you..."), John Mellencamp ("Jackie's gonna be a football star...") or even a little Cher ("If I could turn back time...").

Some tunes are just catchy, you know? And when you hear something over and over again, it starts to sink in. Especially, I think, if you're not trying to learn. If you're just letting life happen around you, things become familiar. I always sing the counting song when I walk into the kitchen because that's where I hear it most. It plays on a new toy we inherited from Dina, the Learning Play Home, and it sits in the room beside the kitchen. Jasper is in love with it as well as the other gazillion songs it plays.

He, too, is picking up on things going on around him. He's not singing Taylor Swift yet, but he is learning, every day. About six weeks ago he started shaking his head "no." For about five seconds I thought it must be some hard-wired human thing because I didn't think he learned it from me. But then I realized I was shaking my own head, I just wasn't thinking about it.

That's exactly what happened to Jasper yesterday when we were waving goodbye to the babysitter. He raised his own hand, did his own fist-clenching wave, opened his mouth and said, "Bye-bye."

Just like that. His first words that were something more than an indiscriminate sound. No "Dada" or "Momma," just "bye-bye."

It was amazing and adorable, and I have witnesses, so I know it wasn't a crazy-Mom-wanting-her-kid-to-sound-smart moment. We've been saying "Momma" and "Dada" a lot in an effort to teach him. All the while, he has been learning. Just like I learned the counting song. I didn't set out to memorize that song, trust me. I was just doing my thing, and I picked it up. Kids are no different. In fact, they probably learn more than adults do because we often stop paying attention to the small, common things.

Maybe I'm catching on. "Bye-bye" is hardly a meaningless phrase in my book, now.

Early to Rise

Jasper woke up at 6 this morning. Surprising, actually since Seth's alarm started going off at 5:30. I don't know quite how he does it, but he crawled into bed about midnight last night and got up at 6 as well to head to the gym.

What annoys me most isn't that he gets some time to himself, gets to work out or gets an invigorating start to his day. It annoys me that he gets six hours of sleep and still gets out of bed for the gym. Even as a mom I feel guilty in his company complaining about being tired when I am getting at least seven uninterrupted hours of sleep a night these days.

Oh well. This morning I'm doing better following a very mom-centric trip to the neighborhood Walgreens yesterday. I picked up coffee, milk and a $20 to pay the babysitter today. Last week at the grocery store I bought only decaf coffee -- I usually mix caf and decaf bulk beans. I'd been having heart burn, and thought reducing the caffeine would help. Ouch. It's been a rough week's worth of mornings. The caffeine in the morning is so worth a little tummy ache in the afternoon. This morning I said to Seth, "Despite getting up at 6, I feel good thanks to some caffeine."

Seth's response: "I know enough to know that when you feel good, I feel good."

And Jasper seemed to take part in this morning feel-good moment. You might remember several months back when I posted a pic of him practically climbing out of the bouncy seat (oh, those were the days!)? I was surprised back then how quickly he outgrew a toy. Well, that little activity table I bought him about three months ago seems to have suffered the same fate as the bouncy seat. I'd been noticing it upside down with legs sticking straight up. Hmm, I thought. Just how is that happening? Then, I witnessed my little angel, just some 30-inches tall, flipping the wide-legged table over with one hand as if he were the Incredible Hulk.

We're just about done with that toy, I thought.

This morning he made it official. We're done with that toy. I turned around to spot him on top of it. Literally, no limbs touching the floor. He slid off, giddy, and did it again. Please don't think I'm a terrible mom because I snapped a picture before pulling him off. Notice it's fuzzy. At least I didn't take multiple ones to get him in focus. Anybody in need of an activity table?

Growin' Up

I can hardly believe it, but Jasper will be 11 months old on Saturday. When I think back to this time last year it makes me a little sappy, but it also makes me remember that I like being able to climb the stairs without getting out of breath. And sleeping on my stomach is so relaxing. Plus, I don't have anxiety about making plans more than a day ahead, not quite knowing when I could be headed to the hospital.

To celebrate, I'm going to give you a little update on the little guy.

