In every celebrity mom interview I’ve ever read, the interviewer asks the gorgeous, toned, trim actress about how they find time to exercise and the celebrity says “Oh I don’t work out. Chasing after my kids is all the exercise I need!” To which I have always said “Bullshit, Celebrity Mom. Unless you gave birth to that 6’3″ 37 year old trainer you meet with three times a week, those abs are from hard work, not a couple days on the playground.”

Now that Baby Evan is not just mobile but ohmigod-someone-quick-grab-him-he-has-a-lighter-where-the-hell-did-he-get-a-lighter???? mobile, my skepticism towards those celebrity mothers has dropped about a zillion points. Ok, so they probably still meet with their trainer every other day but child chasing is a genuine aerobic activity. It’s shocking how quickly a baby can go from quiet play to extreme peril, especially if you live in a death trap old house. Apparently the hissing and popping of old cast-iron radiators is a siren song to babies, calling to them to come and put your mouth on meeeeeeee I taste like sunshine and dog hair and dried leaves and deliciousness. Baby Evan has started pulling open the cookie sheet storage warming drawer under my stove and trying to climb in it while the stove is on. Listen child, I know it’s cold in here but I don’t think baking yourself is the answer. I’m suddenly very very aware of just how hard that tile we installed in the kitchen is, thanks to the horrible CRACK sound it makes when it meets the baby’s head.

It doesn’t help that E and I have totally different parenting philosophies when it comes to baby-chasing. E’s attitude is “Let him figure it out, he has to learn eventually” while I follow more of a “Maybe it’s not such a great idea to let an 8 month old decide for himself what’s safe” line of thought. Call me crazy. I think “Danger!” is an important concept for Baby Evan to comprehend, especially at an age where “No!” just makes him laugh.

No! Don’t bite the dog! Giggle.

No! Don’t climb into the open dishwasher! Hahahahaha. (I swear to God the baby thinks he’s going to find the way to Narnia in that damn dishwasher. I couldn’t keep him out with a cattle prod. Not that I would try. I have no idea where to get a cattle prod.)

No! Don’t eat that bleach pen! Hysterical cackling.

So for the next six (four? eight? how long exactly does it take to go from cruiser to toddler?) months, I’m going to be spending a lot of time crawling around grabbing things from the baby and rearranging the interlocking foam floor squares over our kitchen floor. And just in case my baby CAN read, I’m being strategic in my rearranging.

Although I didn’t know who Kristine Brite was until a few days ago, Baby Evan and I are wearing pink in honor of her baby Cora (born November 29th, died December 6th). I learned of her tragedy through the Twitter grape vine and although I can’t begin to comprehend Kristine’s pain my heart breaks for her. Here’s her story in her own words:

Cora died instantly on my chest while breastfeeding. One hundred percent healthy pregnancy, labor, and delivery. She scored 9s on both Apgar test. We jumped in the car and drove 70 through Decatur to the hospital as soon as I looked down and saw her bloodied face covering my breast. Getting her there within moments of her stopping breathing. She had a heart condition impossible to detect in utero or at birth without special testing.

Cora was meant to teach us something I’m sure of it. She changed my life. Ben and I quit smoking, struggled to prepare financially, took parenting classes, and after she was born watched her in shifts. She was never alone even when sleeping. We were all meant to learn something from her.

Compassion, patience, love.

Today I will show compassion, patience and love. I will try to appreciate all I have more. I will hug my baby extra tight, thank God I’ve had so many days with him already, and pray I get a million more. I hope Kristine and her family can feel everyone’s love and know how many people are thinking of them today.

For Cora

Yeah, I’m going to talk about boobs again. Deal.

Happy Face :)

I love breastfeeding. It’s totally amazing that if you combine my pregnancy with the months of exclusive (really really exclusive) breastfeeding, I’ve kept this baby alive with just my body for 17 months. I’m practically a superhero, although thank God I don’t have a spandex outfit. I’ve given my baby the best start possible and he (and I) will both be healthier for it. I’ve saved an enormous amount of money by not buying any formula and an enormous amount of time not sterilizing, heating and preparing bottles. Nothing beats snuggling with a warm sleepy infant on a cold morning and starting my day feeling absolutely attached to my baby. I feel like I repeat all this stuff so many times a day I might as well get it tattooed on my forehead. Or at least embroidered on a pillow. A pillow I can throw off a cliff.

