Falling off the Organic Wagon

Last week as Joe was preparing one of his usual (Over-the) Top Chef meals, tragedy struck in the Moriarty home. Ready to add the finishing touches to dinner, he reached for the pepper-grinder only to find it empty - wood grinding against wood, whining in agony as if crying to us about it's unfilled chamber of misery. So I am being a bit dramatic. But without one of our five kitchen essentials, it really felt as Dooms-Day as I describe.

With dinner ready to hit the table and children crying laments of starvation, there was no time to race to the nearest Whole Foods Market - our main grocer. So I slipped on my flip-flops, and like Batman in Gotham, raced out the door and across the street to Shaw's.

For those of you unfamiliar with Shaw's, it's just like any other regional grocery store: fresh produce at the front harboring a small section of never-appealing and overly-priced organics, meats and poultry toward the rear and aisle upon aisle of blissfully delicious processed, packaged goods. Like a kid in a candy store, my head swirled with the possibility of sugar cereal, extra-soft doughnuts bursting with preservatives, Hostess cakes and all things made regularly unavailable to me by the sticklers at Whole Foods.

Don't get me wrong - I feel privileged to shop at Whole Foods. Each week, aside from our farm share and trips to local farmers markets and the fish store, we have access to a gorgeous array of organic fruits and vegetables, free range meats and foods made without artificial preservatives or Lake #5 (What the heck is Lake #5 anyway?). Many people don't live near stores where you can almost go for aisles without reading labels or feeling concerned about things that borderline inedible passing for food. But all this being said, sometimes a girl just needs her Fruity Pebbles.

Rather than making a bee-line for the spice aisle, I was drawn as if by a giant magnet, to the end cap that harbored boxes of Post cereals stacked from the floor almost to the ceiling. After countless mornings of homemade oatmeal with fresh berries, my gastro system lost all control and seized my brain, ordering my hands to toss brightly colored boxes boasting fortified nutrition, senselessly into the cart. But the destruction didn't stop there. As if hovering over my own body, I moved to the cracker and cookie aisle and grabbed hold of boxed Cheez-its and Chips Ahoy with the spirit of a contestant on a grocery shopping game show.

By the time I caught hold of myself I was standing in the check-out line, nearly shaking with frenzy as the anticipation of devouring high fructose corn syrup and monodiglycerides raced through my head. My body wouldn't know what hit it - this was going to be great! I looked into my cart to assess its inventory. Boxes, packaging, preservatives, artificial color, endless ingredients I won't even attempt to spell.

Suddenly taking notice of the other customers in line around me, reality sunk in like a bad hangover. What was I doing? I had completely lost control. I felt my face flush with embarrassment and the need to justify my purchases. "Um, this stuff is for my kids - uh, my neighbor's kids" I unconvincingly explained to the woman ahead of me. She flashed a polite smile, surveyed her fingernails and paid not an ounce of attention to the contents of my cart. I then whipped around to the woman standing behind me and proclaimed, "I never buy this stuff! We're having a party. " She looked over the top of the People magazine she was perusing and and shot me a look of pure apathy.

That is when I took a brief assessment of the other shoppers' food: boxed goods, canned vegetables, powdered doughnuts and non-organic milk. I swallowed my gasp. I was among friends here. People who spent less time in the grocery store worrying about ingredients, and more time on things that mattered to them - like flavor and baked goods with prolonged shelf lives. There was no need to explain.

I quickly packaged my groceries and headed home bearing gifts of refined sugar and artificial colors - things that would never be seen by my own children, for I planned to sneak in through the garage, bearing only a jar of peppercorns. Damn! The peppercorns!

Ch-ch-changes!

“You can see the lines of your underwear through your pants,” my husband cautioned, intending to be most helpful. After over a decade of sporting thong panties, now that I am a mom, and a pregnant mom at that, I can no longer bear the discomfort I once traded for aesthetics. So I have panty lines for the first time in my adult life. Good thing they are behind me so at least I don’t have to stare at them all day.

Not long ago we celebrated MeMo’s first birthday. After we put her to bed that night, Joe and I sat down at the computer and created a slide show of our favorite pictures of The Meemers taken in the last year. We titled the album “MeMo, A Year in Review” and watched it at least a half dozen times, adding new comments to the pictures each time we looked at them.