• Jasper is nearly walking. He can stand on his own quite well and will even take steps if he can hold on to mommy or daddy with one hand. This is going to change things dramatically, but I am so excited for this next phase (please remind me of that!).
  
• The little man waves to daddy every morning when he leaves for work. It is absolutely adorable.
  
• Jasper thinks Wiley is a hoot. He loves to throw balls for the dog and watch him fetch. We are happy that Wiley is at least tolerant. Actually, we think he secretly loves it. He won't give up the ball to either one of us, but he will turn it over easily to Jasper.
  
• Jasper is a good eater. He's in a stage where pretty much anything orange is awesome. Cantaloupe, cheddar cheese and carrots are all on the favorite list. He's eating pretty much whatever we eat, and I am loving cooking for my boys even more than I thought I could. Seth, however, could do without the mess!
• Jasper is sleeping through the night most of the time. It means we usually get up pretty early, but I'll take it. I do still find myself sleepy at times and thinking I need a new excuse -- my baby doesn't need me all night!
• Jasper plays well independently, but there are times he's becoming even more clingy. Usually I can help him out by introducing a new toy.
• I am struggling with how on earth you cut a toddler's finger nails since the little guy won't be still for more than a second. So far I'm taking the advice of a friend and carrying the clippers around in a pocket, so I don't miss an opportunity.
  
• I'm also pretty sure that Jasper is a full-fledged biter. I sometimes react with an "Ouch! That hurt Momma!" He in turn has one of two reactions: laughs or bursts into tears. Yikes.
  

Here's a pic of him at dinner last night. He loves beans, as you can see. He's trying (unsuccessfully) to feed himself with spoon.

Soaked

When I was in grade school I spent a lot of time, especially in the summers, hanging out with my sister and her friends. She's four years older, and I couldn't think of anything cooler than whatever she and her girlfriends were doing.

One of her friends belonged to a country club, and a few times we were lucky enough to go there with her to swim in a huge pool. After swimming we'd go to the bathrooms, which were the biggest and nicest public potties I'd ever seen. I think there was a hot tub in there, saunas and a huge vanity with baskets full of toiletries, including tampons. I watched with amazement as my sister and her friend plugged the sink and dropped in a tampon. I couldn't believe how the cotton would swell.

That's not a thought I recall often, but today, in amazement, it's all I could think of. I was moving a load of Jasper's laundry from the washer to the dryer and was a little scared when I grabbed for something that was squishy. I pulled my hand out of the washer and discovered a diaper -- a disposable diaper -- in my hand along with a washcloth and a bib. It weighed about 10 pounds and was the size of a small cat. Like the tampon, I imagined a moment of the water filling the washer bin and POOF the diaper multiplied like those those tiny foam capsules that turn into dinosaur toys in the bath tub. Not surprisingly, the diaper was clean. But, I thought, what had been in it?

I had no idea how it got in the laundry. I suppose I could have swept it up with a pile of clothes after bath time. Or had I thrown it into the pile on my way downstairs with the laundry basket with the intention of taking it outside because it was so disgusting? Or could it have been a clean diaper that Jasper was playing with and somehow managed to get it into his laundry basket? This last option is possible but not so probable. Still, I like to think that there's a small chance the diaper was clean to begin with.

Previously I'd found whole beans, chunks of chicken and baby wipes in the laundry. This, however, caught me by surprise. I'm pretty sure, though, I'm not the first mom to make this mistake.

Still, I was grossed out, so I took the diaper straight to the trash. Then, I pulled the wet clothes that had already made it into the dryer back to the washer and started the load again.

Heloise, I think, would advise me not to dry my salad greens in the spin cycle anymore. Oops.

Rookie Mom Mistake: Assuming it's only dirty clothes in that pile of laundry.

Feeling Good Underneath

I once heard on Oprah that every woman should wear matching lingerie. As in a bra and panties that match. Every. Day.

Really? It's supposed to make you feel better about yourself. Much of the past year and a half of my life, I've been wearing one of two bras, and the underwear, thankfully, haven't been maternity for several months. If there is one word to describe my undergarments of late, it is not sexy or even flattering for that matter. Utilitarian is more like it. They're frayed, rumpled and over-stretched. So, since Jasper is now officially weaned from breast feeding I decided maybe it was time to update my underwear. (If this were Facebook, Seth would click "Like" beside this sentence, giving it the thumbs up.)