Sad Face :(

I’m so so so tired all the time from getting up at night to nurse this baby. Now that he’s mobile he’s like a tiny Michael Phelps – his body burns calories faster than he can get them in and he needs to eat fourteen times a day. Not to mention possibly suffering from a case of the munchies. When I committed to breastfeeding, I was relieved to learn “extended nursing” usually only involved a couple of feedings a day and not the round-the-clock sessions of a newborn. Unfortunately Baby Evan didn’t get that memo. My nipples feel like they’re going to fall (not from pain, just from pulling) and it only gets worse when he’s teething – which he’s doing AGAIN. This time it’s the top teeth, which means in a couple days he’ll be able to bite with the same power as an average sized dog. Think about how much that would hurt. And despite MY anytime, anywhere approach to breastfeeding the baby refuses to eat if there are people, noise, colors, sounds, dogs, cats, other babies, music, or toys within 100 feet. If I don’t plan for quiet time at home he goes all day without eating and the nighttime feedings go from 2 or 3 to 4 or 5. At this point, I couldn’t give up on breastfeeding even if I wanted to. The battle we have every time I try to give him a bottle or cup is EPIC and his refusal could easily outlast my will to force one on him. Every time I mention my frustration I’m told “don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it” and that 8 months is a totally normal age to still be nursing exclusively. THANKS FOR NOTHING advice givers. Why don’t you come over here and breastfeed this baby at 3 am? For 8 months in a row? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re too busy sleeping at 3 am? THEN SHUT YOUR PIEHOLE. Sorry, sleep deprivation is making me cranky. And complaining about it makes me feel a little better. Especially complaining about it in LARGE CAPITAL LETTERS. LOUD NOISES.

How delicious are your needles to stick in my mouth and chew on and then throw up all over myself and your holiday sweater! Fa la la la la la la la la!

I took a huge step on Sunday and left Baby Evan in the nursery at church for the first time ever. It took me 5 minutes just to walk out of the room and 5 more of peering through the door to make sure he was ok before I made it back to the service, but I did it. And he was fine. He was actually better than fine, he was totally happy to be playing with a whole room full of new toys and other kids to yell at instead of sitting in my lap in the service being told to shhhhhh constantly.

Apparently my subconcious was much more upset about the decision than I was because Sunday night I had the absolute worst baby dream EVAR. I dreamed – in a horribly realistic fashion – that when E and I went to visit my parents for Christmas, we left Baby Evan in his crib. In the dream, we discussed bringing him with us but decided he was going to be too much of a hassle to travel with and we’d just get someone to watch him for the 7 days we’d be gone. But we both forgot to actually get someone to watch him and made it all the way to Virginia before we remembered. The next four hours of my nightmare was spent trying to find the phone number for my next door neighbor, calling people we knew who might be able to come check on Baby Evan, fighting with the bizare woman who answered the phone when I called the baby store that ended when she called Child Protective Services and told me I’d never see my baby again.

You know how in dreams, sometimes you’re conscious of what you should be doing but your dream self refuses to comply? Clearly, if I really did forget my baby, I would turn around and drive right back to get him (although after that nightmare the chances of forgetting the baby are even more minuscule then they were before – I’m never again leaving a ROOM without him, let alone the state). But in my dream E and I had a very serious discussion about whether or not Baby Evan would starve to death if we just stayed 5 days instead of 7. And we wondered if $500 was enough to pay the neighbor’s teenage daughter to come over and watch him for a while.  I think at one point E mentioned there was water in the dog’s bowl (which the dog didn’t need because we REMEMBERED TO BRING THE DOG) and the baby would figure it out.

I woke up even more exhausted than I was when I went to bed and feeling like the worst mother in the world. I spent all day Monday making up my horrible (imaginary) parenting to Baby Evan with lots of hugs and patience and taking him everywhere I went. I was rewarded with no baby-abandoning dreams Monday night. Clearly, my subconscious and I have some issues to work out before I try to leave the baby in the nursery again.