Seeing how MeMo has grown from a sleepy loaf of bread into a chattering, mobile little person with a strong willed and very vibrant personality, complemented by an arsenal of facial expressions, it got me thinking about how much I have changed in the past year since becoming a mom.

There are the obvious changes that we knew to expect like sleeping less and staying in more, but what about all of the little lifestyle changes we, as parents, make to accommodate life with kids? Eighteen months after The Meemers has become a part of our family, I have made a considerable number of lifestyle shifts. I am not talking about leaving my career to stay at home or waking up without an electric (as opposed to a tiny human) alarm clock at 6:30 each morning, including the weekends. I am talking about the seemingly subtle changes that add up over time until one day you wake up and understand fully why your mom wears those jeans that ride up so high they practically touch her boobs. I am a mom, and these are the changes I have made:

1. I take the camera everywhere. I have been known to snap pictures of MeMo in the arms of our local firemen, amidst the madness of a false alarm. We also have pictures of The Meemers in places as mundane as our local garden shop and propped up in the middle of a pile of wreaths taken while purchasing our Christmas tree. Before MeMo was born, it was a small miracle if the digital camera made it out of its case once a month.

2. I’ll embarrassingly admit that I sometimes skip brushing my teeth at night – something I haven’t done since I was a kid. After a long day of household operations, toddler chasing, long walks and trips to the grocery store, brushing my teeth seems equivalent to running a marathon at ten o’clock at night.

3. I miss my shoes! Like most women I know, I have a fair collection of pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes – none of which have seen the light of day since I was 3 months pregnant with The Meemers. I am strictly a flip-flops in the summer and sneakers in the winter girl now. Somehow I just can’t bring myself to donate my collection. I’ll get back to wearing grown-up shoes again someday, won’t I?

4. I can’t remember the last time I left the house with just my license and a credit card in my pocket and house key in my hand. These days I am a human pack-mule, weighed down with preparations to survive or prevent just about any baby disaster, or possibly any world disaster for that matter. (Yet with all the stuff I carry around, I still manage to forget diapers, wipes or some other critical childcare element on 50% of our outings.)

5. I don’t kiss my husband as much as I used to. It’s as if I only have a limited number of kisses to issue each day and 99% of them wind up planted on The Meemers. This change saddens me and so I am working on changing this behavior back to the way things were before we became parents.

6. I drive differently. Not just slower and less aggressively with MeMo as my co-pilot, but also on behalf of other kids and moms pushing strollers. Now if only the rest of the City of Cambridge could be on the look-out for me behind MeMo’s stroller while we're on our walks.

7. I have become an expert song writer. I can come up with a new tune and lyrics to accommodate just about any object or situation. Here’s a sample of my latest: “Open the refrigerator (ba ba ba). What do we see? I’ve got carrots and tomatoes (la la la) starin’ back at me!” Catchy, right?

I could go on and on, just as I’m sure any parent could, about the subtle changes we make in our own lives to better accommodate ourselves as parents, our children and our sanity. Hopefully I am still a way’s away from purchasing jeans that slide right up and over my belly button though!

Just Enough

A few weeks ago I received a series of pictures from my sister. Several shots in the series featured my six-year-old nephew displaying a wide, exaggerated grin proudly showing off a gap that was now a reminder of his first lost tooth. I quickly phoned my sister. “Wow! You didn’t tell me that Brennan lost his first tooth!” I exclaimed. “That’s a great big deal!”

“Well, you would think it would be a big deal,” my sister retorted flatly following with the details of the morning Brennan was visited by the Tooth Fairy. My sister explained how she had been talking up the reward-bearing pixie since Brennan first approached her wiggling his front baby tooth. From that point on, the first ever visit from the Tooth Fairy was a big deal in my sister’s household, gaining excitement and participation from each family member. The evening that Brennan actually lost his tooth, my sister sat at the kitchen table with her two oldest children and together they composed a brief letter to Mrs. T. Fairy asking her to take the tooth, but to please leave its owner a cash prize in its place.

The next morning, my nephew woke up and anxiously nudged my sister. “Mom, do you think the Tooth Fairy left me some money under my pillow last night?” he asked, giddy with excitement. Exhausted from a long night with her newborn, my sister sent Brennan to check on his loot and to report back to her.

