Parenting. It’s so hard to describe.
It is seeing yourself in your children.
Parenting. It’s so hard to describe.
It is seeing yourself in your children.
Full of a stroller handle in one and a small palm in the other when I walk into a store. Full of an infant that I balance on one knee as I squat in the stall, and toddler arms wrapped around me to keep from falling into the toilet that she needs to use five minutes after we walk in.
Full of dishes that I put in the dishwasher and then dishes I take out. Full of clothing put in the washer and taken out of the dryer. Full of many, many diapers. Full of blankies and books and bags full of responsibility.
Full of flailing toddler or thrashing infant, or a sobbing, collapsing heap of both. Full of tears and snot and deep breaths and deep hugs.
Full of twenty pounds of clinger who cries when I put her down, and who gives me a knowing smirk when I pick her up. Full of child with eyes so dark I can feel the weighty pull of their stare before I turn my head to see them, the little jewels shining in her tiny head, which she tilts sideways as she waits for our eyes to connect, and erupts in laughter when they do.
Full of skinny legs that wrap around my waist, but only partway. Full of arms that rest upon mine and a very small forehead that leans in towards my own and pauses for a moment when my head touches hers. Full of giggles when we pull apart before we lean towards each other again.
Full of tiny toddler booty and squashy baby booty that I pat. Pat. Pat. Squeeze. Pat. Full of little hands that pat me back.
Full of twenty pounds of infant, but always available for thirty more of toddler. “Uppy, Mama”. I do not hesitate to add more to the load. The weight feels good pressed against me.
Full of hand weights I use during a quick workout, which are often replaced mid-rep with a tissue to wipe a nose, or a snack to feed a hungry mouth, or an entire child whose whining can not be quelled any other way.
Full of dancing babies who had favorite songs at a very early age and who spin with me in circles and who do not care that the tune we sing along to is sung off-key. They are full of exuberant giggling.
Full of a toddler old enough to say, “Carry me like a baby, Mama”, who then quietly fake-cries and, if I haven’t started doing it yet, instructs me to, “Say, ‘shhhh'”.
Full of numerous dolls, all of them named Ruby, who have tea parties and who have conversations and who sometimes are naughty and drink mom’s coffee without asking permission. Ruby! No!
Sometimes they are full of puke, caught midair, midstream. At least on those days there are many more hours that they are filled with enveloping child than with sickly fluids.
They are full of challenging comfort. Full of exhausting luxury. They are brimming with rigorous joy.
So you decide to go camping this weekend with the kids. It’ll be fun, you think. It’ll be relaxing, you dare to dream.
Nevermind that you and the toddler have been suffering debilitating allergies. You just started your second steroid of the month, which hasn’t fully kicked in yet and, so your head has been pounding for eight days straight so hard that you feel the pain in your teeth every time you take a step. Nevermind that the toddler sneezed approximately five hundred times that day, spraying fountains of snot with every achoo. That, combined with her leaky red-rimmed eyes, convinced you to start her on some children’s Claritin, which honest-to-goodness stopped the sneezing by about ninety percent within the hour. If she’s fine, you’re fine, so you take yourself to urgent care and get yourself Flonase and Prednisone to add to your Singular and Claritin and Sudafed cocktail you already are on. When you text your husband a picture of you and your now-less-sneezy kiddo from the urgent care office, and he asks, “Are we still going camping’, you confidently state, “Of course we are”. Because you can be miserable at home or you can be miserable camping, so why waste the opportunity for the trip.
The night before you leave, the toddler gives you a hard time about going to sleep. She grabs her baby doll and dragging it up the stairs is whining, “I want to give my baby a bath!! I waa-annn-tttt-oo-oogi-iiiv-eeee-myba-aa-bbb-yyyy-ya-ba-th!” She must not think you’re really getting her point so she tries a louder tactic, a high-pitched shriek, “I!want!to!give!my!baby!a!bath!” Maybe it was her being so worked up about the hygiene of her baby doll (was she suddenly not okay with the mashed ground Cheerios on baby’s clothes or the orange marker scribbled all over her face?), or maybe she choked on a large amount of drainage running down the back of her throat that the Claritin couldn’t quite get rid of. Whatever it was, it caused her to vomit all over the bathroom stool and floor.
