I'm So Pretty

I recently got some new make up, courtesy of an Ulta gift card and a mom who loves to help me spend my Ulta gift cards. If you're not familiar with Ulta, it's a beauty/make up store that has a ton of different brands of make up, shampoo, hair accessories - basically it's a one-stop-shop for all your beauty needs. I love it there. And, no, this post is not paid for by Ulta (but if anyone from Ulta is reading this, you're welcome and also I need some free eyeshadow).

Last night, I was getting ready in the bathroom while Daniel played with the kids. I began to put my make up on, and, like always, I began criticizing the way I looked. At first I kept it to myself, just noticing my dry skin, my round face, the way my nose looked. I eventually became so frustrated that I said out loud, "I cannot beLIEVE how ugly I am right now. I hate how awful I look." Daniel, who is a saint, told me that I was wrong and that I looked lovely.

As much as I appreciated his words, that wasn't what made me stop complaining. It was the sound of Josh laughing as Daniel tossed him the air that stopped my next words from coming out of my mouth. I looked into the living room, and there was the rest of my family, playing together and smiling. And both of my kids had just heard me say that I was ugly, and that I hated the way I looked. I mean, they probably didn't hear me say those actual words. Josh was very busy being wrestled with and Jenna was trying to fit her whole hand into her mouth, so odds are good that they never even knew that I was there. But my words still horrified me.

I know that seems like an over-the-top response to something that wasn't a big deal. But in that moment, I realized how much I complain about my looks, my skills, my life. And maybe my kids don't understand that right now, but they will. They will hear me say that and understand my words sooner than I realize. And I don't want that.

Recently I was watching Jenna play with one of her favorite toys, a stuffed monkey from Aunt ShonShon. As I sat next to her, watching her laugh and giggle over something that really was not that funny, I found my mind wandering to the future. What would Jenna be like as a teenager? Would she still be my smiling, happy girl? Would she be feeling the pressure of friends, classmates, and commercials to look and act a certain way? Would she like the way she looked? The thought of my beautiful little girl thinking that she was ugly broke my heart. I don't want that for her. I don't want it for Joshua, either.

I want both of my kids to know that their beauty has little to do with their appearance. I want them to know that to be a truly beautiful person, you have to start from the inside and work your way out. That they do not have to prove anything to anyone in order to obtain self-worth. That they may not always feel their best, but that as long as they are trying their best, everything will be okay. I want them to know that bad haircuts are a rite of passage, and instead of focusing on their bangs, they should focus on the friends they have made and the blessings that they have. I want them to realize that they are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that no matter what their eye color is or how much they weigh, they are loved and valued.

But how I can teach my kids how important it is to value themselves if I don't value myself? If Josh and Jenna hear me tell them that it's what's on the inside the counts, and then turn around and call myself ugly, what kind of message am I sending them?

So I have decided to stop saying things like that. More importantly, I am going to try to stop thinking things like that. Don't get me wrong - make up isn't evil. I still love Ulta (and am still waiting for my eyeshadow, AHEM), and I will continue to wear make up like I normally do. I know it is equally important for my kids to know that eating well and living a healthy life is something that will benefit them, and I will continue to encourage them to do that. But in this house, there will be no more complaints of being ugly, of being fat, of being unworthy of other people.

Nothing I can do or say will totally stop my kids from feeling down about themselves at some point. I know that. But I also know that the most important lessons in life start at home, and if I want to teach my children anything, first I have to believe it for myself.

The Space-Toddler Continuum

Let's get one thing straight: This post is not about science. I don't do science. Tried it once; didn't like it. So if you came here for science, please talk to my husband instead. That guy knows science.

If you came here for cute pictures of my kids, here you go:

Don't be ashamed if that's the only reason you're here. They are pretty adorable.

But if you did, indeed, come here for a blog post, please keep reading. However, I feel obligated to warn you that this isn't one of my funnier posts. I will post a funny one later to make up for it. Just for you. Kisses!

**Disclaimer: I am super proud of Joshua. Like, super proud. He does amazing things. He works harder than anyone I know. I know his delays are only temporary and that he will catch up. He has come a really long way in his short little life and I admire him for his tenacity. Even on days when he is giving me toddler 'tude, I am reminded that it was this same stubborn personality that got him through the toughest days at the NICU.**

I put that disclaimer up because this post is, more or less, a big, long whine and I just want people to know that I know those things.  So - on to the show.