Fifteen minutes passed with no word from my nephew, so my sister slipped out of bed to follow up with him herself. When she approached his room, she found a single dollar bill lying on his carpet and recognized it as the same dollar bill she had carefully placed beneath his pillow the night before. My nephew, she found seated on the floor in the living room engrossed in a video game.

“Brennan, did the Tooth Fairy leave you a prize last night?” she asked, hoping the dollar bill had accidentally drifted to the floor while he was researching investment strategies for his new fortune.

Without removing his eyes from the gaming screen, Brennan jerked his chin toward the direction of the bedroom and said, “Yeah, she left me a dollar,” in the same tone he most likely would have used to indicate that the Tooth Fairy, who was nothing but a penny-pinching old miser with wings, left him nothing in exchange for his prized first lost tooth.

When I was a kid, we typically received a quarter per lost tooth, and finding that quarter was the equivalent to striking gold in those days. It wasn’t about the value of the coin. I mean I’m only 31, it’s not like the quarter could buy much more in the 80s than it could today. It was the idea of a prize. The concept of a tiny little winged woman sweeping in to buy my tooth when anyone else would have advised it be tossed in the garbage.

So this got me thinking. Are today’s children overindulged? And how can anything be special in a world where the characters in video games are almost indistinguishable from real people, everyone gets a trophy at the end of the sports season, children are rewarded during shopping or long car trips just for “being good”, and anyone over the age of six owns either a Game Boy, iPod, cell phone or all three?

I am not a big television watcher, I mean who has that kind of time these days, but I do enjoy tuning into MTV’s “My Super Sweet Sixteen” from time to time. For those of you who have never seen or heard of this reality program, it features an incredibly spoiled teenager, the son or daughter of extremely wealthy parents, planning an elaborate party to celebrate his or her sixteenth birthday. These kids order around a team of adults working for them and scream at their parents when they don’t get their way. In planning a recent party for my mother’s retirement, the deejay told me he had never even heard of a Sweet Sixteen party, but that he now his provides the music for one of these galas at least several times per month. Can we blame television for turning our kids into spoiled brats? Or can we blame ourselves as parents for not knowing when to say no?

Joe and I are minimalists. We have to be – we live in an 840 square foot apartment. From the beginning we agreed to raise The Meemers with these same values so that she grows to appreciate all that she has and so that she understands how blessed she is to have even the basics in life, like love, good parents, health and shelter and that the rest of the material – clothes and toys – are just niceties in life - luxuries.

It isn’t always easy. A few months back we visited friends in Maryland, parents of a three-year old whose toys could quite honestly fill a small warehouse and overflowed into every room in their modest home, including the kitchen. There were so many bath toys that the tub had to be emptied of all its accessories before being able to fit the children in it! On the drive home I commented on the number of toys and Joe said. “Do you think that we need to buy The Meemers some more toys, she barely has any?” “It’s not that MeMo has too few – it’s that Evan has too many,” I pointed out.

As the youngest of 21 cousins, The Meemers has been given and handed down more toys than any one-year-old could ever know what to do with. When we placed a few of the new ones in her room to attempt to determine what she liked and what would be donated, she was so over-stimulated that she became frustrated and began to cry! This was enough proof for me. We packed up more than three quarters of the toys and brought them to a women’s and children’s shelter. We’ll continue to do this throughout MeMo’s life, carefully explaining the process and helping her to understand how much we actually need versus what American society and the advertising industry say we do. We also hope to teach her the concept of having “just enough” and the importance of giving and helping out those who have less than we do.

The Meemers is just getting her first set of teeth, so we have a long way to go before we can experiment with visits from the Tooth Fairy in this house. Hopefully a dollar will buy a bit more excitement than it did for my sister’s kid and The Meemers, without her cell phone, iPod or video games, will be able to better enjoy the simple joys of being a child, like we once did.

Acts of Stupid Parenting

Last week my friend Shawn called me, confessing that she had done something “very stupid” with regard to her kid. In the moment’s pause before she revealed her parenting faux pas, I actually found myself basking in self relief. Ah… I wasn’t the only Stupid Parent out there.

It turned out that Shawn had left her 3-month old son, Jake, locked in her car for about 30 seconds while she walked their dog into the vet’s office. She left the dog with an assistant then went to retrieve Jake. When she was through confessing I couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. I mean compared to the myriad stupid things I had done as a new parent, this was nothing! I was hoping for something like, “I left the kid in his car seat on the roof of the car and took off” (pending Jake was safe and fine of course).