As a mother, the first thought you have is, damn, she ate two whole carrots and now they’re on the bathroom floor, and you hope some vitamin K was retained. You start mopping up the floor and while you’re doing that she seizes the opportunity to take her baby doll to the bathtub and start washing her in the bucket full of water left over from her bath earlier that day. You find the situation ironic, and slightly annoying, that she is getting what she was originally whining about when you said it was time for bed, but at this point, screw it. Her puke-splattered baby actually now does need a bath so she might as well be the one to clean it.
You text your husband a picture of the puke, so he can appreciate your current parental situation.
He asks again, “Are we still going?”
“Yes, damn it”. We will have a fun family vacation. You’re starting to sound slightly Clark Griswold.
The next day you leave and it takes three times longer than it should to get to the campsite, but that’s okay, you left early. On the way there your toddler tells you her butt hurts, and you realize all of the diapers are trapped in the pop-up, so you stop at the grocery store and buy more diapers and change her in the car, thinking she must have pooped, but she’s just wet. You change her anyway and head to lunch. Somehow in the fifteen-minute span between the diaper change and lunch she pees more than she’s ever peed in her entire life, enough to drench the diaper and cause a urine overflow all over her pants. But, like the diapers, clean pants are in the pop-up so you just change the diaper and know that even though she has Pee Pants on, the new diaper will at least prevent a urinary tract infection.
Despite leaving three hours ahead for the “hour drive” to the campground, after lunch there are only seven minutes until you can check in, and holy mackerel, the GPS says you are seven minutes from the campground! This must be a sure sign of an upswing in your luck, you are convinced.
You unpack and head to the beach and pay the nine bucks to park for your hour-long stay, but damn your kid has fun, and the beach is all she has been talking about doing for a week. She did everything she wanted, she dug holes and made castles and put her toes in the water, and scooped and stacked and to top it all off, the infant didn’t even choke on any sand. You head back to the campground and ate dinner at the picnic table and the toddler, in camping-loving glory exclaims, “I love picnics! And she makes a rainbow out of her blueberries and then eats them all. The mama in you is thrilled because, antioxidants consumed!
After dinner you make a fire and put together s’mores, which you’re sure she’ll love, though it turns out she doesn’t even want to try it. You try to convince her to just try one bite, but after a minute you realize, Why am I trying to force her to eat a sugar-laden sugar sandwich? So you forget trying to force-feed the s’mores. You don’t even like them much anyway, as you prefer your sugar in a fermented form.
It’s time for bed and you read the toddler Goldilocks and the Three Bears four times, because that’s what she wants, and all seems well until about five minutes into sleep time and the toddler pukes. She pukes purple from her blueberry rainbow picnic. There is puke in her hair and on her pillow and all over her special blankie. You clean up what you can and hand her a spare blanket that you brought and another ten minutes pass before she pukes AGAIN. You strip her down and you add a few more items to the soaked-with-regurgitated-blueberry pile and AHA! You have a THIRD blankie.
You smugly think to yourself, This is why we “overpack”, Husband, and mentally note that you were so one-hundred-percent on the correct side of the argument you two had earlier about how you “always pack too much”. Clearly you needed to pack even more, since you gave her your pillow to stack on top of hers so she wouldn’t choke on her own phlegm and puke again, and you don’t have another blanket to wrap around yourself, so you have no choice but to suck it up and let the now-cold blueberry-puke-patch touch your thigh. You read Goldilocks two more times once you’re resettled.
And even though you are covered in puke and the infant has been screaming this whole time, you laugh.