I wrote before that recently I had found myself starting to resent Josh for all of his issues. I knew (and know) that none of this was his fault, that it wasn't anyone's fault, but I was angry and I wanted someone to blame. So I picked my toddler. Classy. But, honestly, I don't resent him anymore. Once I realized that was happening, I started to figure out why I was angry, why I was looking for something to blame, why our situation suddenly frustrated me when it's nothing we haven't dealt with for (almost) the last two years.

And as I've watched Jenna grow and change, I think I've solved the mystery: I am stuck. I am stuck in a time warp of sorts, where things and people and circumstances progress at a regular rate, all except for Joshua.

It's kind of like taking a trip to Narnia. You guys know I love me some Narnia and look for pretty much any excuse to work it into this blog, but in this case it really, actually applies. In case you haven't read the books/seen the movies/have done both and still think I'm reaching, let me explain: In the story, four kids travel to a magical land called Narnia by means of a closet in a stranger's house. Yet another reason you shouldn't go through strangers' closets, but anyway... The kids stay in the magical land for years and years. They start out very young when they arrive and by the end of the book, they are adults. When they decide to go back home, they are surprised to realize that almost no time has passed at all in the real world. Maybe a few minutes at the most. They have become children again and no one is the wiser.

That is what I think of when I think of our lives with Josh. Daniel and Jenna and me, we're all living in Narnia, living our lives and progressing at the "normal" pace. But Josh is still in the real world, and every time we go back to check on him, not much has changed.

If you have kids or nieces or nephews or ever saw a kid once at the mall, you're probably familiar with the most common piece of parenting wisdom in the entire world: "Enjoy it; it goes by fast." This makes mothers everywhere roll their eyes, even the ones who say it to others, because, really, is there any statement that's more obvious?

But lately I find myself discovering that it doesn't go by fast for everyone. With Josh, for instance, it hasn't gone by fast. I mean, yes, the days and weeks have passed so quickly it's hard to believe that he will be two soon. But looking at his development, where he is in therapy, well...it's hard to believe he will be two soon.

Recently Josh was evaluated by a team of therapists and tested at about a 12-month level for development and skills. This was progress from his last eval, which was great news! But I think my frustration comes from the fact that it took him nearly two years to get to this level. Two years of hard work for him to still be behind. And that is just difficult to deal with a lot of the time. Because it doesn't mean that in another month, he will test at a 13-month level. He just doesn't follow a timeline like that.

Does that make any sense at all? I don't want to sound like I'm disappointed in Josh or that he is doing something wrong. Neither of those things is true. But one of the perks of being a parent is the joy you get from your kids and the way they grow up. Joshua will be two in February. He doesn't walk yet, he doesn't really say much, and, honestly, I don't get as much interaction out of him as I would a "typical" two-year-old. Do I enjoy him and love and cherish the interaction we do have? Absolutely. I freakin' love that kid. But because of the way he progresses, it's like he's growing up at half the regular pace, and that gets hard sometimes.

For babies born prematurely, doctors and specialists and parents adjust their age for milestones and expectations. This means that since Josh was born a little over three months early, he isn't expected to meet the milestones of his actual age, but those of the age he would be if he had been born on his due date. So right now he is 21 months and gets evaluated as an 18-month-old. However, that all stops when he turns two. In theory, preemies catch up by then and there is no longer any need to adjust their age. Obviously, Josh won't be caught up, but they will still stop adjusting his age.

I have been looking forward to Josh's second birthday ever since they told us that he would probably catch up by then, way back when he was still in the NICU. I didn't wish my time away but I was excited about being able to give a simple answer for his age and to be able to pretend that he was just like every other kid. That won't happen, and while that isn't the end of the world, it still bums me out. His therapists say that when he turns three, he should be much closer to being caught up. So now I guess we wait for three. Unless it's four. Or five. Or never.

Toddlers are supposed to toddle. They are supposed to run around and climb up things and push over the baby gates and flush things down the toilet. Those things are frustrating and I don't think other parents have it easier, but I really want Josh to flush something down our toilet. Not because I relish the idea of either going after or missing whatever he flushes, but because it means he will have walked in there by himself. He will have figured out how the toilet works. He will have had the wherewithal to sneak around, find Daniel's watch (I'm just assuming...), and use his planning skills for evil to create a mini-disaster. All things that he should be able to do right now. It's weird to want that, but I do. I want him to yell "NO" at me and say "uh-oh" when he drops something. He has a few words but he rarely ever says Mama or Mommy. And I know he loves me, but I just wish he could tell me. He's almost two. That is how it should be.