Any parent cannot deny that having a child is the greatest adjustment life can throw at you. I never even carried a handbag before The Meemers was born. Now I am expected to leave the house with a fully packed diaper bag, prepared to handle any situation, from an exploded diaper to having to cross the Sahara at moment’s notice. But leaving the house without diapers (more than once I may add) is only a misdemeanor on my criminal record of Stupid Parenting. Take this post as a confession, as a pat on the back that your Stupid Acts aren’t nearly as bad as mine, or simply as reassurance that we’ve all been guilty of Stupid Parenting.

Offense Number One: When MeMo was just weeks old, I arrived at one of her first pediatric appointments to find her laying like a loaf of bread in her car seat behind me. As I adjusted her blanket, I realized that I had forgotten to secure the harness! I reflected on this mistake for several moments, letting the “What Ifs” overtake me like a dose of punishing torture before telling myself that I had learned my lesson and that never ever would this happen again…that is until the next time…

Offense Number Two: A month or so after my first offense, I repeated the crime! (Remember, this post is about stupid parenting.) Only this time, The Meemers was secured in her seat, but the seat was not secured to the car. Very nice.

Offense Number Three: I am sure there were several crimes committed between Numbers Two and Three, but the one I recall next (with a stubborn guilty conscience) is leaving a knife I had just used to peel MeMo’s kiwifruit within reaching distance from her highchair. Luckily at that time, The Meemers was distracted by a more engaging thought and paid no attention to the shiny, off-limits temptation laid directly in front of her. Again the What Ifs seeped in like water through a broken seal. “My goodness! My kid could have no fingers by now!”

Offense Number Four: Although I know there have been many Acts of Stupid Parenting added to my record than I am able to recall or recount, my most recent offense is one by which I am still slightly shaken.

The Meemers will not take ice cold milk from her bottle, so we allow it to warm inside a heavy glass beer stein filled with hot water before giving it to her. Earlier that morning I set the half-full glass atop a dish towel on The Meemers’ bookshelf. Thinking nothing of the glass or towel, I set MeMo in her room to play – ironically, secure behind a gate – while I took a shower. Just as I stepped foot into the tub, I heard a loud thud against the rug in her room and ran naked to investigate. There sat The Meemers staring up at me, covered in water and looking completely befuddled. She had tugged on the dish towel, pulling the water filled and very heavy mug onto herself. Luckily, by the grace of God, MeMo had avoided pulling the actual mug onto her head. The What-Ifs scenarios are streaming across my mind like a speding train as I type this. That heavy stein could have knocked my baby out!

There is a multi-billion dollar industry devoted to keeping our children safe, from child-proofing devices to car seats and even crawling helmets. But until someone comes up with a contraption to make me a smarter parent, I don’t know that The Meemers will ever be truly safe!

Both The Meemers and I have benefited from these scary incidents though. Each time I bust myself having done something stupid, I become that much more aware of The Meemers’ vulnerability and also of her resilience. I think a bit more thoroughly from a toddler’s perspective before setting her free in new environments and always double check harnesses when securing her into anything. So although scary, I guess these Acts of Stupid Parenting are making me more aware as a parent… that is, until my next offense!

Are We There Yet?

It seems that when traveling any distance over 150 miles with kids, you just can’t win. You take to the skies and you are dealing with security restrictions, long lines, expensive tickets, unexpected delays and the inevitable embarrassment of a mid-flight meltdown.

Your next alternative, driving, leaves you with becoming all-too-familiar with every rest stop, gas station and restaurant along your route, sour milk spills on the car seat upholstery, inconsolable crying fits, and at least two extra hours tagged onto your ETA.

As the youngest member of a family of four, we almost never flew anywhere. Instead, my father crammed our six-man clan into our German sedan, the three oldest kids knee to knee in the back seat and me often crammed between my mother’s feet in the front seat. Yes, you read that correctly. I rode in the place in the car traditionally reserved for a layer cake or casserole.

Having driven from Boston to Tennessee and back again (950 miles each direction) in less than a week over the Fourth of July holiday, with Joe at the wheel and the Meemers seated behind us, I realized just how patient my parents must have been. Despite the numerous threats to pull the car over and beat my siblings within inches of their lives if they didn’t settle down and stop fighting, we always made it to our destination, many times stopping only for gas or a drive-through meal on the 24-hour drive to Disney World, Orlando.

