The days of pampered pregnancy are over… I have a two-year-old to chase around to which I also eat and sleep around his highness’s schedule. Now I’m not so worried about eating lunch meat and I’m giving into my cravings for massive amounts of chocolate…. okay and a little feta cheese.

I also convinced my doctor to let me only take one iron pill a day instead of two because it makes me feel like shit, except I can’t. And reading baby books? What baby books? I just skim the BabyCenter emails… a far cry from the reading and re-reading I did with my first pregnancy. And can you believe I drank soda the last two days in a row?! Okay, I know that’s NOT super bad, but I FEEL super bad.

I could go on a little more, but I don’t want you to think less of me! Did anyone else experience this with the second pregnancy? Oh man, I’m feeling so guilty…

I understand getting creative with how you get your child to behave because every kid is unique and what they respond to is unique. It takes time and practice to find out what works and just when you think you got it, you have to change your strategy again. Remember, discipline is supposed to help your child correct his or her behavior, but they can’t do that if all they take away from the ordeal is fear.  The goal is to get them to UNDERSTAND what they did wrong and why… not submission.

For more ideas on how to discipline, here are what the experts say. I know all of you have your child’s best interest in mind and commend you for your hard work trying to raise kids who are upright and healthy. It’s not easy, and no one said it would be. Discipline is the hardest part of parenting.

I can say with 99.9% certainty that I am done having babies, or I guess I should say baby. As in, we have one and now we’re done. This little family of three feels just right to me.

Oh, the horror! Say it isn’t so!

Was it a rough pregnancy? Did something happen during labor? Did you guys have a hard time getting pregnant the first time? Oh, was she a difficult, colicky baby?  Is it because she’s in the terrible twos right now? These are just a few of the (somewhat annoying) questions I often have to field. Not that I mind when they come from people I’m close to, but more often they seem to come unsolicited from strangers. I even got the “it’s time to start working on the next one” comment from the freakin’ pest control guy today! Really? What the hell does it matter to him how many times my husband and I choose to reproduce?!?! Just spray for bugs and move on, please! Who’s the real pest here? Ugh.

Not that I truly feel any obligation to answer those who ask, but no, I had a very easy pregnancy (even if I wasn’t one of those women who feel their most beautiful with a bun in the oven – can you hear the click-clack of my eyes rolling around right now?); delivery was by no means easy but it wasn’t traumatic, either; our daughter has been nothing short of a dream baby and a wonderful toddler; and, no, there were no problems getting out of the starting gate… just to clear the air there.

Then there’s the “well-meaning” mom of eight I ran into at the park the other day, trying to convince a woman she literally just met that having an only child is somehow mean and selfish. Do you think I haven’t considered the argument that my husband and I will someday be gone and then my daughter will have no one? Weak. Is that even a legitimate reason to bring another person into this world – so my daughter can have a playmate and someone to watch mom and dad grow old with? Does having siblings somehow ensure that you’ll never have a lonely moment ever in your life?

Here’s how I see it:

My plan is to help this little child learn good social skills and grow up to be a kind, caring and intelligent adult. I hope this translates into many fulfilling relationships. She’ll have best friends that will feel like sisters or brothers to her. She has cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. It’s not like she’s being raised in complete solitude just because she’s an only child. And someday (hopefully a day that won’t come too quickly), she’ll find a life partner and likely have a family of her own, the size of which will be their choosing. Isn’t that who will be there for her when we no longer are?

Will she look back and wish she had a brother or sister in her life, someone to complain about mom and dad with, someone to have her back no matter what? Possibly. But will she know that she was loved and appreciated just as much as any other kid? Most definitely.

Sometimes I start to feel like there may be something wrong with me because so few people seem to share my feelings on having just one kid. There are many reasons for my husband and I coming to the conclusion that we’re good on the kid front but the important thing is that we agree on it. We’re very happy with the status quo. I love being a mom more than anything and I’ve enjoyed every phase of the journey so far, but I never get that pang when I see a baby that I want to do it again.

