By: Allison Norris

I’m watching The Bachelor on abc. Of course I am. It’s what stay-at-home-moms do, right? Watch young women throw themselves at a short guy with an “interesting” accent (is it Texan, or Dork? I can’t be sure). It’s what I wait all week for. I scream at my television and comment on the terrible decision making that went into a bathing suit choice or how bad her hair looks with curls.

“Nice baby talk… she doesn’t really talk that way, I know it.”

“Who does this girl think she is? Why is she telling him that she LOVES him? She doesn’t even know him, and he’s wearing grandpa shorts!”

“You are dancing? No. That’s called the 8th grade hump-grind.”

My neighbors must think that I am terrible, as I scream such horrible things about people that I do not know. I hope they can’t hear me.

It’s a fascination with love that I have and being able to watch it on tv is like a car wreck that you can’t take your eyes off of, no matter how gruesome it is. How does it work? Will it last? I watch the show and think about how much I didn’t know about real love prior to having Baylor. Putting every bit of energy I have into another human being – my needs are met last, if at all. Can someone find that in another adult? The desire to completely give, and care for someone seems impossible – especially when you have a child.

I look at these young women on this show kissing in a penthouse suite with a private pool off of the patio. Of course they are in love! I want to rub some poopy diaper on their shirt and then leave a little pureed banana in their hair to find totally hardened 3 hours later. I want them to smack their head on the side of the car because their leg gave out while hoisting up the car seat on the side of the car to open the door.

Do they ask this bachelor character if he leaves yogurt containers out when he’s done eating out of them? Does he pick up his underwear off of the floor? Does he pee in the shower? I’d like to know! I guess I am wondering how many peeves make up one big deal breaker. Do we reach a point where we stop being so picky and accept the little things that bug us because we are looking for a partnership, and realize that we aren’t exactly perfect either? It’s sort of like signing up for someone whose annoying habits bug you the least.

I think about the things that I will teach Baylor to make him… well… perfect. Napkin on his lap and waiting until everyone is seated to take the first bite. Details that will help him at his first dinner with future in-laws. But are there things programmed into him that I will have no control over?

Control. I remember that… I think I used to have it. Now, I get a thrill about what temperature the dryer is set to – it’s all my decision. It’s like I am God of Laundry. Nobody will tell me what setting to put it on! See, I am totally in control.

Relationship books and couples therapy can try to close the communication and expectation gap between couples, but it may be a whole lot easier to accept that nobody is perfect – not even on a tropical island with a camera crew filming you frolicking in the surf, awaiting your “final rose”.

[photo credit: Flickr- Vancityallie]

By:  Allison Norris

A whale jumps completely vertical out of the water and leaves a huge splash behind. The tip of his tail disappears into the ocean and we watch to see if it will show its massive body again.

Bay took his first trip on the airplane. His first terrible cold came along for the ride as well. I thought Bay would leave “cold” behind, but he decided to have him come along to Maui to test my skills as a mother – I am sure. Green snot slid into his mouth faster than I could grab the tissues from my purse, and then he squealed at the sight of his mucousy relief. I was nervous to bring him onto the plane because of his cough and runny nose… and I also couldn’t get the thought of our plane crashing into a mountainside out of my mind. What is wrong with me?

Morbid thoughts have become a daily occurrence. I had never thought about dying, or getting into a serious crash until I became a mother. I actually had a case of immortality. My thoughts take me to horrible places where I play out a situation and consider the worst possible outcome.

If I take Baylor into the ocean, he could be slippery, and then I would drop him, and then the waves would take him under, and then he could be taken out for miles into the ocean.

If I step too close to the edge of the bluff (like 20 feet away), I could trip on a root (there are no roots), and then I would fall, do a backwards roll, and then Bay would fly off of the cliff and land and I wouldn’t be able to get to him in time.

If I sit in the back of the plane, I won’t be able to get to an exit fast enough and Bay could be ripped from my arms and he doesn’t have wings, so he probably couldn’t fly, and then the beverage cart would fly backwards and he could be there… sooooo…

I am not joking when I say I want Bay to wear a helmet until he is 35 years old. The thought of something happening to him can become daunting and too much to think about. As he is becoming mobile, and my ability to zone out in front of the tv is becoming a thing of the past, and as I was once a warrior, I have now become a worrier.