Because once you’ve accepted the fact that you’re sleeping in regurgitated blueberry and pukey hair, you just let go. You have no choice. You accept it and say, fuck it, and you can’t believe that for a split-second earlier that day you worried about a few tablespoons of sand in the bed. Now, that sand is just a beautifully sprinkled reminder of that glorious time at the beach. You feel liberated. Once you’ve freed yourself from the expectation that all (or most. or some) will be pleasant, all is suddenly wholly good. You squeeze in a little closer to your pint-sized puke-head and share her double pillow, and when you realize that the pillow is also wet with puke, so don’t even flinch as you tuck the end of your blanket under your head and nod off for a few minutes until morning.
The next day you get a bit of retribution. You start the day with a deliciously steamy cup of french-pressed coffee, your spouse wore the infant in the baby carrier while you walked through town and got ice cream, you visited the salt-water pool at the campsite twice, and you read Goldilocks five times before nap, and best of all, there is no puking. And is it just you, or your jeans feeling a little loose, like maybe, just maybe, you magically didn’t gain an ounce from all of those s’mores you washed down with that six-pack of seasonal IPA?
In your delirium you book the next camping outing.
On the way home you stop for a night at your parent’s cottage and you wake up to find that the toddler shit her pants in bed and the infant peed through her onesie and sleep sack. Since you didn’t “overpack”, your entire family has officially ran out of clean clothes, because they have all been puked on, or shit on, or peed on, and as you should have guessed, you find out your parent’s washing machine is on the fritz. Your husband hand-washes the shit-covered dress and hangs it outside to dry. You clean up the kids and let them run around in nothing but diapers and go take a shower, and put your pee-soaked shirt back on as you pour yourself a cup of coffee.
It’s a good thing you drank that coffee because throughout the day you change approximately thirty-five shit-filled diapers between the two kids, many of which are liquid runs. At once point when you try to get the toddler to sit on the potty, the contents of the diaper leak out into a brown puddle on the bathroom floor. Since you didn’t “overpack” you ran out of diapers and wipes and have to get more.
You somehow manage to make it out for a pontoon ride and for a lovely half an hour, both kids nap and you enjoy the breeze and you think contentedly, Ahhh, life at the lake. There is still hope left. You get back to the cottage and the toddler eats some cheese and crackers and immediately proceeds to puke all over the carpet. Enough puke for you to suggest taking the carpet out of the house and hosing it off. Enough puke for your dad to say, “Maybe it’s time for us to get rid of this carpet”.
You read the toddler Goldilocks another five times in a row while your spouse packs up the car, and you head home a day early.
You gave it a valiant effort.
She started walking two days after,
running within a week.
Each day she ran those miles faster!
Physically, she would quickly peak.
She ran to combat it,
her becoming a disaster.
She was afraid to bring it up,
she was scared they would ask her.
But even more afraid of that,
she feared that they wouldn’t.
They had to bring it up,
she knew that she couldn’t.
It was hidden inside her,
like a wire wrapping her psyche,
cutting into her brain,
she felt the pressure, tightly.
It just might kill her,
if that wire tightened more.
It would shred her to pieces,
it would sever her core.
You look great! They said.
Her appearance fooled them.
She looked healthy. Strong.
She smiled and wooed them.
But she was not okay.
She was sick, deep inside.
She felt weak. Embarrassed.
The disease was easy to hide.
She was wearing herself to the bone,
running from fear, running for health.
She could not be trusted to be alone,
not with the baby, or her own self.
She wore a mask, to appear in control,
as the docs droned on and on.
They didn’t notice the void behind either eye hole,
or their patient, so withdrawn.
Everything looked good, or so they said.
Amazing! Bravo! Congratulations!
Smiling, the doctor shook her head.
But there were serious internal complications.
They never asked about it,
which she thought was bizarre.
She smiled and left.
And cried in the car.