I know I left the door open a sliver with my 99.9% assuredness of being done so I’ll never say never. But, for now, life is perfect just the way it is. Anyone else out there happy to be a mom of one? Do you get people trying to convince you all the time that you HAVE to have more?

My beautiful, happy-go-lucky little girl is definitely in the “let’s test the boundaries” phase already. Her newest thing is hitting. Sitting here in my rational mind, I know that, to a 15-month-old, hitting is not a hateful or deviant act. But when I’m running on fumes and my nerves are frayed, it hurts to be hit, both physically and emotionally… and after about the 25^th “no hitting” plea from me being met with a giggle, I lost my cool. I yelled at my baby in a way I never I could. Not my proudest parenting moment.

Fortunately or unfortunately, my husband was home to witness it. Fortunate because he was able to take over and let me go cool off; unfortunate because now not only do I know I’m an unfit mom, but he does, too. Ok, so maybe unfit is taking it a bit too far, but I certainly felt that way for a few hours after the incident.

It doesn’t really take a genius to deduce that all I really needed was a little break (I just have to get it through my thick head that there’s absolutely no shame in that). So, the next day, my wonderful and sympathetic husband carted the little one over to Nana’s so mommy could have a few hours to herself – three solid hours to do anything I want, in fact. Bliss. What would you do with a few hours of “you time”?

Me? I cleaned out my closet!

It was so incredibly cathartic. Before becoming a mom, I was a total fashion victim. I had a passion for clothes. My closet was stuffed to the gills with cute and trendy duds… only problem being that they no longer fit right and were definitely NOT flattering. The comfortable go-to pieces I wear on a daily basis had no place to live so they were all in hap-hazard piles on the floor. Getting dressed in the morning (okay, afternoon) was becoming a complete stress-inducing nightmare. And so it was that I decided that my precious alone time was going to be very well spent in the closet.

It wasn’t easy at first to admit that I’m really not going to wear those cute little minis or sky-high heels again.  I had to suck it up and accept that even if I do ever lose those last few pounds, I am still not going to look good in a skin-tight glittery tube top and low-slung jeans.  Besides, am I really going to slip into those puppies to chase a toddler around? Yes, I’m sure my neighbors would highly appreciate me channeling my inner Janet Jackson on the playground!  The truth is, those clothes just aren’t me anymore. I’m a mom and now I often dress like one. Oh well. Time to get real.

Yeah, it’s sad to see so many clothes that remind of silly times with my girlfriends, trips to Vegas with my hubby B.C. (that’s Before Chloe, if you’re wondering), or just of who I was before I was “Chloe’s mom” but I’m happy with who I am now and I’m ready to embrace it. Hanging on to all that stuff somehow felt like it was holding me back.

Who knew? Cleaning out the closet: If I had realized that’s all it would take to restore peace and balance in my life, I would have done it long ago!

Oh, and bonus: I’m taking a major haul over to the consignment shop so I can hopefully I can score some dough while I’m at it (and maybe get me some new mom jeans? Ok, let’s not take it too far here)!

When Tavin was born, I was breastfeeding him, or so I thought. At the hospital he was gaining weight and all seemed well, but when we brought him home, Tavin was starting to get angry during feedings. He would bite and hit my breast and cry and cry. His lips began to chap and when I asked, doctors told me that was common for breastfed babies… so I continued to breastfeed as planned.

The process was never seamless, it took a few sucks for my milk to let down, but once it did the milk fell out of me without coaxing. Even still, Tavin began to refuse breastfeeding. Simultaneously, we received a call from our pediatrician letting us know that she had a bed waiting for Tavin in the NICU and we needed to drop everything and take him to the hospital because his bilirubin results from earlier that day had reached 18.

We raced to the hospital functioning on auto pilot and as soon as the doctors took over the tears came pouring out of me. They checked his levels again only to find he was at 23, a stage where hearing loss became a concern and two points away from needing a transfusion.

