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.

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.

By: Allison Norris

Fervently sucking on his orange pacifier, his eyes begin to roll back, further and further until he is no longer stimulated by dangling toys and is fast asleep. Dreaming about how much his mom loves him and brown silver dollars that produce his favorite food, his tiny finger twitches and he is human.

A small body with little control, perfectly shaped and gentle. How innocent and special he is.

Each breath he takes reminds me that I am the luckiest mother on the planet and that there is nowhere else I would rather be. His gummy smile and squinted eyes make me feel like my heart is actually expanding in my chest and before long, I will be one huge heart walking around pulsing, quite possibly grossing people out.

One arm straight up and the other placed above his fragile skull, he is relaxed and I can examine his tiny fingernails and imagine what story each deep line on his palm will tell.

He jerks awake and lets out a cry. My face is the first thing he sees and he is soothed with a soft shhh-ing. His exploring hand feels around my face until he finds his spot, curled into my neck where it is warm and safe. His eyes close again and I know I have five more minutes of watching him calmly rest.

By: Allison Norris

I threw on my lululemon gear, of course, and a black head band to hold back my unruly bang grow out, and headed downtown for the dentist. My appointment was at 9am, so I was rushing to make it on time knowing that black pencil skirts and tucked in dress shirts would be also making their way downtown… for work.

I parked in my usual place and entered the bustling sidewalk to walk the two blocks to my dental high rise. I was trying to pull off the “sporty” look, like I had actually just gone for a quick jog or a yoga class before heading into work for the day. I actually was just too tired to take a shower and put on real clothes. In front of me was this gorgeous young woman in a perfectly fitting pair of slacks with a crisp white collared shirt and Manolo pumps that looked like they were killing her feet, but nobody would ever know it. Her shiny black hair cascaded down her back, ending in a precise straight line. Hate her. She was reaching into her bag for her phone as she turned the corner into the same building that I was entering only four steps behind. Huge rock on her finger… of course. She definitely hadn’t had babies yet… nobody has a waist that small after the miracle of hip movement to grow a basketball in your gut.

Off the phone, she hit the elevator button and then I caught a glimpse of her profile. ELIZABETH! Oh no. It’s Elizabeth. Not “Liz”, but “Elizabeth”. Like the Queen. The most put together, stunning human being I know. Also the one that makes you feel like you have something black in your teeth and she notices it the whole time, but gets off on not telling you because she likes to imagine the moment that you catch your reflection and go “ahhh man! nobody told me!” as you replay all of the people that you recently smiled at. Yep. That’s her. She only started being nice to me last year after I told her I was dating an NFL player, like I could only then be on her list. Anxiety burrowed into my chest and an automatic monologue started to form in my head….

oh heyyy, yeahhhh, oh noo, I’m not working downtown anymore. Nope. I actually moved back from Chicago… yeahhhh. Why? Oh, because I got pregnant. MmmmHmmm. Yep. He’s 10 weeks old. I look great? Ohhh thanks, so do you! Suuuure! Call me sometime! I’d love to. MmmHmmm. Good to see you too!

And so I hid behind a doorway and watched as a member from my past life boarded the elevator and surely got off on her desired floor. It wasn’t that I was embarrassed or ashamed or jealous. It wasn’t that I’m not proud of myself or happy about all of the decisions that I’ve made. It’s just that sometimes I feel like an alien visiting Planet Allison and all of the Allisontians are staring at me because something’s just a little different. An elevator ride simply isn’t enough time to get deep and explain what it’s like to feel your son move inside of you for nine months, and then after you push him out of your body with every ounce of strength that you never knew you had, he smiles at you and you are forever in love with someone who didn’t exist last year. It’s hard to share something so special with an acquaintance who you were pretty much only competitive with every time you bumped into each other at fabulous parties. We weren’t playing the same game anymore… we had been placed into different leagues.

I mean, who knows, maybe she could have related? It looked like she really loved her Manolos and I don’t think they existed last year either… they were totally from this season.

By:Jennifer Cerbasi

Being a single parent presents the same challenges all parents face but you have two less hands to help. When you are raising a family by yourself you are the one getting lunches ready, giving baths, and driving to and from football practice. You can’t use the good cop/bad cop routine. You don’t ever get a break. Many single parents work long hours or even work two jobs. You are faced with the financial and time constraints of a two-parent household with one income. Luckily, there are a few simple changes you can make that will help you support your child without adding stress to your already busy life.

Create a “home base”
For your “home base” you will need a calendar, a basket for incoming schoolwork, a spot for backpacks, and space to write. Your home base can be a corner of your kitchen, a side table in your living room, or an office. Announce this spot to your children as the hub of your home and remind them to use it as such. Use a different color pencil for each child’s activities to keep your children’s schedules straight. Encourage your children to keep track of their own activities. Designate a basket where your children can put notices that you need to see and forms you need to sign. Keeping all the forms in one place ensures you don’t miss important information. Keep pencils and pens next to the basket so you can fill out forms immediately and put them right back into your child’s backpack. Your time is valuable, and having a home base keeps you from wasting time searching all over the house for forms, notices, and assignments that need to get sent to school.

Ask for help…and return the favor
Don’t be afraid to ask a neighbor or friend for help. Most moms know that no matter what the circumstance, being a parent requires lots of juggling. Asking a neighbor to drive your child to school in the morning is fine, but be sure to return the favor and drive the kids to the school dance over the weekend. Remember- a simple thank you goes a long way. A bouquet of flowers, a gift card for a coffee shop, or a batch of cookies are inexpensive ways to show you appreciate the support you get and it has not gone unnoticed. A handwritten note to say thanks for the help does the trick, too.

Communicate with the teacher
Let her know what days or times are best for you to meet or to speak on the phone. Give her a time frame in which you intend to return her calls or notes. If you know you work late and don’t always get to her notes right away, let her know she can expect to hear from you within 48 hours. If you have a day off during the week, ask for her consideration when scheduling meetings. Being clear about communication with your child’s school leads to consistent and open interactions.

Prioritize
You can’t be in three places at once so choose the meetings, school events, and games that mean the most to you and your children. Include your children in the process by letting them choose an event they want you to attend. Be honest with your children about why you can’t be at all their events but don’t dwell on it. Refrain from constantly reminding them that you are the only parent helping out- they know this and you should vent to your friends, not your children. When they get home ask specific questions about what happened in the big game or the school play. If you want to volunteer at your child’s school but can’t be there all the time, ask if you can help stuff envelopes or make phone calls and do some of the behind-the-scenes work for events.

Remember that you are one person taking on a huge job and can only do your best each day. Pat yourself on the back for maintaining your children’s safety and security. Give yourself credit for taking care of all the day-to-day responsibilities by yourself. Enjoy the time you get to spend with your children and stay positive- your children will model your attitude and you can be a happy and productive family together.

Jennifer Cerbasi teaches at a public school for children on the autism spectrum in New Jersey. As a coordinator of Applied Behavioral Analysis programs in the home, she works with parents to create and implement behavioral plans for their children in an environment that fosters both academic and social growth. In addition to her work both in the classroom and at home, she is also a member of the National Association of Special Education Teachers and the Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development.