To celebrate I went to Nordstrom. I know, it's not really my speed. I felt like a total loser in my jeans, T-shirt and Converse browsing through the lingerie department. Yes, I could have gone somewhere cheaper, but I'd heard amazing things about shopping for bras at Nordstrom, and I wanted to check it out. I needed serious shopping and no distractions of teenagers plucking through hot pink thongs at a back-to-school sale.

A young clerk who seemed far too hip to sell grandma's nightshirts offered to help. A reassuring sign, I thought. She politely listened to me explain how a pregnancy and nearly a year of nursing had left me clueless to my bra size. And then it began. She measured me, fitted me and began bringing me more pretty bras and panties than I'd ever had in my own dresser. I told her that the leopard print and hot pink weren't my style, and I prayed she didn't notice my tattered pink Xhilaration bra from Target crumpled on the dressing room stool.

In the end, I came home with two new bras. I almost asked to wear one out of the store, like you can do with shoes, but I thought that might make me look a little too pathetic. After all, she was giving me bra advice that sounded like a mother-daughter conversation from another era. She told me that a woman really needed at least four bras in her rotation, so that each one had proper time to rest before the next wearing. That way, she said, the elastic will last longer. I had no idea there was a science as to which bra to wear on which day. Don't tell, but I also stopped using a lingerie bag for laundry a long time ago, too. And, I use regular laundry soap. Gasp!

I spent more money than I thought possible on bras, and I didn't even buy the most expensive ones they had. I've done a double take while I passing by a mirror today. Of course, the pretty bra is hidden under my tattered "Goonies" T-shirt that I'm pretty sure most of my neighborhood thinks must be one of three shirts I own. But I can see that pretty bra working. I've got a bit more shape, sure, I mean, how can you get less shape than a nursing bra, that, while comfortable, comes only in sizes S, M, L and XL? But I do feel good about it, too.

My sneakers are stained with red sauce, my capri-cut off Levis have frayed hems and my short hair is falling from the pony tail I try to pull together. And today I've got a few snot trails on my jeans thanks to Jasper, and the quick makeup job of mascara and powder. But the best part is that I feel pretty good knowing what I've got on underneath all of this.

I'm pretty sure that when Jasper starts crying, throwing a tantrum because I will not let him climb up the steps for the 300th time, I won't have some zen feeling come over me just because of some lace and elastic. It's not that kind of feel good. I feel just a little less frumpy. Even if you couldn't tell from the outside.

Rookie Mom Mistake: Getting rid of heartburn is not worth being sleepy all day, so drink the coffee with caffeine and pop a Tums later.

Safety Last

I think I'm not alone in keeping my dishwasher soap, Windex and Comet in the cabinet under the kitchen sink. In that Heloise's Kitchen Hints book I mentioned on my other blog I read a tip about moving these things to a higher cabinet. Heloise, however, wasn't worried about children consuming toxic cleaners. She professed how much energy we'd save by not bending over so many times a day.

Heloise clearly did not have kids. Bending down to pull out the Palmolive is hardly the most taxing thing I do in a day.

Jasper is now tall enough and smart enough to open the cabinets using the knobs. And since I think Heloise's advice is a bit off for 2009 (I'll give her a pass because I think in the 1960s when the book was published dishwashers weren't next to every sink, making that cabinet the logical place for the soap.), we needed to do something to make sure Jasper wasn't able to lick the chemical-laden bottles.

We bought and installed some of those safety latches that mount inside the cabinet and you press down after opening them slightly. But my sink is so deep that it gets in the way, rendering the latches as useful as that stupid baby gate. So I put a fat rubber band around the knobs until we could find a better solution. I made a trip to the hardware store down the street where the manager helped me find the kind of safety latch that goes on the outside of the cabinet. He was sold out of them, so he ordered more just because I asked. How sweet, I thought.