The thought of him driving a car drives me mad, and I could pass out at the thought of him skinning his knee and walking into the house with blood running down his leg. I don’t want him to get hurt is all. I remember when my mom would make me call to check in and I thought it was ridiculous… now I get it. Sorry, mom.

The whale sees light and leaps with full force into another world of wind and waves. He crashes back into his home and is safe, leaving a splash behind.

By: Allison Norris

All dolled up and ready to go, I met my “fill in” babysitter at the door. She had never watched Bay before, so I was nervous. She was going to be the one putting him to bed and I was just sure that he was going to scream the entire time… not that he ever has before, but you just start to imagine everything horrible that could go wrong.

She read all of my 3 pages of written instructions and assured me that they would be fine. Believing her, I decided that we could leave.

Baby Daddy (BD) bought us tickets to one of my favorite shows, Vicci Martinez, at the Triple Door downtown. I let him open my station wagon car door for me and even let him drive. We pulled up to the valet and BD let me know that he’d rather do valet than have to walk, no matter what. Liking this statement in my three inch heels, I wobbled my way inside the venue.

Waiting at the hostess desk, the woman in front of us was spelling her last name over and over, louder and louder,

“C-H-R-I-S-T-E-N-S-E-N” as if the hostess would magically find their reservation easier.

“Ma’am, what show are you here to see?”

The woman looked at her with a blank face, “uh, shoot. It’s the 16th tonight, isn’t it. Our show is on the 23rd. I am just remembering.” She let out an embarrassed laugh and turned around.

Our turn, finally. “Hi, reservation under Norris…” Her fingers punched away on the keyboard.

“What was that last name, one more time?”

“N-O-R-R-I-S”

Just then BD stepped forward with an important question, “Who is playing tonight?”

“It’s Joseph Arthur, sir.”

Not so much Vicci Martinez.

Just then a heat wave covered my skin and a sinking feeling consumed my gut. How did we mess this up? I was the one who got the babysitter, so I guess it’s my fault for just assuming it was on a Saturday night? Defeated, we left and went somewhere else for dinner.

I had asked my regular babysitter to watch Bay while we were at the concert in an email and wrote down “Sunday, Jan 16th”… which, of course, the the 16th was on a Saturday. Confused, she just never responded and asked me in person which date and day I had actually meant. Not double checking, I just PICKED a day and went with it.

I saw my regular babysitter a couple of days later.

“Lindsey,” I ask, seriously.

“Yes…” she chirps back. I swear she sings when she talks or is a Disney character or something – I just adore her.

“You have another task to add to the list – other than making sure my laundry is put away…”

She looks at me concerned, wondering if her $12 an hour is going to seem smaller because of a new task.

“I need you to keep me sane, ok? If I start sounding crazy, please tell me. Please?”

What is she supposed to say to that… is she supposed to tell me that I sound nuts most of the time?

“Haha… ok, Allison.” She sounds timid and changes the subject.

>

One Parent

By: Allison Norris

“How do you do it?  Whenever my husband goes out of town, I think about you and can’t imagine how hard it must be for you!”

And so I answer, “I don’t know any different.”

He wakes in the middle of the night, I get up.

He needs a diaper change, I change it.

He’s hungry, I feed him.

I have to shower, he sits alone and I hope he isn’t crying.

I lay him in his crib after his bath and hope that he falls asleep soon, as it will be my long stretch of free time until I can no longer keep my eyes from closing.  I do the dishes, laundry, play on facebook so that I don’t feel entirely out of the loop, turn on my tunes, and pluck my eyebrows – if I remember.

I hear how the other moms can pass off the baby when Daddy walks in the door every night.  Their needs can be temporarily met while their other half is playing catch up with his offspring.

My son’s father helps whenever he is here and I get a taste of what it would be like; an extra set of hands to load the car or carry in groceries.  Hopefully, some day, I’ll have those hands at the end of every day.