And please hear me - er, read me - when I say that Joshua "should" be doing something, I don't think he's doing anything wrong. I know he is really trying hard to learn and grow. I know that all kids develop at different rates and that Jenna could struggle just as much in spite of being born on time. I know that this will pass, and it won't be our lives forever. I know that I will look back on this post and laugh about how dramatic I am and how much of a Debbie Downer I can be. But right now, I am here, stuck in some kind of space-time continuum where everything changes but it doesn't change. And the more I see other kids his age or younger progress and then pass him up, the harder it is to keep up with our little time warp.

I almost didn't write this post. I didn't want to bum people out, I didn't want people to think I am super depressed or upset, and I didn't want to have to justify my feelings to anyone. But one of my greatest comforts since Joshua was born has been reading blogs or articles by people in the same situation and knowing that I'm not the worst mom in the world for feeling like this. So I am going to post it, and tell people about it, and hope that maybe it will help someone else who is dealing with this. Maybe not exactly this, but something close enough that you can relate and know you're not the only one.

And since this was a bummer post, I'll end with something hilarious: A joke!

- Knock, knock!
- Who's there?
- Interrupting cow!
- Interrupting cow wh--
- MOOOOOOOOO.

Huh. I guess that one doesn't really translate in print. Oh, well.

The Five Stages of Parenting Grief

Parenting. It's fun, right? It's okay; you don't have to answer that. We all know your answer is no. Or it might be yes. It probably depends on the day, the ages of your children, and how much you've had to drink. It's different for everyone. But in my extensive parenting travels (that's right - I said extensive), I have noticed that while raising kids looks different for everyone, there is one thing that all parents have in common: The five stages of parenting grief.

You have probably heard of the five stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. This is generally a process associated with mourning the loss of a loved one, like your grandma or dog or favorite pet rock. People go through each stage in different ways and times and don't always go in the traditional order.  If you're a parent, you are probably familiar with these stages, and if not, you will be. Not sure if you've dealt with each stage yet? See if any of these look familiar...

Denial:

Ah, denial. A personal favorite of mine. This stage is when you still have faith that all of your pre-parenthood dreams can come true. You think adorable thoughts like, "My child will never watch TV." "I am going to make all of my own baby food." "All I have to do is put my baby on a schedule and then I can work around their schedule and live life like I always have." You might dream of a clean living room without a bunch of Little People scattered all over it and have visions of doing bath time with your children every night. You vow to never let relationships with any of your friends change, and you know babies are a lot of work but your baby won't have blow-outs or spit up on you moments before you leave for church. It's a sweet and precious stage, the denial stage. Remember these feelings of hope and confidence as you continue on your parenting journey.

Anger:

This one is probably visited most often in my house. You start to question your newborn baby about her motives - "Why did you spit up on me when you knew I was going out to dinner?! Why? ANSWER ME." You become irrationally bitter toward cartoon characters because they somehow tricked you into breaking your no television vow, and they are also extremely annoying. Can you really not find which shape goes in the hole, Mickey Mouse? Or are you just being lazy and trying to get my kid to do all of your work? Considering you are licensed to operate a hot air balloon, I think we all know the answer to that one.
During this stage you will also start to talk to yourself. A lot. You might say you're talking to your baby but he's only six months old and you both know he can't understand you. You hold those rassafrassin' Little People in the highest contempt, furious at them for being, so, well, little, and purposely hiding themselves under your couch without the slightest regard for your plans to keep the living room tidy.

Bargaining:

Also known as the stage where you start making secret deals with infants, the bargaining stage is where the TV starts to come on a little more and the educational sign language books start to come out a little less. You haven't given up hope for educating your children; you've just started to realize that the public school system is perfectly capable of doing so and in a few years your kid will be their problem. But you're still determined to retain a little of your pre-parent life. So you promise your toddler that he can have a little extra ice cream if he agrees to eat it quietly so you and your BFF can talk about grown up things like how tired you are and if they know of a good under-eye cream. Sure, you swore that all desserts in your house would either be fruit or sugar-free, but this is a special occasion and you haven't seen another adult in three weeks so everyone wins. What's really important is that most of your goals have stayed intact and you can lie about the ones that haven't.