The next week I returned, found the Safety 1st Push 'n Snap Cabinet Lock, bought it and came home. I popped it out of the package and gave it a try. Hmm. Not so easy to open, and it wasn't even on the cabinet yet. Maybe it had a learning curve, I thought. So I fastened it on the knobs. Smiled, and walked away.


Next thing I know, Jasper was VERY interested in this new thing. And the cabinet doors he'd ignored for the past week were once again intriguing. He pushed and pulled on the thing, tightening the lock even more than I did. It was a success, though, in terms of keeping him out of the cabinet. I'd worry about opening it later.

I kind of forgot about the lock altogether until I was cleaning up the dishes from dinner that night. I plunked the last plate into the bottom rack of the dishwasher, pushed the door shut, and in the routine motion, reached for the cabinet to grab the soap.

It was a no go. Seth, who was downstairs but within ear shot, asked what my grunting was about. I halfway explained as I cursed, pushed and pulled. Please, I asked, would he help. Finally, with both of us pushing and pulling, using a chopstick to press down the tiny button and a butter knife for leverage, the lock popped open.

It was kid-proof all right, and, I imagined, more stressful than calling poison control.

I pulled the lock off the knobs, threw it back in the packaging and mumbled how I didn't want to take it back because the friendly manager had ordered it just for me. "Take. It. Back," Seth said.

I then wondered if any mom had ever gone postal at a Safety 1st. How funny that would be, huh? I could see the headlines now, mixing the words safety, crazed, mom and weapon. All joking aside, I do not want anyone to get hurt, inflict pain or otherwise maim people over design flaws. But is it really too much to ask that things just work right? I personally volunteer for product testing.

So, I'm back to the rubber band. It's one of those really wide ones that doesn't have too much give, so it doesn't slip right off. I'm pretty sure you won't see it mentioned in the baby safety manual, but it's working. Sue me; it works better than anything we've actually paid for. Jasper simply leaves it alone, and I can run the dishwasher all by myself, no spouse, chopstick or butter knife required.

Rookie Mom Mistake: Believing that baby safety products will work the way they're advertised. Or that they reduce stress. Heloise, I'm pretty sure, would agree that a little less stress can do wonders for a woman's day.

Confessions of a Cable Junkie

So I have a confession to make. Remember recently how I talked about the luxuries we used to have? Well, despite our better budget-conscious judgment, we went and got cable again.

There. I said it. I felt a little like I was cheating on you, leading you to believe I wasn't really siting here watching HGTV while I blog. Let me explain, we canceled cable more than a year ago. But thanks to someone not doing their job, we were still getting all of the channels, just no bill. Then, the cable company made the digital switch, and we lost several channels. Then the regular channels did the digital switch, and we got like no channels. We bought antennas, placed them here and there, and cursed a bit that Jasper wasn't old enough to hold onto to them so I could watch me some Oprah with clear reception.

It was the last straw when I lost all channels on the TV in our bedroom. We're not talking just bad reception, it was fuzz. Before you get feeling all holier-than-thou about TVs in the bedroom, calm yourself. I watch it from my full-size hand-me-down bed I've had since high school. It ain't the Ritz. And we managed to have Jasper, so it's not ruining my marriage. I must have it; I have some crazy fascination with watching the weather every night on the local news. I blame this on my parents. Mom and Dad, you should feel proud. There are worse things I could cry to a shrink about, right?

Seth did the cable deal when I wasn't even home. He told me I deserved it since I was here at home alone (as in without adult company, he means) a lot. I believe him, but I also think he doesn't mind getting multiple sports channels in HD either. And he clearly sneaks a peak at E! every once in a while because he mentioned that Kendra from The Girls Next Door had her own show. (Just to be clear, he did not call her by name, but he was able to describe her as the one who married the football player.)

Now when I think about how indulgent it feels to have cable again, I'll remind myself of that master bathroom fantasy. Then, I'll remember, I do deserve cable.

And that Rookie Mom Mistakes list? A memory that recently made me laugh deserves to be on the list: At about six months pregnant I spent hours online researching which diaper pail I should buy. No joke, I read reviews, scanning for the word "odor" for days, stressing about it and afraid to commit to one. Oh, the time I had on my hands. I now know, just throw the shit in the trash.