Until then, I’m in control, or at least I think I am.  I control my wee one’s schedule, his mood, his outfits, and his hygiene.  I get spurts of rest in a huge bed all to myself (until my son, who is all of 5 months old, hogs the entire thing), my new biceps are bulging, nobody argues with me about how I want things done, and there is nobody to cook dinner for…  My frozen dinners are my secret pleasure -  maybe this is perfect?

When we lay in bed together, every morning, he smiles at me and I remember that I am not alone.  He is my teammate and my partner.

His hands are the softest to hold.  We need each other and I’ll never be “single” again.

vs.

Two Parent

By: Sandra Peria

My husband is a type A personality; actually he’s more like an A+. From the moment he learned we were going to have a baby, he bought every book, printed out all pertinent articles online and started analyzing everything from sleep schedules to pumping, to recalls on Carter’s p.j.’s. He followed the baby’s development chapter-by-chapter, week-by-week. “Do you want to know what the baby’s doing now? It can hear, it hears noises.” “Hello baby,” I mutter. I am excited as well, of course, but tend to be a more go-with-the-flow-hope-for-the-best type of person. I am a B-.

After the birth, he kept me on a strict feeding schedule, getting up with me some nights to make sure I remember to actually feed our child. For this I will be forever indebted. He also put the baby to sleep at precisely the same time in exactly the same way every night. He’s the sleep master; three books, a lullaby (“You are my Sunshine”), and off to sleep our son went. When I am especially busy in my day, I know how lucky I am to have my man take care of things like paying the bills and organizing the children’s books tall to short, (told you he was type A) and even taking a swing at dinner, sure to have a protein, a veggie, and a carbohydrate on each plate. He follows the recipe very closely.

There is a strange thing that happens when your husband is Mr. Overachiever; it makes you feel inadequate and you start to doubt every decision you try to make. Is it time for his bottle? Should I take him out or is it too close to nap time? My husband, the dear man, would call me from work telling me it was time to put the baby down. “I was going to,” I explained, “but he needed to be changed and then he seemed hungry again so I thought…” “That’s not what we set up, honey. That’s not what we committed to doing, you can’t make up your own rules.” He is a well-meaning, lovely man, but I can’t help feeling like a complete idiot in regards to raising our child.

Sometimes I do wish I was single and it was just my son and me, battling the world together, making mistakes, doing it wrong. Staying up until midnight eating cold pizza, running around with no diapers, drinking too much juice and bouncing off the walls, putting crayons up our noses, walking in the dirt with no shoes, and then, to finish, the cardinal no-no in our house: sleeping in our bed. I wish I had the right to do it all my own way. I mean my parents screwed up; don’t I have a legacy to uphold?
I realize organization and routine are ultimately for the best, but if I were a single mom, I would love to just jump in the pool with my boy to see if he can swim.

All said, I wouldn’t change my husband or my son for the world and I love them both dearly.

By: Allison Norris

As 2009 came to an end, I took a moment to reflect on what a wild ride the year had been. I remember sitting on my girlfriend’s couch on New Year’s Eve 2008, 10 weeks pregnant, scared to death, and absolutely not going out on the town to celebrate the New Year. I was depressed. I had gotten into some fight with baby daddy and had decided to dramatically exit the relationship the final morning of 2008. I was asleep by 10 after wishing my friends in their tiny dresses a farewell and a confident “oh no, don’t worry about me, I’m fiiiiiine!”

We really put pressure on New Year’s Eve. So many facebook status updates reading “goodbye 2009! I am so excited for 2010… it’s going to be way better!” Sort of like a grown up, bonus Santa visit – here, take this new life and forget your old, shitty one! People think that the way they welcome the new year will dictate how the rest of the year will be. Sad and lonely? You’re screwed. Fabulous midnight kiss from the man of your dreams? It’s going to be a wonderful year! I suppose I technically should have had the worst year of my life…

Looking back, 2009 brought me some of the most challenging times that I have ever experienced. It also brought me more joy than I know what to do with.