Depression: 

Most parents reach this stage sometime between one and five in the morning as they sit on the couch with a child who is somehow both starving to death and too sleepy to eat. It hits you like a ton of poopy diapers - things are different now. Sure, your oldest child has had some fruit today, but you're pretty sure the "real" fruit inside the snack pack with candy that's shaped like a Flinstones character doesn't exactly hold the same nutritional value as an apple. You did get to see a good friend for lunch last week, but your visit was full of trips to the changing table, removing the same dangerous item from your toddler's hands fourteen times in a row, and several mutterings of "Just WAIT till we get home" as your precious angel flips a spoonful of yogurt at the server. You had a good time, but just the idea of venturing out to another restaurant before your kids are old enough to vote is exhausting. The Little People have now taken over your living room and demand that you bring them food and apple juice or suffer the consequences. You meant to give your kids a bath every day, but you might have skipped a day or two. Or three. Hey, as long as they don't smell, it's all copacetic, right? But they do smell. And people are starting to notice. At least you make your own baby food! And when you don't forget about it and leave it in the freezer for six months, it's a really cheap way to feed your child!

Acceptance:

Goodbye, other adults. Goodbye, balanced diet for children. Goodbye, carefully crafted infant schedule.

Hello, Dora the Explorer. What can we help you find today?

The Mommy Wars

Before I became a mother, I had a vague idea of what parents did. Feed child, clothe child, try to keep child from beating up other children. It was one of those subjects that I was woefully but blissfully ignorant of - I really didn't have much use for information like which brand of diapers was best or how you need to move like a frickin ninja to escape infant projectile vomit.

I am still far from an expert, but after I had kids, I crossed over to the Other Side. No, not Narnia. The Other Side of the gap that separates parents from non-parents. The side filled with tiny onesies and 800 sets of plastic keys (seriously, do they even work in the plastic cars? Then WHAT IS THE POINT) and dogs that whisper "Hug meeee" at four in the morning when you're walking to the bathroom. You can look behind you and see the non-parent side for a little while. Then Dora the Explorer asks you to help her find her map and before you know it the non-parent side is nothing more than a distant memory.

The parent side has lots of surprises. You learn words like "Wubanub" and "cluster feeding" and, in our case, "hyerbilirubenimia." But one of the most unexpected surprises I encountered was the Mommy Wars. If you're not familiar, the Mommy Wars is an ongoing battle between mothers (and occasionally fathers) over various methods of parenting. For example: formula feeding vs. breastfeeding, strollers vs. babywearing, cloth diapers vs. disposables, velociraptor vs. t-rex, etc etc. I tend to bop through life in a cloud of glitter and Skittles and assume everyone does the same, so I was really surprised to see how often these issues popped up, not to mention the intensity of the arguments they caused. Articles are flung left and right; everyone from psychologists to school teachers to children's birthday clowns seems to have a scientific opinion on whether letting your baby sleep in your bed will scar him for life. Sometimes people start snapping their fingers and singing and that's when you know that it just got real.

As much as I love a good argument, I found myself avoiding these particular fights as I delved into research of my own (fine, as I copied every single thing my sister did). Not because I was offended. Not because I wanted to interview those birthday clowns for myself to see if their science was accurate. No, my avoidance was due to something much simpler. Something that I think has the potential to end these Mommy Wars forever. Are you ready for this incredible secret? Here you go:

Apathy.

Yes. Apathy. I do. not. care. I do not care if you feed your child formula. I do not care if you breastfeed your child. I do not care if your child only eats hot sauce. Not because I am a serene, peace-loving person who can rise above such petty conflicts as I practice yoga in my meditation garden. I am just too lazy to care. I am tired. I am busy. I am constantly losing one of my children. So at the end of the day, whether you strap your baby to your back in a pretty wrap or with several socks tied together, I'm cool with it. Just don't drop the kid because that's not cool. I mean, I probably wouldn't turn you in or anything. Actually, just writing about it has pretty much sapped my energy so go ahead and drop little Timmy; I won't tell.

This isn't a humble brag where I toot my own lazy horn and show you how I win all the Mommy Wars due to my lack of judging others and indifference to others' judgment of me. Despite the awkward, chaotic mess that is my daily interaction with people, I do care what other people think of me. I'm only human. But I am a lazy human, and while I have tried hard to get worked up over the fact that Sally Smith doesn't believe in disposable diapers...eh. What do I care? Is Sally at my house, throwing away my diapers and forcing me to use cloth ones? Has she hired Tonya Harding to bash me in the knee so I can say a lot of embarrassing things on national television that will follow me forever? No? Then...eh. Sally can have her cloth diapers and I can have my disposable ones and somehow I think the world will keep turning.

So, parents and people everywhere - join me on the Other Other Side. The side where you always feel accomplished because your kids are alive at the end of the day and that's really all you were going for. The side where all your decisions are right because no one was paying attention to them anyway. You don't even have to put on real pants. Take the plunge. Cross over. Drop your cares and worries at the gate - your toddler or dog will probably eat them and then you won't even have to step over them.

Apathy: The real future of parenting. I'd put that on a t-shirt, but...eh.