The Gate's Not Closed Yet

Just when we thought we'd closed the chapter on the Gate Depression, I got stuck. Literally, I got stuck upstairs. Just me and Jasper, home alone at 6:30 in the morning with the magical one-handed gate stuck shut. Seth was off at the gym, probably being invigorated to the likes of adrenaline, sweat and Radiohead. I was invigorated, too, all right. Even sweating. But the only thing I heard were the expletives coming from my own mouth. Thank goodness Jasper found the cord of an unplugged fan to keep him preoccupied.

After 20 minutes, a near mommy meltdown and a few thoughts of how exactly I could climb over, holding Jasper, and stick the landing on the next step, I managed to pull the damn thing open. So naturally when Seth arrived home moments later I breathlessly explained how traumatic my morning had been. He seemed neither thankful for our safe return to the main floor of the house or mildly interested in fixing said piece of crap gate.

This battle was mine, and mine alone. After all, I'm the idiot who insisted on the gates, right? I knew better than to push this topic. I felt thankful I'd been able to convince him to install them in the first place. So, to take out my frustration, I fired off a nasty letter to Safety 1st, the manufacturer of the gate. I had every intention of posting the entire piece of prose right here on this blog. It would make you all howl with laughter, I thought. I made jabs about how maybe next time, for giggles, Safety 1st should test the gates on real moms who were holding babies and baskets of laundry. I mentioned that I would tell all of my mommy friends how terrible the gate was -- isn't a bad product review like the worst thing ever for a company like that?

But then I took a closer look at the gate. No doubt, the Safety 1st Smartlight Stair Gate is by far not the best invention in the modern baby-safety-retail-scheme. I am convinced the reason there was a man with a baby pictured on the box is because the one-handed operation only works if you've got a bear paw for a hand. But our gate, I believe, is maybe, just possibly, not exactly installed 100 percent correctly. So I bagged the letter-writing campaign and called my cousin Nathan who is a farmer and handyman. After explaining how Seth might divorce me if I asked him to re-install the gate for a third time, he happily agreed to come over and remedy the situation. (Mother, that was a joke. I do not really think Seth would divorce me over the gate. It would take something much more dramatic, like, say, throwing out his iPhone with a bag of dirty diapers.)

Other than the safety hazard of my second floor (I refuse to shut the gate again until it's fixed), things are going well here on the home front. Jasper is standing on his own, and I think real steps are not too far off. We're nearly weaned (HOO-RAY), and he got the thumbs up from the doc about his sluggish weight gain. Football season has begun, so I am now the newsman's widow, at least for the next few months. I may be the only one in town who gets pissed when the local college teams win. Their good fortune could drag the season out longer or even get them to a bowl game, which would land in the middle of the holidays.

Next up, I'm working on a list of Rookie Mom Mistakes. Like the one last night: Laughed at Jasper when he threw a chickpea during dinner. Laughter prompted repeat action. Sigh. When will I learn?

Just a Mom

For some reason, I've felt uncomfortable about saying I'm a stay-at-home mom since the day I decided not to go back to work. When people asked, "What do you do?", how would I answer?

As a grade-school kid, I had a couple of friends whose moms stayed at home. There was one friend, whose mom was our Blue Bird Leader. And another, whose mom played a lot of tennis. And still another friend, well, I'm not sure what her mom did aside from smoke cigarettes and clean her already immaculate house. But none of those girls lived in my neighborhood. They were, it seemed, in a different league. They had neighborhood pools, rode their bikes to school and rode the bus only on school field trips, enjoying it for the novelty it would be if you weren't harassed on it daily by the boys on the block.

I don't remember a time when my mom didn't work. She went to nursing school and worked a variety of jobs when I was just starting school. Then, to pay back her school debt, she worked the night shift at Mercy Hospital, leaving my dad in charge of getting my sister and I out the door in the mornings. Her schedule eventually changed, and she went to work with most of the rest of the world, during the day.