The doctors began to believe there may have been a utero complication that was causing his levels to continue to rise (I think it had something to do with the fact that I was RH negative) so off they sent me to be admitted to the hospital and even drew my blood in the hallway on my way to sign the papers. I had to walk what seemed like miles behind a fast paced nurse. Just days ago the hospital deemed me to be transported by wheelchair and now I was practically forced to run a marathon. I had nothing left in me but more tears… and a lot of cramping afterward.

As I tried to find my way back to my family in NICU, I realized that I left in such a rush that I didn’t have my cell phone and there wasn’t a white coat in sight to ask for directions. I eventually made it back to my husband and my son who had been turned into a glow worm in the meantime (that’s him in the picture above). He was sleeping peacefully with those little sunglasses on and I prayed.

Soon, my blood results came back and there seemed to be no complication in that respect. The doctors concluded that his jaundice had reached this point solely due to dehydration. My baby was starved and his lips were the telltale sign… and I didn’t even know it. I balled with guilt. I had almost killed my baby and he could now be deaf. How was I going to live with myself and how am I going to make it as a mother?

As I sat for the second day in the NICU, the lactation consultant came to see me to try to get Tavin back to breastfeeding and see us in action. Before long I removed my son from what seemed to be a traumatic experience for him and told her that I will not be breastfeeding. She continued to push the issue and to that my response was, thanks, but no thanks.

When we returned home, I was pumping and pumping and Tavin was eating and eating and getting better and better. Still, every time I sat alone in my bedroom pumping for 20 minutes, every two to three hours, I could only think about how I let my son down and the ritual became increasingly depressing. I managed to stock up enough milk to last Tavin until 3 months of age. At that point, my husband urged me to stop for my own sake. But it was very hard on me to do so because I felt like I owed it to Tavin after all I put him through to have the best nutrition possible.

Tavin ultimately switched to formula and I ultimately started to forgive myself as Tavin thrived. When we took him to the audiologist to have his hearing checked at 6 months, he passed with flying colors, a true moment of relief. Still, as I write this post, the tears sneak up on me.

Babies definitely don’t come with directions, but through this experience I’ve learned to trust my instincts more.

No, no, no, I was never going to be one of those moms. I was going to get up before the sun, get my morning workout in, shower, put on makeup and look pretty as I glide in my baby’s room with a smile to greet the new day with her. Oh, and yes, I was also going to have a lovely balanced dinner on the table every night, timed perfectly for my adoring husband’s arrival home from a hard day’s work.  Each day was going to be so rewarding and lovely that I’d melt into his arms at night and we’d talk sweet pillow talk… and then, you know, the unmentionable part (come on, my mom might read this blog!).  We’d drift off to sleep blissfully, visions of our plum perfect little family dancing through our heads.

Okay, pick yourself up off the floor now; reattach that ass you just laughed off.

My reality is that look exactly like that mom I swore – SWORE – I would never look like… actually, I think I look worse. I am chronically tired and it shows. My once flat belly has a jiggle that could certainly rival Ol’ Saint Nick. My hair is a frizzy, gray-smattered mess that makes me look dangerously close to a Dr. Seuss character.  I am haggard looking at best. Oh, and I most likely haven’t shaved my legs in well over a week; I may have bad breath and you might just wonder if I misplaced my Secret lately. I am no Martha Stuart/June Cleaver/Carol Brady or whoever the timely reference would be.  I’m certainly not the superwoman I was so certain I would be.

I live my life solely to serve others these days. If I’m not being mommy (which really only means it’s naptime), I’m serving my clients needs. If I’m not doing either of those, I’m doing dishes or laundry or trying to keep a somewhat non-disastrous house. I have not one single second to myself. Not one. Ever. I do everything with a tiny audience of one observing and watching intently. Seriously, everything. I pee, poop, shower, even wax my freakin’ mustache (we’ll save the facial hair talk for another time – because that one could take a while) with her little eyeballs staring at me in amazement.  So consequently, I whittle each of these tasks into speedy, two-minute endeavors that just barely get the job done… that’s if and when I can even fit them in. There’s no dawdling when you’ve got an antsy toddler to entertain.