Clearly my parenting is superior to yours.

It's Totally Different

I recently acquired a second child. I know. I also questioned the wisdom of letting me raise a second child but it's too late now. Plus she is really cute and smells like strawberries so I want to keep her. And sniff her. All the time.

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Children.

In a true representation of my attitude about parenting, I was not that excited to find out I was having a second child. I wasn't sad or mad. Mostly surprised. And panicked. So, so panicked. The kind of panic you feel when you realize you have to make a sacrifice to the porcelain throne while you're in the middle of the check-out lane at the grocery store with a week's worth of food and a child who is trying to eat the handle of the buggy.

But I had a good reason. Most people who read my posts know that my first child (the afore-mentioned buggy-eater) was born very early at 26 weeks and spent a long time in the hospital fighting for his life. My husband and I had decided to wait for several years to even discuss a second child. Except then God was all "LOL you guys are totes hilarious" and we found out we were going to be parents for the second time in as many years. Cue the panic.

Everyone said the same thing: "It will be totally different." The odds of the same thing happening with this pregnancy that had happened the first time were probably pretty low. The doctors, friends, family members - they all repeated that to me over and over. It will be totally different. And as things progressed and continued to go well, I believed it. This time would be totally different. None of the fear, no NICU stay, no wondering when my baby would be home, no driving back and forth to the hospital every day. This time, I promised myself, would be great.

And then I realized that I didn't like that attitude very much. Not that I wanted this baby to stay in the NICU or have any problems, but I was starting to look at my experience with Josh as a bad thing. Slowly but surely I had separated the birth experiences of my children into Things You Never Ever Want To Happen and The Super Best Thing Ever Yay For My Baby. You can guess which one goes in which category. And I really started to hate that distinction.

I get asked all the time if I would change Josh's circumstances at the time of his birth and during his hospital stay. I always answer no, and that is the honest truth. But over the last few months I began to realize that not only would I not change it; I want to celebrate it. I want to shout from the rooftops that while it didn't go the way I had planned, I still got to meet my beautiful baby boy and fell in love with him from the get-go. I want to be just as thrilled over his birthday as I am with Jenna's. When people ask me his age, I want to give his real one, the one that goes with the birthday we will celebrate for years to come as we remember what a blessing he is. I want him to know that even though it was hard, the day he was born was one of the best of my life, right up there with my wedding day and the day Gilmore Girls premiered.

It doesn't bother me that people remind me how different the experience with each of my children was. It was my own attitude about the situation that bothered me the most. Was it different this time? Yes, so incredibly different. Was it better this time? Not even a little. It was just as exciting, just as amazing, and just as incredible the second time around. Because the thing about having kids is that there are ups and downs and everything in between, and you never really know what lies ahead of you. And at the end of the day none of that matters anyway. All that matters is that on your child's birthday, whether he celebrates it in the NICU or asleep in your arms, you have something so fantastic that the rest just kind of fades away. That's is what I want to remember about both of my children. I never want to forget the rest because it's important, too. But the most important thing I can ever take away from both of my experiences is how amazing it was to see them with my own eyes for the first time and feel a love so deep and immeasurable that I knew I was a goner from the very first seconds of their lives.

So, yes. This time around it has been totally different. I wouldn't have it any other way...except for how it was the first time.

The Five Types of Facebookers

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. Like, a lot. I imagine my kids' first sentences will be something like, "Are you going to update your status soon, Empress of the Universe?" Also I will be teaching my kids to address me as Empress of the Universe. And since I not only spend a lot of time on Facebook but also have a degree in public relations, which means I am basically a Facebook expert, I have noticed a trend. The majority of Facebookers I see fall into at least one category, sometimes two. Sometimes three. I fear those people the most. And, lucky you, I have decided to share these categories for your benefit and enjoyment. Which one are you? Are you more than one? Tell me all.

The Liker:

This person may or may not comment, but as soon as your status goes up, you can count on them to click the "like" button to show their approval of your latest update. This person moves like a silent ninja, liking things all over the place, even if what they like makes no sense. Sometimes this person likes other peoples' comments - people they don't even know. The most terrifying power this person wields is the notifications. Oh, the notifications. There is nothing like opening up Facebook, clicking on your notifications, and seeing the same profile picture eighteen times in a row because The Liker has struck once again to express their approval for everything you have written in the last three hours. Well played, Liker. Well played.