Staying at home seemed foreign to me. I thought most of us in the middle would naturally go back to work. Stay-at-home moms, I thought, were sandwiched on the other ends of the socio-economic ladder -- those who had children young, had little education and couldn't climb out of a cycle their families are wedded to and then those who've never worried about paying the mortgage or buying designer clothes for their kids.

So I struggle to understand where I fit in. My family lives fairly comfortably. But we do worry about paying our bills, especially in light of recent news of more pay cuts and layoffs at Seth's work. I haven't bought myself one piece of clothing that came from anywhere nicer than Target in more than a year. I'd love to grocery shop exclusively organic, especially meats, but I know that would more than double our food costs. And Jasper is outfitted in mostly gifted, hand-me-down or consignment shop clothes.

This isn't a pity party, though. I feel damn lucky that we can afford for me to stay at home with Jasper. I tell people that if I'd been in love with my career, it might have been different. But I don't know if that's true. It would have been hard for me to handle a job and be the one responsible for getting Jasper to and from childcare, doctor's appointments, stay at home with him when he's sick and still put dinner on the table. We have no family in town, and Seth's schedule leaves me wondering at times if I'd see him more if he were a doctor.

I spend a few dreamy moments a day getting excited thinking of ways I could fit "work" into my life. Maybe I could get paid to write. Maybe someone will stumble upon me online and give me the book deal of the century. Or maybe I could be a cooking coach and help families learn to shop and cook for themselves.

Usually my thoughts are interrupted by a crash of blocks hitting the wood floors, or the now rote "no-no" I say when Jasper climbs onto the dishwasher door. Have stay-at-home moms always had dreams about what else they could do? I mean seriously, I know the 1960s feminism happened, Betty Friedan and Affirmative Action, but wasn't it mostly the daughters of stay-at-home moms wanting to buck the trend? I'm happy for their efforts; it gives us a choice. In college I had a women's history professor in college who predicted that not too far in the future we'd see the stay-at-home-mom model revived much like the 1950s. Everything, she said, comes back around.

I'm still searching for my right to this lifestyle.

In that vain, I made myself a business card. It helps validate my other blog, which I need to get more people to come see what I write there. Plus, it's just kinda fun. Reminds me of when I was a cub reporter and felt so proud to hand my card to a small-town county commissioner or sheriff.

I never really had an answer to that question everyone asks kids: What do you want to be when you grow up? I was great at dreaming -- actress, equestrian, Saturday Night Live writer, and, of course, my ambition at 15 to be a performer in a water ski show. Maybe, I thought, if I let myself percolate long enough, something greater than I could imagine would surface. A dream I'd never even thought of, a job I'd never really considered. Then college came around and I had to stop dreaming and get serious.

I am a mom. It's a job, no doubt, but I'm still left feeling a little sheepish about it. That must be why I keep volunteering for things, leaving myself frazzled at the load I pile up for myself.

I need to start believing that I have realized my potential. Sure, I can always grow and become something more, but, where I'm at right now, isn't a bad place to start.

A Little Retreat

Back in the days before furloughs and layoff scares, we had a few luxuries around this place. Like cable. I'm talking 70-plus channels of everything from Playboy Bunnies to Sportscenter to QVC. I also had more time, especially when I was pregnant.

Looking like I'd swallowed a basketball seemed a plenty good excuse to sit around and watch HGTV like a drunk zombie. Why, I would always think, if I had $35,000 to remodel a room in my house, would I pick the bathroom? I wouldn't, I'd tell myself. I'd put it into a room I spent more time in. We did, after all, remodel our kitchen a few years ago, an investment I could stomach. Don't get me wrong, we've updated our bathrooms in this house, but those jobs consisted of new tile and toilets. The extravagance was our beautiful pedestal sink in the upstairs bath. The total cost of that job was probably about $1,500. A price well worth it if you'd seen the stink hole it was before -- literally, there was no toilet for several months after we first moved in.

When I was pregnant I did begin to see that a master bath was not a luxury to be overlooked. How pleasant would it be to not share a bathroom with a toddler, I'd think? Seth was already having minor convulsions at the mere mention of bath toys and infant tubs.

