Nighty-Night

With two new babies in the family (my sis has recently moved into the grandmotherhood as well), there's an awful lot of discussion about sleep (or the lack thereof). And that discussion does not end at the dinner table. Sympathetic friends, concerned relatives, and "helpful" strangers are always eager to volunteer book titles, websites, blogs, and good old unsolicited advice (yes, I'm speaking to you lady in the Target checkout line) as the ultimate authority any time either my daughter or her cousin dares to make a comment on social media or anywhere else.

Everyone has an opinion. Everyone wants to share what worked for them. Tidbits like "My little Eddie was sleeping through the night when he was seventeen days old because we always put him in his crib awake" or "Make sure you feed him some cereal right before he goes to bed" or "It's perfectly okay to slip him a drop of Jack Daniels in his night-time bottle" may make the advice-giver feel superior but it doesn't do a whole lot for the sleep-deprived listener who is this close to hauling off and punching said advice-giver in the mouth (or in the case of social media, WRITE LIKE THIS).

Let's face it. Questions like:  "Why did he take a two hour nap yesterday but refuses to sleep longer than ten minutes today?" or "How can I get him to stop thinking of three a.m. as playtime?" or "Do I have to give him a hamburger to get him to sleep through the night?" are queries that have no right or wrong answer (except maybe that Jack Daniels tip) and trying to implement the laundry list of possible solutions could drive any new mom to reach for that bottle of Jack.

All of this guilt-inducing, "you're doing it wrong" helpfulness is just another reason I'm grateful to have been doing this whole mothering thing before we entered Facebookland or Twitterville. I had a dog-eared copy of Dr. Spock and my mom. That's it. Oh, I may have asked a couple of my closest friends what worked for them every now and then but I never had to suffer through the barrage of unwanted advice that new moms are currently being subjected to. If I had, I'd probably be handing over a boatload of money to the nearest psychiatrist instead of stashing it away for my next trip to Italy.

Like I said. Grateful.

Regrets . . I've Had a Bunch

I'm always amazed when I see some celebrity being interviewed who says they have no regrets. I have no idea how you get through life without having any of those pesky little creatures seeping into your thoughts as your head hits the pillow. When I was younger, I assumed those lucky people who were regret-free were a product of their charmed life. If you were rich, successful and/or famous, I had reasoned, how could you regret anything in the path that got you there. Now that I'm older and less stupid, I know that money and fame has nothing to do with it. To live a life with no regrets you must: a) be a fatalist who thinks everything happens for a reason, b) not give a flying you-know-what about the thoughts and feelings of anyone else on the planet, or c) not be a parent.

Looking in the rear view mirror at our life choices can be a dangerous hobby. Oh, sure, most of my regrets - "Why did I give away my original Beach Barbie?" or "What was I thinking when I got that haircut?" - don't end up keeping me up at night. I wince at the thought of not having a few extra bucks in our bank account or shudder at an old photograph but then I laugh and move on. Some others - "Why didn't I go to Arizona State when I had the chance?" or "Why didn't I take that entry-level job at the Washington Post?" - make me occasionally wonder about the road not taken but don't usually surface unless I see a picture of the ASU campus or stumble upon a late night showing of All the President's Men.

No. The only regrets that matter; the only ones that do end up invading my sleep are those that concern my parenting skills. "Why wasn't I tougher?" "Why didn't I follow through on consequences?" "Why did I bail my kids out of difficult situations as often as I did?" "Why didn't I "teach" instead of "do" more often than I did?" I could go on and on but I won't. I know it's a complete waste of time and accomplishes nothing. I could say I did the best that I could at the time but that wouldn't always be the truth. Sometimes I just did what was easiest or most convenient for me.

And maybe that's my biggest regret of all.

Two for the Road

Last week, my hubby and I celebrated another anniversary. In this era of seventy-two day marriages, I thought thirty-one years of togetherness was worthy of a night on the town (or, at the very least, a dinner out that didn't include a waiter asking me if "I would like fries with that") but trying to figure out a suitable way to celebrate our milestone didn't come as easily as you might think.

If it had been up to me, we would have driven thirty miles to this French restaurant I've been dying to try but since my husband is allergic to driving long distances to eat when there are "plenty of good places that won't waste a half tank of gas getting there", I knew that was not in the cards. (Last year it killed me to forfeit our $80 Groupon to said restaurant. Now it looks like the only way I'm ever getting there is if we ever find ourselves somehow in the vicinity of the North Shore or if I get some terminal disease that forces him to grant a last request).

The other half of my equation would have been happy with something a little more intimate - a home-cooked meal (guess who would be home-cooking it) and an action movie in our very own theater room. Since that scenario was also off the table (if he wanted to make it to thirty-two years), we decided on one of those lovely compromises that pop up every hour or so in a long-term marriage; we would go out to an actual movie theater (I haven't seen the inside of one of those since we put that damn screen up in our basement) to see an art film called The Trip to Italy and try the gourmet restaurant that is part of our local community college's culinary school.

Don't ask me how either one of them were. We didn't make it to either one. We ended up spending the day cuddling our new grandson, shopping for comfortable shoes at DSW (don't judge me, I had a coupon that was about to expire), and ordering a salad and something called a "Buddha Bowl" at our local Standard Market. It would have been a nice Saturday afternoon if it hadn't been our anniversary (and it hadn't been on Wednesday).  Now I'll have to wait until next year to have a shot at that restaurant and I'll have to invent another excuse to get him to take me to see that movie.

I wonder if he'd fall for the idea of celebrating our 1613th week anniversary.

Back on the Bike

Relax. This is not going to be some tiresome essay about the benefits of exercise. Go ahead. Finish that bagel/donut/cupcake. I'm not about to make you feel guilty for doing so. (I might, however, give you a hard time for not having one for me.) No, this one's about that feeling you get when you haven't done something for awhile; that shred of doubt that seeps into your psyche when you try to do something that you used to be pretty good at but haven't had a chance to practice lately.

Like taking care of a brand new human being.

Out of practice or not, my daughter and her hubby decided I was trustworthy enough to leave their precious baby with me for a couple of hours on Saturday. After guzzling his bottle in record time (and depositing the contents in his diaper almost immediately thereafter), it was time to show him around. I suppressed the urge to dig out his mother and uncle's old toys (although Tickle Me Elmo came close to making an appearance) and just carried him around from room to room letting him get his first real look at the place. His review of the place is still out but early indications point to the twinkling lights over the kitchen sink and the patterned comforter that hosted his tummy time being potential favorites.

When his parents came to collect him, he was sleeping peacefully in his Nana's arms. Yes, getting up and down from the floor was a little more difficult than I remember it being twenty-five years ago. Sure, there were a few gadgets in that diaper bag that I have never seen before (that snot-sucker is not something I'm eager to try). And I've been told that babies are no longer put to bed on their tummies. Other than that, not much has changed.

Holding a baby is still one of the quickest remedies for a bad day. Watching a baby is more entertaining than the hottest ticket on Broadway. And getting the chance to hug and kiss your baby's baby is a better gift than Ryan Reynolds under the Christmas tree.

This is going to be so much fun.