The trip down to Tennessee was not so terrible. We left our house at 7:00 pm, hit a drive-through for dinner and stopped for gas and diaper changes 4 times. We arrived in Tennessee, right on schedule, at 10:15 the next morning. The Meemers did great. She slept almost the entire time we were in the car and complained only briefly when her Woobie (lovey blanket) hit the floor and once again when I refused her request for more Bunny Grahams. The drive back to Boston however was a different story.

My sister’s husband is currently serving his third term of deployment in Iraq. To give her a break and lend a hand with her kids, we met their family at my brother’s house in Tennessee and agreed to take the children home to Boston for a week. Sounds easy enough, right? After all, living all of their lives in distant parts of the country, at only 5 and 6 years of age, these kids were road trip professionals. The problem is that Joe and I are not.

Parenting a one year old, we know one year olds. MeMo lets out half a cry and we can immediately interpret her distress. Her needs are basic: food, a clean diaper, a bottle of milk and Woobie. This is what Joe and I know. So when we secured the third seat belt and began our drive, we thought it would be just as simple as the ride down. Unfortunately, there were some serious miscalculations on our end, due only to poor planning, also on our end.

Everyone used the potty before leaving my brother’s house in Tennessee, the gas tank was full, we had just eaten an early dinner and each child was armed with an attention-grabbing activity. We thought for sure that these preparations would buy us a good four hours before having to stop. If you are not the parent of a child over three, you might have thought so too.

Fifteen minutes after pulling from the driveway and waving furiously from our windows, the first request came from the backseat. “Aunt Robyn, I have to pee pee!”. “Pee pee? Pee pee? You just pee peed right before we left. How could you possibly have to go again?” I asked actually expecting an answer from a five year old who knew nothing about why she had to pee, but only that she did in fact have to pee. Joe pulled into the nearest gas station for Stop Number One. We hadn’t even hit the highway yet.

Back in the car, the requests immediately resumed for snacks, a change of music, a family sing-along, rescue from boredom and of course, drinks. Within 30 minutes, we were stopped again – another bathroom break, this time for the 6 year-old.

Over the course of the children’s waking hours in the car, we stopped at 4 gas stations, 3 rest stops, and one restaurant. The waking hours totaled four and a half hours.

It wasn’t the kids’ fault of course. I mean after all, they’re kids, who don’t like to do anything for more than 15 minutes at a time, let alone be strapped into a booster car seat with a single boring game each, far too few snacks and an aunt who cut them off from all beverages after the third bathroom break. Though the ride was certainly challenging, I did learn one thing about traveling with children: be prepared. Below is my future road trip travel list should I ever find myself mentally instable enough to attempt a journey of this proportion with a trio of pint-sized travelers seated behind me:

1. Low-sugar snacks: candy sure seemed like a good pacifying method at the time. That is until the sugar high and low kicked in and we found ourselves operating a kinder-methadone clinic from the front seats.
2. Pint-sized water bottles that can be rationed 1 for every two hours. Sound harsh? Look people, we’re not crossing the Sahara here.
3. Ample activities, games and toys with as few required pieces as possible and two of each of these to avoid any back seat struggles for possession.
4. One wet washcloth sealed in a plastic bag per child.
5. Several small bags for trash.
6. A variety of music, and for your own sake, nothing by Raffi, Barney, or The Wiggles.
7. Any necessary sleep aid for each child (loveies, pillows, blankets, duct tape – just kidding, etc.)
8. One bottle of Valium, for the non-driving adult; ear plugs and a pre-meditated mental “happy place” for the driving adult.

Traveling with kids will never be easy, but it can be a little more comfortable with some proper planning and some solid prescription strength drugs. For now, though, I think we’ll enjoy our days in Boston and stick to day trips for respite from the city.

The Big To-Do About the Bugaboo

We live in Boston and the Bugaboo stroller is everywhere! On a nice day, you can't go more than 12 feet without running into one, and sometimes they even appear in packs! Initially I turned my nose at the Bugaboo. Every time we strolled past one in our layman's jogger I would lean down to MeMo and whisper, "Don't look, Meemers, it's a Bugaboo," then continue walking as if I was doing just fine wrestling our 250 lb stroller over the crooked sidewalks of Boston. I mean what kind of jackass pays almost a thousand dollars for a stroller? Even if I had that kind of money to throw around, the last thing I would spend it on is a stroller, for crying out loud.