Our bathroom, one of two in the house and the only one on the second floor, is cute. All 48 square feet of it. We used to joke about how one could literally use the toilet and brush his or her teeth at the same time. Sometimes multi-tasking is just inappropriate.

Now that I'm a Mom, I see the beauty of those spa-retreat-inspired bathrooms. The kind with cushioned benches, a separate WC and oh, those huge showers! The bathroom, it seems, is the only place I can go in my own house and be completely alone and not feel guilty. OK, to be honest, I do still feel guilty sometimes, like say, when Jasper's awake and I have to take a shower. He cries as he bangs on the crib bars. But I rationalize it by reminding myself he's safe. And I skip the extras like shaving my legs or standing under the warm water for a few extra minutes.

I remember as a kid that my mom would disappear to the bathroom for a while at times. And I recently learned my grandmother who doesn't smoke enjoys a cigarette in hers. And there's the story of my younger cousin who, as a toddler, got so pissed that her mother was enjoying a bath without her that she retrieved a bottle of ketchup from the fridge and squirted it all over the door -- a sort of see-what-happens-when-you-leave-me note.

Seth tells me that master bathrooms are over-rated. He, obviously, still gets his bathroom time, uninterrupted. He tells me that our lovely old home, built in 1907, has seen lots of families raised and surely all of them adjusted to life without a master bathroom or other luxuries such as great rooms, baby gates and air conditioning.

Well sure, people survived in 1907. But some great things have happened since then. Like women's suffrage, the invention of the dishwasher and immunizations that eradicated disease. And, my friends, the Master Bathroom.

Someday, I'll get mine. I probably still won't be able to spend a small fortune on it, and it likely won't feel just like I stepped into a spa. I don't even need multiple shower heads or garden tubs (although my own sink would be dreamy). If it's a place for a few solitary moments in what seems like an otherwise crazy house, it will be worth it.

And if Seth quibbles, I'll also remind him that the iPhone did not exist in 1907. That, I'm pretty sure, will register with him.

A Day's Work: Calf Roping and Rodeo Clowning

I'm thinking of joining the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association.

The PRCA, as it's known to those in Wranglers and ultra-stiff cowboy hats, isn't for the weak, but neither is motherhood. I'm thinking with a little more practice I could be quite good at calf roping. As a kid I got my horseback training riding a crazy Arabian named Feather who was known for his bucking rants and spooking streaks. I'm pretty sure everyone who rode him got thrown at least once.

And now, Jasper is teaching me the finer points of catch and tie, or, in his case, diaper swap. A couple of weeks ago he took a liking to playing (ie. throwing, licking, crinkling) with diapers (don't worry, they were clean), so I removed them from the lower shelf of his changing table and placed them up top. Changing him on the changing table was becoming a joke, so now the pad lives on the floor, and that's where we begin the drill.

Plopping him down on his back is like the opening of the chute. All of the sudden it's a race between the two of us. I make a break to pull his pants off before he makes his initial flip. Then, I grab is tiny barrel of a chest and flip him to his back, grab his legs, pull 'em up high, slip the clean diaper under his bum and, try my damnedest to get the old diaper off and butt wiped before he flips again. As you may have guessed, the event gets more challenging based on what exactly is in the diaper -- when it's really messy, it's as if you've gone from saddle club to the PRCA finals in Las Vegas. The stakes are higher because mastering the wipe and change, or tie-down, is a matter of mess. A bare poopy butt on the move is a disaster even the pros don't want to wrestle.

We'll give extra points for moms who are able to keep baby's hands out of the "diaper area" as its known in our field.

I think even if I can't cut it in the calf-roping arena, there's still the job of rodeo clown. And maybe that description fits us mommies even better: The under appreciated rodeo clown wears baggy clothes and make-up that appears to be applied while driving in a sleepy haze. Pockets are a necessity to carry around those hankies to throw at a moment's notice. When a cowboy is in danger, the clown's job is to get between him and the bull. Not only is the job to distract the bull, but the clown is the distraction. And a good day's work means no one got seriously hurt. It's OK that the cowboy gets the prize because the clowns aren't in it for the glory. We've come to like the job of keeping everyone else safe and happy. Besides, when you're in the arena with the bull, it's not like you have a choice, right?