Perhaps the hardest part about trying to be superwoman 24/7, is that, inevitably, superman, gets pushed farther and farther down the priority list… and if his, ahem, needs aren’t being met, then I’m not really superwoman at all, am I? My days seem to never end because once the little angel is down for the night, it’s time for me to play catch up on the things I inevitably didn’t get to cross of my to-do list for the day. The baby must be taken care of and the client work has to get done. I’m often up well past midnight and I’m so exhausted by the time I hit the sack that I pass out within seconds.

I want to be able to do it all. I really, really do. I’m a chronic people-pleaser and it really sucks when I fail at that. I know I’m a good mom, I think I’m pretty good at my work; but as a wife, perhaps I’m a little subpar (is there a good Tiger joke to put here? Hmmm… nah, that’s already played out).  I worry that this isn’t what he signed up for either… he probably didn’t think life would end up a big cliché any more than I did. Don’t get me wrong, we have a great life but the perfectionist in me thinks it could be more balanced.

Now that I have a little experience under my cape, I know it was naïve to think I could actually be a superhero of any sort… but I just can’t let go of the dream. I still want to be able to do it all. I want the magic superpowers! Anyone know the secret? Anyone?

P.S. Sorry if you came here looking advice… I’ll keep you posted when I get it all figured out (give me about 25 years on that, though)!

At 2:45 a.m. I heard him start to whimper on our video monitor. I rolled over in bed and watched him as he squirmed around and started to cry. “Be strong” I kept telling myself. The minutes started to tick by…15 minutes of him crying and rolling his head to the side to see if I would be there at the crib side to scoop him up.  I laid there and watched him cry…the lights on the monitor going from a green to yellow to bright red to signify a loud cry/noise in the nursery. It broke my heart to see him cry, but I knew if I didn’t get him, he’d eventually fall back asleep. Well, he continued to cry. And cry. It was coming on an hour now and I had even turned off the volume and just watched him, hoping that if I didn’t hear him, it would make it easier. Why wasn’t he falling back to sleep? Should I give up and go and nurse him? No, I can’t give in. He will “cry it out” as the doctor said and I must be strong. Well, about 15 minutes later, as he was still crying, I all of a sudden noticed a hand reach down and start to rub and pat him. He stopped crying. I turned on the volume and heard my mother-in-law shushing him and comforting him. He just kept looking up at her and didn’t make a peep. After about 5 minutes, he started to shut his eyes and she left and went back to bed. I had started to drift off to sleep, too.

When I woke at 6 a.m. and he was crying to be fed, I immediately got up and ran to his room. I kept apologizing to him for not getting him. He didn’t really seem to care, he just started to nurse with a vengeance. Guilt started to set in. What was wrong with me? I had just laid in bed and watched my precious baby boy cry for more than an hour and the person who consoled him was my mother-in-law who was probably wondering what kind of horrible mother I was. After Jake was done eating, we went downstairs to see my mother-in-law and husband. I thanked my MIL and also apologized for Jake crying and waking her. She said she didn’t mean to step on my toes, but she worried he might have  fever and didnt think he should be crying without being consoled after about 15 minutes. OH MY GOSH. I completely and utterly forgot that he might get a fever. Or that he’d be sore from the vaccines. Those issues didn’t remotely cross my mind as I watched him cry from the video monitor. How horrible of a mother was I? Did I scar my child? Was he mad at me now, thinking I had abandoned him? All this time I thought I was “being strong and letting him cry it out”. Later that day when I took a shower, I stood there as the water poured down on me and I felt like ever drop was filled with my guilt. I cried and cried.

Everyone assures me he’s fine and I now plan to at least check on him after 15 minutes of crying, but the guilt is still there. I thought I was doing the right thing. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t…but the guilt aches inside me. I have this feeling the guilt will not completely ever go away. It will waver on and off as I raise my child and work and try to be a good mom. I don’t know if moms ever get over some sort of guilt, no matter if it is choosing to work or letting the baby “cry it out”.