By the time MeMo was 8 weeks old, we were walking up to 5 miles a day, hitting Boston's finest areas, strolling along the river and traversing through every neighborhood from the North End to Newbury Street hitting every stop in between. During this time, I became very well acquainted with all of our stroller's features, and even better acquainted with its faults.

At month nine, MeMo went through her "Get me Out of This Thing and I mean NOW" phase every time we set out on a long walk. We would be three miles from home and she would scream bloody murder, as if I had attached a hidden torture device to the underside of the jogger's seat. And all of you parents know just how fun it is to push a screaming infant when every single adult who passes looks at you scornfully as if to say, "What's the matter with you? Can't you see your kid needs something?" Where upon my tacit response was always "Yeah, my kid needs something all right... like a Valium."

Increasing our journeys to nearly 8 miles a day at this point, I decided to research new stroller options. Here's a fun a project: search the word "stroller" on Google and see just how many hits come up. With options ranging from a near 2-dimensional folding design and cargo space that could hold a small pachyderm, to adjustable handles and reversible seating, no two strollers are alike. On top of this, each manufacturer offers at least a dozen models in at least as many colors. Heck, buying my first car left me with fewer options.

Knowing its price point and the status symbol it had become, the thought of owning a Bugaboo had never crossed my mind. Until one unfortunate weekend when friends who were leaving town for the weekend, offered to lend us theirs to test drive.

They dropped the Bugaboo at our place on a Friday night, and after a brief demo, set me free with the thing. Since it was late and MeMo was asleep, I paid the Bugaboo very little attention that night, allowing it to sleep soundly in our living room, kept company by our two cats who took advantage of the luxury sleeping space - one in the seat and another in the cargo area. The next morning, I fiddled with the the Bugaboo for several minutes, shortening the adjustable handle bars, testing out the various seating positions and tinkering with every knob and button I could find. It was time to take this baby to the streets.

At first run the Bugaboo's frame seemed somewhat flimsy, and I seriously questioned the sanity of anyone who would pay that kind of money to own one of these things. Another downfall is that the seat is lined in fleece and on that 91 degree day, I felt almost sadistic setting MeMo in that heat nest. Another thing I couldn't stand about the Bugaboo is that it doesn't have a peeking window in the canopy. So each time I wanted to check in on the baby, I had to whip back the entire canopy, nearly blinding the unexpecting Meemers with a dose of morning sunlight.

Later that weekend, my obsession over strollers growing stronger by the Google search, I hit a few local baby stores to test out a variety of models. And I must say, as hard as this is to admit, the Bugaboo is by far my favorite stroller! The thing turns on a dime. The fleece seat may seem too insulating for warm weather, but it's super durable, easy to wash and creates a mini nest that put MeMo to sleep within minutes of our morning walk. The Bugaboo can be taken apart into two pieces and folded into a compact design in just minutes, and it has a large enough cargo area that I could fit all of our midweek groceries in it, with room left over for MeMo's treasures she found along the way.

I never did wind up purchasing a Bugaboo stroller and the Meemers has recently accepted that our clunky jogger is the best she's going to get. It wasn't easy on either of us getting a taste of the high life and then having to return to the ways of our nearly impossible-to-steer jogger. Luckily MeMo has abandoned her mobile screaming fits and we continue on our daily treks, now with a bit more understanding of the price point of the "Mercedes Benz of strollers".

NO. SLEEP. 'TILL BROOKLYN!

I swear I could hear MeMo chanting this chorus from an early Beastie Boys song from her crib at 3:00 this morning. Last night was what I like to call a "Newborn Night", where our little MeMo decides, for whatever impossible-to-determine reason, that she must regularly check in to make sure that Joe and I haven't up and abandoned her in the middle of the night.

MeMo has always been a great sleeper. As a newborn, we actually had to wake her up to eat, and now at 11 months old, she takes 4 - 6 hours worth of naps during the day and sleeps up to 13 consecutive hours at night. That being said, I guess I have no real reason to complain, but when a night like this creeps in it's like dropping a colicky baby on a bachelor, we feel completely unprepared.