Have you seen the movie 127 Hours? It’s based on the real life situation in which Aron Ralston went hiking by himself through some canyons in the desert and managed to get his arm trapped underneath a boulder too heavy for him to lift. He was stranded without hope for rescue and got to the point where me made the decision to cut his own arm off in order to survive. (SPOILER ALERT: he does cut off his arm and he does survive). The movie producers did a fantastic job of depicting his self-mutilation. He sawed through the muscles and tendons with his multi-tool, which was grisly, but the cinematographic artistry peaked when he hit the nerves. As he stroked the nerve, the screen vibrated and, like guitar strings, the wires screamed out grisly chords. It made me cringe and grab my arm in response. He eventually realized he couldn’t saw through the bone and he had to break it in the end, but as disturbing as that part was, the nerve scene was by far the most powerful. It was disgustingly well done.
For some reason Aron’s story sticks with me. It pops into my mind with surprising regularity and makes me think. It makes me wonder if I would cut off my own arm in a similar circumstance. I wonder if I would cut off my spouse’s or if he would cut off mine. I wonder what other things I would do to survive. To live. It makes me wonder if what I do on a daily basis is enough. It’s a powerful story.
Sometimes his story pops into my mind just from parenting.
It’s the nerve pain. It’s the vibrato zing. It’s the razor-sharp adrenaline rushes that slice open my insides and cause chemicals to seep into my blood stream faster than they normally would.
Parenting is gasping and inhaling and sweating and heart RACING RACING RACING. Parenting is survival mode and I’ve been in it for 20,040 hours. The difference between Aron and I is that instead of for actual life or death circumstances, I’m on overdrive for stupid things like these:
THUMP THUMP THUMP.
“I have water in my eye!”
She spilled her sippy cup on her face.
It’s a middle of the night moan.
ZING!!!! My head vibrates. My eyes vibrate. My fingers vibrate.
I hear her roll over. She’s still asleep.
“Mama!” A shriek this time.
Flup! I can hear my eyelids unstick from one another. I try to listen over the thumping. Nothing. I doze off.
THUMP THUMP THUMP. Silence. I doze off.
Silence again. What the hell?
And then I realize it is Mr. Grouch’s nose doing a whistling sort of snore. My arms are pinging and pulsing and I’m ready to pounce, but my kid was never even awake (Sidebar: This is why we hate you, sleeping spouses. And anyone who asks if the kids sleep through the night yet, because that doesn’t really matter, if we’re still not).
Parenting is constant nervous system misfiring. It is hypervigilance.
Sometimes my spouse gets caught in the misfire, saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. It’s like he’s bumping the hand that is severing the other limb off, triggering sudden and unexpected searing pain, but, since he doesn’t realize I’m cutting my arm off, he has no idea how he possibly could have struck a nerve.
He usually doesn’t even know he did until I snap at him. Which pisses him off, and makes me appear too sensitive, and then we’re both in a foul mood because I am snippy and how the hell doesn’t he notice my bloody bleeding stump?
Okay, okay, I’m not really comparing myself to this bad ass who cut off his own limb but sometimes hormones and anxiety make me feel this way.
Maybe I drink too much coffee.
Our loved ones certainly tug at our heart-strings, but I think they tug on our nerve-strings too. So, if you’re the one who gets treated like you’re always on your spouse’s nerves….maybe this is why.
The lack of sleep and the germs from daycare and all of the running around is catching up with me. The seasons are changing and, unlike most of the population, when the Sun starts shining and the birds start chirping I don’t skip along joyfully smiling and sniffing the peonies. I sweat and sneeze and whine and wheeze. I do not feel rejuvenated and refreshed, I feel worn and ragged. It’s like my fragile inner self is exposed when I shed the protective outer shell of my winter wardrobe. I look as strong as a rock, but I am just pumice. Full of holes. Easily eroded.
Infant Grouch was already in bed for the evening and Mr. Grouch, recognizing my weariness (read: crankiness), took Toddler Grouch out for a car ride to give me a half hour window of quiet time so I could nap. Just as I shut my eyes, the baby started crying.
She cries so loudly.
Infant Grouch made enough of a fuss that I felt I needed to go into her room, reach into her crib and pick her screamy little self up. When she was in my arms her cries subsided immediately but her hiccupy catching of the breath lasted for a long time after. I wiped the salty streaks from her cheeks. Eventually she softened.