Receiving my very first Value Village valued customer punch card.
Writing.
Peeing every hour.
Detesting chicken.
Growing a human.
Living in my zero gravity patio chair.
So many walks.
Birthing a human.
Fitting into my skinny jeans once again.
A lot of blurriness (thank you, sleep deprivation).
Starting a non-profit.
Sleepless nights.
Giggles in the morning.
BLOWOUTS.
Strollers and car seats.
Talking to myself.
Remembering Barney songs and singing them all day… out loud.
Love.
A healing vagina and cracked nipples. OUCH.
Amazing support.
Reconciliation.
Growth.
Breakfasts on the weekends.
A new vocab… pack n plays, the snap n go, exersaucers, nipple shields and PEPS!

I am realizing that everything on my list has to do with my baby. The year of the baby. That’s what I’ll call it.

By: Allison Norris

I can always tell when I say something annoying. I wonder why people who are actually very annoying don’t catch on… especially after the fourth eye roll in a row or another “mmm-hmm” from the listener while glancing around the room. I feel the words choking me as I sputter them out, not sure why I am saying them as I am sure they are… annoying.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that baby talk is my new first language and that I can’t remember what stories I’ve already told. I’m sure my friends dread playing along like they’ve never heard what I’m about to say and then quickly change the subject so that they don’t have to hear the “repeat tangent” like it’s the first time I’ve thought of it. This is kindness at its best. Not having a husband or roommate walk through the door each evening to exercise my witty bantering skills with has become obvious. I’ve taken up “one upping” to make myself feel like I know what I’m doing and actually talking about.

A friend of mine just had a baby… well, not just, as she has a nine year old and now a 2 month old. We went to lunch and I was so excited to see her, to have someone else to commiserate with and to show off what a hunk my little guy is. Her son was peacefully sleeping in his carseat and woke up hungry. As she started to unbuckle him, words began coming out of my mouth. It reminded me of science class when we we made volcanoes out of vinegar and baking soda. I had my own science experience happening… the words were foaming up and pouring out all over our lunch.

“oh yeah, you should probably feed him here. There aren’t too many places around this shopping center that are good for breastfeeding…”

“Great. I was actually getting him out to feed him.” She politely informed me.

“So… are you planning on joining PEPS, the mommy group?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll join in the next few weeks…”

“Well I signed up when I was four months pregnant and barely got on a waiting list. It’s a miracle I’m even in a group – so I would sign up, like, yesterday.”

Who was this know-it-all inhabiting my body? It was as if all self control and social etiquette had become a thing of the past and I was this savage of a girlfriend with primitive communication skills.

She fed her son and we finished feeding ourselves. We packed our things and I caught sight of her $1200 stroller. It was like someone was inside of my brain pushing the buttons and torquing the levers as I started comparing our strollers – out loud.

“Yeah, the thing I like about my stroller is that it has an undercarriage so that I can put all my stuff underneath. I’d be totally lost without it. Like, how do you even leave the house without one?”

“Umm…”

“And another thing, my diaper bag is so small that it leave me tons of room for other stuff. Have you seen this diaper bag brand? Mmm hmm. It’s the best.”

She got very quiet and it was unfortunately time for me to go home. I drove the 5 miles home replaying every awkward comment that I had made. It was like a drunken hook up that you can’t get out of your head the entire next day – that one scene that makes you go ohhh nooooo. I had experienced my first know-it-all drunken hook up… or whatever.

I blame it on sleep deprivation, making up songs about birdies and puppies that I end up humming because I can’t think of more words that rhyme, and eating too many Christmas cookies because I am home all day alone with them. It’s a bad combination and one that led me down a very dark social path, leaving me feeling like Penelope from snl… with a baby. I am just banking on my friend being equally as sleep deprived and too tired to notice. It feels like I have no idea what I’m doing on a daily basis and when that opportunity arises to sound like I am in control and actually have a grasp on things – it’s too awesome to pass up!

If you run into “Allison-the-expert”, I apologize. Right here, right now, I apologize.

By: Allison Norris

Each step sends a throb to my face… and then to my temples… and then to my ears. Snot is on the verge of cascading out of my nostril, but I sniff it back up because my hands are full and I can’t reach my sleeve, and especially not a tissue. I’m sick. I am a mom, and I am sick.

I can’t remember if I used the thermometer for Bay’s temperature –rectally –or if it was a different one. I also wonder if I cleaned it after I stuck it up there. It doesn’t matter and I stick it in my mouth to see if a fever will accompany this head thing.