The InstaCommenter:

I don't know how this person moves so quickly, but within five seconds of you pressing "post," this person has already commented on your status/picture/link. This truly baffles me. I am not judging how much time The InstaCommenter spends on Facebook, because people in social media houses shouldn't throw virtual stones. But how does this person react so fast? HOW? What's even more impressive/confusing is that this person, much like The Liker, moves swiftly and silently. They may not have had any activity on Facebook for six hours. But the moment you respond to their comment, there they are, ready with an InstaFollowUp. I can only imagine they have some kind of pager attached to their wrist at all times that alerts them to the exciting news that they can once again comment on a Facebook status. Or maybe they're psychic.


The Drama Llama:

My goodness, this person has a rough life. Or so they would lead you to believe. I am not the Facebook police. You can write what you want on your Facebook page. But there are some days where I see a Drama Llama and have to resist the urge to find a way to cut off their Internet access. You will recognize the Drama Llama because while their crisis will seem urgent and/or terrible, further inspection will show you that what they are experiencing is not, in fact, that big of a freakin' deal. The Drama Llama is crafty, and toys with your emotions using lots... of.... ellipses... to build up... ... ... suspense... before doing... a... big reveal IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. An experienced Drama Llama could make buying new shampoo a nail-biter of an event. It's hard to tell whether the Drama Llama is really this upset about a non-issue, or if they just really like typing sad faces. This is one of the mysteries of life that may never fully be solved.

The Nostalgic Stalker:

Have you ever gotten a notification that someone has liked or commented on a post, clicked to see the post, and been really confused for about thirty seconds before realizing said post is from 2009 and you barely remember writing it? That confusion is brought to you courtesy of the Nostalgic Stalker. Part of the blame has to lie with the silly Facebook newsfeed that shows you posts from two days ago and pretends they are new. But most of the blame lies with the Nostalgic Stalker as they scroll through your profile and acknowledge every post you have made in the last six months. Unlike The Liker and InstaCommenter, subtlety is not this person's strength. Oftentimes they refuse to acknowledge that any other events have passed since you posted whatever they are commenting on, resulting in gems like, "Hope your wedding is full of blessings!" three years after you get married. Have they not been on Facebook for several months? Do they think you might like to be reminded of the day you graduated college? It's hard to say why the Nostalgic Stalker does what they do. But one thing is certain - they will do it to you.

The Killjoy:

Oh, man. This person. This person bums me out just to write about, so you can imagine what running into one of them on Facebook is like. The Killjoy's main goal is to suck the life and fun out of every hilarious or uplifting thing you post. Writing out your favorite Bible verse and posting it as your status? The Killjoy will comment with a fun fact on how that verse is actually severely mistranslated and really does not mean anything close to what you thought. Want to post some lyrics of your favorite inspirational song? The Killjoy will link an article that explains the artist is now on meth and hates kittens. And heaven forbid you post something a little tongue-in-cheek as your status. The Killjoy does not do sarcasm. Any statuses about how you want to sell your baby online will result in lectures on how children are a precious gift, why DFACS does not want you to sell your children, and articles from parenting magazines about loving the moment. Don't be that person. No one likes that person. At all.

And there you go - the Five Types of Facebookers. They are real. They are out there. I have been all of these at one point or another, and - admit it - so have you. It's okay. We're here for you. But seriously, don't link parenting articles to my status. I will not have that nonsense. I will. not. have it.

On Your First Birthday

Joshua, today is your first birthday. How is that possible? It seems like there is no way a year could have passed since I first laid eyes on you, but I have checked and rechecked and re-rechecked the calendar and apparently it's true. I still have trouble believing it but I guess the calendar wouldn't lie... it is from Chick-Fil-A, after all.

As this day has been approaching, I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say to you. I thought of telling you the story of everything that happened, but you already know it - you lived it. I thought about imparting some deep wisdom to you, telling you the secrets of life that would help you as you grow. But it turns out I don't know that many life secrets and some things you just have to find out for yourself. So I thought for a while longer and decided I would tell you some things that I learned over this year, things that only you could have taught me. 

See, I am not what you call a "researcher" or a "planner" or "someone who is ever ready for anything more than five minutes ahead of time." I leave that to the more sophisticated people around me (who are constantly texting me to ask if I am running late yet again). And I wasn't worried about being prepared for parenthood. I might be a last-minute person but I do good work in that last minute and I knew everything would work out fine if I stuck to my tried-and-true method. 

Imagine my surprise when I found out that the last minute to plan had arrived much faster than I expected. I think that was the hardest part of finding out you would be early - I was just starting to wrap my mind around the fact that I would be a parent. It still seemed surreal. And then suddenly I was going to be a parent in a matter of hours. I remember from the moment the doctor told me you would be born it was as if I was watching my life unfold on a giant screen, like I was aware of what was happening but so sure it couldn't be real. I even told your dad that, moments before you were born - "Maybe this is just a dream," I said. He assured me it wasn't and offered to pinch me to prove it but I declined. Don't let him pinch you, either. 