I sat in her room and held her. I am typically not a proponent of rocking my kids to sleep even though I know myself well enough to admit that personally I can’t handle implementing the cry-it-out system. Each baby scream is like the epicenter of an earthquake and shock waves radiate directly from their little bodies directly into my nervous system. I can feel the shrieks vibrating my bones. I am unable to tune it out, I can’t focus on anything else with the screams echoing in my ears. Even though I was exhausted, I knew I couldn’t leave her to cry herself to sleep. Maybe I just think that because she doesn’t do this every night.
At least she hasn’t so far.
I probably have prided myself far too much about the fact that my babies generally fall asleep in their cribs awake and I have mentally poo-pooed those who say they are forced to hold their kids until they are sleep on a nightly basis. But this evening, my body melded with the cushions while her body melted into mine. And I kept rocking.
It was easier.
Maybe this is how it begins.
She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard enough to stop the blood from flowing to my fingertip, and it must have caused an unnatural backflow of blood surging back towards my chest because even when I wanted to be mad at her for not letting me rest somehow she managed to lift me up out of my horrific mood.
She unearthed a rare gem out of the rough.
I dropped my girls off at daycare the other day and watched two-year-old Toddler Grouch take of her boots and put them in the basket at the bottom of the closet. She unzipped her coat and laid it on the floor before grabbing a hanger off of the bar purposely positioned at half the usual height. She folded her coat’s arms around the ends of the hanger, hung up her coat and shut the closet door while I chatted away with Ms. J.
Ms. J. and I talked about how the kids were doing lately, not superficial talk, but talk about how they were actually doing, the minute-by-minute of every nap and night, the what and how often and by what method, nutrition was being obtained, the color and shape and frequency of each bowel movement, the how well are they listening, the where are they at with each motor skill, the she did that! and the oh-no-she-didn’t! We smiled and nodded while we expounded upon how silly and exuberant and fun Infant Grouch was lately, whether it be her side-to-side head-shakey dance or her fearless rampaging through the crinkling polyester tunnels, or the yelling at the top of her lungs when the other kids cheered, always wanting to be part of the group. I laughed at something Ms. J. said and called Infant Grouch a little goofball.
Ms. J. hugged Infant Grouch to her chest and cupped her hand gently around the back of my baby’s head while leaning her own forehead in and looked into my daughter’s eyes as she said to her, “You’re my little goofball”. For a split-second my heart stuttered.
She called MY little goofball HER little goofball.
And I realized, she is hers, too. Ms. J spends almost every weekday of every week teaching her, holding her, caring for her. Loving her. She and Ms. L. are mothering my children, and on many days, for more hours than I am.
We can call it daycare, or childcare, or preschool, but if they’re doing a good job, they’re mothering, right? Wiping noses, bandaging skinned knees, diapering, cleaning up after. Teaching skills and character: ABC’s and 123’s, no thanks and yes please. Hugging, touching, smiling. Watching, reinforcing, encouraging, enlightening, guiding, reprimanding, uplifting, forgiving. Loving.
Us mamas aren’t the only ones mothering our kids.
When my kid leaves daycare she’ll have teachers that will see them for a fraction of the time that their daycare providers do, and I can only hope will love them a fraction of the amount. Because those relationships are important. I have no interest in a teacher or a coach or a mentor who isn’t mothering my child, at least part of the time.
Note that I did not say coddle, because that isn’t the same. Mothering is not friendship, and mothering means love with limits and setting the bar high, and helping achieve goals. Mothering means doing what can be done to mold a person into someone who is as self-sufficient as possible, as kind as possible, as well-rounded as possible. Mothering means doing these things with a gentle tone, or at least a gentle heart, with you-can-do-its and try-agains and safety nets, not forceful sneers, dismissive shrugs, or there’s-nothing-more-I-can-dos.