All I need is a good night of sleep, I think. And then I laugh.

What a joke the flu shot must be as I am now sick for the second time in two months. They said that because I am a new mom, I need the flu shot and the H1N1 vaccine. Did they forget that new moms do not actually sleep and that their immune systems are weak and that injecting them with a virus may not be the best idea. I don’t actually know how the whole vaccine thing works, but all I know is that I got them, and now I’m sick.

Bay grabs the thermometer out of my mouth and tries to stick it in his… not because I was doing it, just because he puts everything in that little saliva pit. It had only climbed to 96.5 so either I am literally cold, or I need to do it again. Forget it.

Hopefully this tea is laced with super strength serum or something.

By: Allison Norris

Heaps and mounds form in all areas of my room. It seems as if there is a magnet underneath every empty place on my floor, pulling clothes to it. Growing by the minute, I wonder if the piles will eventually cover my bed as well and if I will become one of those people who just sleep with their clothes… because there isn’t any more room on the floor.

Colors and whites, baby socks and onesies, granny panties and nursing bras. Laundry is taking over my life.

I have a dilemma. Most of my clothes are in the “hand wash only” category and the rest are a “lay flat to dry” making my pile of dirty laundry a daunting task. There is the top that you know will shrink, even if it says “machine wash cold and tumble dry low” so you’ve never washed it – ever. Until someone comes over to help.

Trying to juggle a clean house and a healthy baby by myself at the same time has proven to be harder than I had ever imagined. My clothes are everywhere. I can load the dishwasher… and even unload it (it may take a few days). I can wipe down the counters and throw baby toys in a bin. But the laundry, I absolutely cannot get motivated. In fact, I am writing instead of doing it right this very minute.

My friends are the best help and when they see these piles overflowing into the hallways and peeking around every corner, they try to get me ahead of the game. I love them… until they shrink my favorite Anthro shirt, or wash a load of whites with one red onesie that hasn’t been washed yet.

How do I politely tell them that washing everything and then leaving it folded in my room means disaster? Sure, the pile may be clean, but it does NOT mean that I will be jumping at the first opportunity I have to actually put it where it belongs. And so it sits. It gets dug through. It ends up back in the dirty clothes pile because I can’t remember if it was clean when the two piles accidentally combined.

I hate laundry and I am the only one who can do it. It isn’t a matter of control; it’s a matter of survival. Which stretchy workout pants will survive the longest after accidentally being dried because someone was just trying to help?

Alright, I am going. I have a mountain of laundry to climb… and then another one… and another…

By: Allison Norris

I am sitting on the couch ready to go to bed, but the thought of actually getting up, brushing my teeth, washing my face and putting in my night guard keeps me sitting here. My leggings are cinched at the ankles making them really (cute) hard to get off, too. And where is my tank top with the built-in breast pads? I think it’s dirty. Crap. I’ll have to rig something up to absorb my leakage that oftentimes leaves me soaked in the wee hours of the morning. I’d rather doze on the couch for a bit while a completely mind numbing program is blaring in the background instead of getting up to get the rest that I complain about not having every day. This sort of craziness is easily justified while seriously sleep deprived.

I had my friend over last night and had nothing to talk about… or contribute, rather. She is dating a new guy and had that twinkle in her eye… that feeling that he could call at any minute and that they could talk about nothing, but it would be amazing. He’s met a few of her friends, and he’s told her that he likes her and although they haven’t had any talks about exclusivity, they are definitely seeing each other quite a bit! This friend of mine hasn’t had a boyfriend in almost a year and has sort of floated around keeping her options open. Every night is a possibility for Mr. Right! I listened to her last night and found myself envious of her butterflies. I remembered the mornings that you shave your legs in the shower because you know you’ll be seeing him later. Now I’m lucky if I shave my legs once a month. And who cares if I shave them at all? Baylor? Nah… he likes me just the way that I am.