Now if we could just see about getting those barrels for hiding when the bull is too much to handle.

Extra! Larger Baby Proof Area Saves Mom's Sanity

Since I've been a bit of a killjoy lately, I thought I'd let you all know that I'm not a raving mad mother. In fact, some things in my life have taken a remarkable shift toward the direction of sanity. Granted, these are often minor things -- like finding a way to unload the dishwasher without my little monkey crawling on the door and standing up -- but I'm in a stage where small things can equal big rewards (such as the ability to write this blog post while Jasper plays).

The gate situation was a major improvement, but I took it a step further. On Monday with Seth safely away at work I swapped our living room and dining rooms. I'd been plotting the shift since Saturday but thought it best to do it on my own, sans a major discussion regarding the merits of the shift (Seth, ever the planner, would have requested an outline of the pros and cons). Sometimes I operate better when I just get to act on a crazy thought streaming through my head. Here's where I should thank my friends for helping plant that seed.

After much grunting and sweating, I'd pushed the furniture all around this house. Then I went and borrowed a wide gate from Dina to block the traffic between the two rooms. She offered to come down and help when she heard what I was doing, so I thanked her and let her know the work was done. And once I had her gate in hand it was heavenly.

The new living area is completely baby proof. No electrical cords, no delicate furniture and no stairs. He can now move freely from the kitchen to the living room (former dining room), and I know he's safe, so I can take an extra second to unload the dishwasher while he's distracted.


To my surprise Seth said he liked the shift. This means one of two things: It was a smart decision on my part and he sees me as the wise woman I am, or, following the Gate Depression, he has decided to conceded to my powers as chief decision maker regarding all things house and baby. Either way, we've taken to calling the new living area The Parlor, which is funny because it conjures up an image in my mind of a stuffy adult room.

Frankly we weren't using either of those rooms much to begin with seeing as if we do very little entertaining these days. And our house wasn't blessed with built-in china cabinets, bookcases or anything else that distinctly designates those rooms as living or dining spaces. So, the switch will stick.

Jasper is enjoying the freedom. I am enjoying the couple of extra minutes this affords me throughout the day, and Seth, I'm pretty sure, is just happy I'm happy.

The Gates of Hell

On Saturday I was a crazed mom. The one you look at and avoid. I was in the gate aisle of Babies Suck (my new name for Babies R Us, besides I can't write the stupid backwards R). I was ripping open boxes, sitting on the floor, reading instructions and inspecting hardware. I was my second trip in two days. I called Seth and asked once again for measurements. Here's where I should mention that I later made yet another trip because the one stupid box I didn't open there in the store had its hardware missing. Lovely.

Back to Babies Suck. Why, I wondered, are all of the babies pictured on the boxes old enough for high school? OK, maybe that's a bit much, but they are not 10 months old like my little monkey who wants to crawl and climb onto everything. They're big. This one had a kid with clean, pressed khakis on who stood as tall as the 36-inch-high gate with combed hair and a clean Polo shirt taking a sippy cup from his Mommy, who also had clean clothes, nice shoes and shirt tucked in. Oh, and their house was clean.

This is what Jasper looked like this morning, trapped in the zoo, as Seth called it.


His hair is a mess. He's on outfit No.2 of the morning because his diaper leaked overnight. His diaper leaked because I cannot keep him still long enough to get a good fit around his hips (remember the climbing and crawling comment?). His nose is snotty. He's got a yellowing bruise on his right cheek thanks to a bath-time incident (remember the climbing and crawling comment?). When I step through the gate, leaving him momentarily, he cries. This is the picture I want to see on the damn baby gate box. Or maybe there should be one of Mom and Dad looking really angry while installing the gate. Or maybe one of Mom drinking a glass of wine while baby cries at the gate. Oh wait, what about one where Mom, holding baby, looks frustrated operating the "One-handed" handle.

After all of this I remember that the gates were intended to bring a little relief. Maybe now I can cook dinner without a thousand interruptions to keep Jasper from going to the stairs. Or I can let him crawl out of his room into the hall just as he did this morning. The gates help create a safe place for him to play. Or cry.