And then you were there. Less than two hours had passed since we had found out how sick you were and how much you were struggling, and there you were. You didn't cry, because your little lungs didn't work very well yet. The doctors had told me not to expect you to cry because of how early you were but that was the only thing I knew about babies - they cried when they were born. I was sure you would cry. I kept asking your dad why you weren't, and finally concluded that the doctors had done something to prevent you from crying so you wouldn't be upset. What can I say; I was on a lotttt of drugs, man. But I remember every moment after that with vivid detail. Dad got permission to snap a picture of you and show it to me. He watched them work on you and Dr. Manar took a minute to explain what was happening, and then he came over to explain it to me. I heard the words but they still didn't seem real. Dr. Manar brought you to me and said I could give you a kiss. I did, right on your little nose. And then they took you to the 2nd floor, where we would spend the majority of the next four months. 

So my plan not to plan didn't exactly work out, but, really, no amount of planning could have prepared me for this. And I think that is the biggest thing I have learned through this last year: Plans fall apart. Nothing is perfect. God's plan is different from my plan and His plan is the one you want, even if it doesn't seem like it at the time. For all of my lack of preparation, I still like to be in control. I like to know what's going to happen and what my role will be. When you arrived, I didn't have any training. I never took a class. I didn't know how often to change your diaper. I had to learn on the job. But even if you had been born two weeks late, that would have still been true (although the diapers might have been easier to use - yours were reaaaaally small). That's what parenting is: swearing your kid will never watch television and then five years down the road having the Disney Channel schedule memorized and sighing in relief when it's time for Mickey Mouse. 

I discovered that no matter how hectic things got, I could handle it. Some days were a lot harder and some days were pretty easy. But for you I could do anything. I could learn medical terms and ask questions even when I was afraid and accept help from people that I had never met before. You were a pretty solid motivation for putting my own doubts aside and working hard for you, to make sure you had everything. 

I learned just because something isn't the best, that doesn't make it the worst, either. There is a whole world of in-between where things can just be okay. I tend to work in areas of black or white, never grey, but you showed me that when it comes to parenting, especially parenting a NICU kid, grey is pretty much your life. 

You taught me that it's okay to question God. That it doesn't make me less of a Christian, mother, or person. That God not only understands our pain but feels it right along with us. There were days when I opened my mouth to pray and nothing would come out. I was too mad, sad, plaid, whatever, to form any words. And I wondered if that meant I wasn't as much of a Christian as I thought it was. But that's not how it works. God knows my fears and doubts before I do and asking Him questions is okay. 

I found out that there really is a silver lining to every bad situation. You made for a pretty spectacular silver lining. I could (and still can) sit and just watch you for hours, silently cheering every time you moved your little hand or peered up at me with one eye. It was those moments, the tiniest victories, that filled my heart with joy and love for you. You helped me make friends with other parents who had kids just like you, kids who struggled and lived in a world of doctors and specialists and medicine, kids who I now get to see grow and play and who I am so excited for when they accomplish something. The parents became a part of our family as we grew together and rooted for each others' children, taking genuine delight in every good update. These are the people who are in the "club," who know the frustration and anxiety of being a NICU parent. 

You showed me that a total stranger can show the biggest kindness. You helped me see that I was surrounded by friends and family who love me and would do anything to help. You revealed the amazing skills of the NICU nurses, whose kindness and patience with both of us made all the difference in the world to me. I learned that no matter how bad things got, I was never alone. Someone was always praying for you, even someone who had never met you and never will. It is the people who prayed on your behalf, who dropped off gift cards and hugs, who sat in the waiting room for hours and hours - these are the ones who I will never forget, because they made it possible for me to find the strength to continue even when things seemed too tough. When I think of how your grandparents drove overnight in a storm to see you, how your other grandparents stopped by nearly every day to check on you, how your aunts stayed up late to talk to me all night and how your uncles volunteered to help us move and prepare for you to come home, I know without a doubt that our little family is loved so, so much. 

Joshua, you made me a mother. You changed me from someone who thought she understood what unconditional love meant to someone who knows exactly what it is. You have filled the last year with love and laughter and joy and smiles. Yes, there were sad moments, but I wouldn't trade a single one of them. You have taught me so much in only a year and I hope that I can teach you something during your lifetime to repay the favor. Daddy and I love you so much and we are so grateful to know you. Here's to the next year of life lessons from our favorite micro-preemie. 