I woke up this morning sort of yearning for that excitement. And then I talked to Jen. My best buddy was dating a guy for about a month until she realized that he wasn’t for her and she let him swim off into that big pond… or sea… or whatever. Of course, she is the crazy one and he tells me so in a facebook message. That’s right, he wrote me a message, here in Seattle, about why Jen dumped him. I’ve never met the guy! He said that he was worried about her. Worried that she may not know that not everyone is perfect and that one day, she will realize that even the man that she deems worthy of her time may actually have a flaw, but to not let that flaw ruin her life because he could be the man of her dreams! OH! Thanks for the enlightening bud. Where is your crystal ball? So nice of him to make sure she knew that she will never be completely happy. So settle? So thoughtful.

I was shopping today when I ran into a friend who is having trouble with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend seems to have a wandering eye… or thumbs, as he has been a sexter texter with other ladies, and we aren’t sure what else. She caught him, confronted him, and is giving him another chance. I think my favorite part was when he asked her “ok, so I messed up. What do I need to do now to get us back to where we were?” It was as though there were an equation or a planned process that they needed to follow and POOF they would be back to where they were – happy. Everything forgiven, but not forgotten. It’s just not that easy.

Back to being sleep deprived and missing butterflies… it’s not so bad. Right when I start to wonder if I can survive another day of poop and puke, I am reminded that I’ve got it made. No weirdos with a hypothesized vision of my love life and no sexters with a need to have a harem of women in their inbox. I have a perfect man who laughs at everything that I say and never wants to leave my side! I guess it’s my job to develop my little man into a grown man who is emotionally stable, successful, handsome, polite, honest, funny, kind, loyal and faithful…. and on and on.

Should be a piece of cake… I am his mom, aren’t I?

And now it’s time for bed.

By: Allison Norris

Baylor can see. He sees colors and shapes and people… and can no longer be entertained by the freckles above my cleavage. I used to be able to toss him into my front carrier apparatus to hit Nordstrom or the grocery store, but satisfied he is no longer. He wants to check out the action happening all around him.

Grocery shopping has become somewhat of a task. I can’t really bring a stroller into the store because I need to push the cart. Bay hates sitting in his car seat attached to the cart and will scream the entire time – quickly ending our shopping experience. I did this once and made it half way down the first aisle before turning around and leaving the store. I started leaving him with my sister or trying to shop a little while he is with his dad, but I decided that I had to look that temper tantrum square in the face and say, bring it.

I unloaded him from the car and placed him in my Ergo carrier (similar to the baby bjorn) and grabbed a cart. He seemed to be happy and we carelessly cruised the meat section until… oh no… a screech of a sound coming from my neckline. Here it comes… the meltdown.

He arched his back and wailed like someone was sending jolts of pain up through his toes. His crinkled forehead and curled lip revealed his toothless gums, are surrounded by his clenched fists next to his face. He let out a scream followed by a snort and I knew our ergo time had officially ended.

I stopped in the middle of the aisle and managed to unclip myself to get him out of the carrier to bring him to my hip, and he was cured. Each aisle provided an incredible world of shapes and colors that kept him mesmerized as he gripped onto the shoulder of my shirt. I finished my shopping holding my drama king in one hand, while pushing my cart and reaching for items with the other. I can’t believe my biceps aren’t bursting out of my sweaters.

Finally to the counter after what seemed like a journey through a supermarket jungle, the checker grabbed my cart and started scanning my items.

“Cuuuuuute lil guy you have there.”

“Oh, thaaaanks!”

“How old is he?”

“3 months…” now shut up and bag my groceries, I thought.

“3 months!? I remember when my boys were that little. Here, I HAVE to show you a photo of them!”

Great. Now I have to stand here with a dead arm even longer to look at photos of a guy’s children who I don’t even know.

“Oh, they are just cute.”

“Thanks, MA!”

Ma?

“Do you need help out today, ma?”

Why is he calling me “ma”? I’m not his ma.

“Uhh… sure, I guess that would be great.”

“No problem, ma.”

Should I say something about him calling me “ma” because it’s really freaking me out.

“I’m just the silver car over here, but put the groceries in the back seat because I have a million strollers in my trunk…”

“Don’t you worry about a thing, ma, I’m a pro at this stuff. I’ve got your purse and I am putting it in the front seat so you don’t lose it, ma.”

IS HE KIDDING RIGHT NOW?!

“Ok. Great. Thank you.” I got in my car and drove home. Apparently I was everyone’s “ma” that day. Weird.