The most difficult aspect of sleep disturbed nights (aside from wanting to hurl yourself off a bridge the next morning when the alarm sounds), is that MeMo is still speechless (well of a language that I can understand anyway). And so it is impossible to know what is keeping her awake or to get her what she needs to go back to sleep. Because she is such a solid and sound sleeper, there is always a reason for her disruption though, and it's just a matter of figuring it out (or giving up and putting the kid on the deck and hoping she's still there in the morning).

Last night went something like this:

10:00 pm: At a very critical point in the second-to-last episode of The Sopranos (recorded on DVD), the Meemers cries out. Joe and I glance at one another. Was that the baby or just a neighborhood cat being skinned alive?

10:00:07 pm: It was the baby. I head upstairs, received by her heightened cry. I break the golden rule and lift our baby girl from her crib. This does nothing to console her so I take her to the changer and swap out her soaked diaper for a new one. Joe brings me a full bottle.

10:21 pm: MeMo is sound asleep. Returning downstairs, we attempt to hit play on the DVD player only to realize that we've been punished by the technology gods. The damn thing is broken! Right when Tony's crew is systematically being wacked! This can't be! After multiple trials of wiping off the DVD, testing out the player with another disc and turning it on and off over a hundred times, we give up and retire to bed.

12:19 am: The Meemers cries out a second time, disturbing my dream racing down a giant ski slope - perhaps in the Andes. Was that the baby or just a neighborhood drunk singing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot"?

12:19:03 am: It's the baby.

12:21 am: Another diaper change - she's soaked again after her 10:00 comfort food feast.

12:31 am: We walk around her room and rock in her chair for a bit. Neither is working. I hear a weird sound outside her window and scramble to the door with the Meemers in my arms, knocking my knee into her gate on the way out. That's gonna leave a mark. I break the second Golden Rule and pull the baby into bed between Joe and me.

12:53 am: After lying still with her woobie for 20 minutes, the Meemers decides it's playtime and begins to poke me in the eyes and mouth. This will not do. Back to her room. (The strange noise was our cat who was locked outside for the night.)

12:54 am: MeMo returns to her crib and falls asleep again (fingers crossed), hopefully for the night.

3:02 am: A cry from the nursery. Was that the baby or the small troll I just saw run across our floor playing his mandolin?

3:02:07 am: I am hallucinating. There was no troll, it was the baby.

3:06 am: Another diaper change. A dose of Tylenol (she's cutting her incisors and has been chomping on her fingers for the past three weeks). I hold her, I rock her. I walk with her. I bring her back into our bed. I take her downstairs. We sing, we laugh, we cry. She is resisting all tactics. Nothing is working. I am nearly out of resources.

3:38 am: I am right on the edge. MeMo doesn't need me and I can't figure out what she needs. I place her in her crib and retreat to her rocking chair. She cries harder and standing in her crib calls "Mama! Mama! Mama!" My heart is breaking. Resorting to a revised Ferber Method, I look at the clock and note the time. Just five minutes. I can do this.

3:40 am: Crying seems to subside a bit.

3:41 am: Crying stops momentarily and then resumes.

3:42 am: Crying stops all together and MeMo lays down in her crib (THANK YOU, GOD!). That wasn't so bad. Silence.

3:43 am: Crying resumes. It's been five minutes. I go to her, ease her back down onto her mattress and cover her with a blanket. She immediately stands in the crib and violently shakes the rails, threatening to tear the thing down. I glance at the clock and note the time. Five more minutes. I CAN do this.

3:48 am: Repeat above cycle from 3:38 - 3:43. My husband opens the door to ask if I need help. I want to gouge out his eyes with hot pokers. The Meemers sees and hears him and cries harder than ever.

3:51 am: Am I making the right decision here? What if she needs me? What if she has food poisoning or contracted SARS and I am just sitting here, feet away from the crib in the dark, never taking my eyes from the clock and counting down the minutes, praying this baby will fall asleep. I am the worst mother ever! I will wind up in hell for this one. What am I doing?

3:52: I hate Dr. Ferber! He is a moron and should have his license revoked!

3:54: Crying stops all together.

3:56: Silence is replaced by a heavy, rhythmic breathing. The Meemers is asleep! Victory! Dr. Ferber is a genius!

3:57: Back to bed, feeling guilty about wanting to gouge out Joe's eyes.

7:00: Alarm sounds. I want to hurl myself off a bridge.