Babies are like dogs (but dogs aren't like babies)

I have now been a parent for almost 10 months (10 MONTHS WHY GOD WHYYYY), and while I am still relatively new to the child-raising game, I have garnered a lot of wisdom in my short tenure. For example, don't get attached to your baby's socks. The cuter they are, the faster they disappear in the Great Sock Void, where socks are drawn in by a guy selling candy and are never seen again. Another fun fact is that toots are deceptive. What you are smelling is probably just a toot, but since you have to make sure and unbutton those stupid PJs, look in the diaper, and stop your baby from wriggling out of his pajamas so he can finally be free like he's always wanted, it winds up being just as much work as if the smell was actually poop.

But the most startling discovery, the most shocking, wild, unexpected bit of information I have learned this year is this: Babies and dogs have a lot in common. 

Let me clarify: Owning a dog does not equal raising a baby. I know that your precious Fifi is a lot of work and the other night you had to stay up with her because she was sick and it was very sad and that you might think it's the same as having a baby. Stop that. Dogs are a lot of work, but at least they take their poop outside (most of the time). And dogs become self-entertaining - that tail is easy to chase pretty early on. But, in spite of the many difference, there are also a lot of similarities. Maybe the better way to say it is that I approach raising my child much like the way I approach owning a dog. Wait. That doesn't sound right. Just keep reading. 

This is my dog: 

Ignore the terrifying eyes. He isn't a robot. 

This is my baby:

Cute, right?? I know. 

At first glance, you might wonder what these two have in common, besides the fact that in each picture they are drooling on something. But while you're looking for the drool in both of these pictures, consider the following list of things I say to my dog and my child on a daily basis:

- "What is in your mouth??"

- "Don't lick that."

- "There is no need to make that noise."

- "Tell me what you want... you're looking toward the kitchen... food? Is it food? It's food!!!"

- "Is this dirt or poop?" (It's poop. It's always poop.)

- "This <insert gross thing> sounds like a job for Daddy... Oh, Daniel!!"

So you can see that the similarities are already building. Both my dog and child would like to chew on every electrical cord available. They enjoy rolling things into small, hard to reach places and then they enjoy crying until I find a way to reach it. They both want something that is totally, completely unreasonable all of the time: The dog would like to be a lap dog and curl up on us in spite of the fact that he is fifty pounds. The baby would like to both turn his head away from his bottle and drink from his bottle at the same time. They both have a knack for ignoring the safe, happy toys right in front of them and instead presenting me with random pieces of trash, in spite of the fact that I just vacuumed and picked up all trash in sight. 

And my baby can't even crawl yet. I have a feeling it's only going to get worse. 

So, other moms - tell me, am I right? Do my infant and my pooch bear a resemblance to each other? Or am I just a really terrible person who compares her sweet baby to her dog?

You Might Have A NICU Kid If...

How can you tell if you have a NICU kid? Are you wondering why your baby does the weird things he or she does and if it's possible they've spent some time in Baby Prison? Don't worry. There are easy ways to tell the NICU-ers from the non-NICU-ers:

If you've ever said the phrase, "Honey, don't forget to plug the baby in," you might have a NICU kid.

If you have to reassure frightened children that the beeping they hear isn't a bomb, you might have a NICU kid.

If you own more than three rolls of medical tape and wait for it to go on sale, you might have a NICU kid.

If your response to someone wanting to know the age of your child is "It depends," you might have a NICU kid. 

If your spouse reminds you it's time to take your baby to the doctor and you're not sure if it's the cardiologist, ophthalmologist, or the "regular" doctor, you might have a NICU kid. 

If your fridge is half-filled with baby bottles and the other half is filled with prescription meds, you might have a NICU kid.

If you have a sign on your stroller warning people that touching your child will bring about a swift death, you might have a NICU kid.

If you plan on staying indoors and never speaking to a single soul for the entire winter season, you might have a NICU kid.

If the only other parents you see are NICU parents that also Lysol their house on a daily basis, you might have a NICU kid. 

If you can watch tv while a shrill beep goes off in your ear for twenty minutes and still follow the plot of your show, you might have a NICU kid.

If you've ever said the phrase, "Don't worry; he'll breathe again in a second," you might have a NICU kid.

And if you can load a stroller, oxygen tank, monitors, car seat, and baby into your van in five minutes or less, you definitely have a NICU kid.

These are just some of the signs. The NICU baby can be elusive and hard to spot. Please spread the word and add your own signs.