We mamas take a lot of pride in our roles, and a mother’s work could very well be one of the most important jobs in the world, but we can not forget to acknowledge, appreciate, and respect those other lovelies out there who are also mothering our little ones. Most of us don’t do it alone. I sure as hell didn’t teach Toddler Grouch how to put that coat away.
So with Mother’s Day near, I say thank you, fellow mamas. Thank you to the Ms. J’s and Ms. L’s, and the other childcare providers, the teachers, coaches, mentors, grandmas, aunts, cousins and friends. A very extra special heart-huggy thank you to those mamas who aren’t mamas by birth, but are mamas by heart. Thank you for helping mother my babies.
I am the luckiest lady in the world. I am healthy and happy and my biggest concerns are 100% of the first world variety. My problems are of the luxurious sort; my grief is the easy kind of grief.
But no matter how much I believe that my grief is silly or my grief is selfish or my grief is self-indulgent, my grief doesn’t care. I can squash it down for a while, or tuck it away in a corner, or rub it raw with my joys, or scrub it clean and sparkly, or run far away from it, but for some reason I can never seem to rid myself of it, not completely.
For even though I’m pretty sure we are done having children, and are more than content as a family of four, there is always a lingering tug. At the mention of a loss. During discussions of multiples. It makes me grieve for those other ones. The other three. Even though we did not hold them, did not see them, did not name them, it doesn’t mean they were not there. They were still there. I wondered what they would look like and who they would act like and I still do. I just know better than to dwell on it.
Maybe it’s because we have it so good. Two amazing little beings that we marvel at on a daily basis. Two perfect specimen, exactly the same in terms of being healthy, strong, smart, kind, brave, cautious, silly, lovable, beautiful – but so not the same in terms of how they present those strengths.
Maybe it’s because we have a visual reminder. Infant Grouch was going to be one of a triplet. She’s the fighter who showed her strength not only by bruising me internally with her repeated kicks in utero, but simply by making it when the other two didn’t. When she was born I gasped a bit when I saw the birthmark on her back. Two-thirds of a heart. Blood red. It’s like she carries the fraction of the old whole around as a commemorative patch.
I am not the same as I used to be, for a million, trillion reasons. One of which is that I am a mama of two. Another of which is that I am not a mama of five.
One of my all time favorite quotes from Regina Brett is, “If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else’s, we’d grab ours back”. I believe that to be even more true than we can possibly imagine.
When I give both of my girls a bath, Toddler Grouch usually asks to see her sister’s heart. Sometimes she says, “Ooohhhh” because she isn’t sure what to make of it. I assure her, it’s okay.
That there is nothing wrong with having a heart out there for everyone to see.
She reaches out and touches my bare breast. She grabs my nipple.
I’m not a Naked Person but I haven’t made an effort to cover myself in front of my daughter. Bodies are bodies and there’s nothing shameful about them and there is value in her seeing a normal woman’s human form, even if she only remembers it subconsciously. She’s only two. I don’t go out of my way to cover up when I step out of the shower or to hide myself from her when I’m getting dressed.
This time, I was leaning over her toddler bed in my pajamas, wearing an oversized pair of flannel pants and a loose-fitting tank top that sagged open as I bent over to tuck her in.
“Those are mom’s boobs. Her breasts”.
She squeezed. Then she looked down at her own chest before turning her face towards mine, “But, I don’t have that”.
She doesn’t ask a question with her mouth, but she is searching me for answers with her eyes.
Different responses went through my head, each immediately followed up with reasons why the response would make me the worst mom ever, causing my child to develop body image issues at the age of two.
Dont worry, someday you will. No, no, no. That makes it seem like something to aspire to.
Someday yours will be bigger. No, no, no. That emphasizes that bigger is better and implies that what she has now isn’t good enough.
When you’re older yours will be like Mama’s. No, no, no, I have no clue what hers will be like. My family and Mr. Grouch’s family have VERY different body types. Very different boobs. I cannot even begin to imagine what kind of boobs my girls will have.
Women have bigger boobs, kids have smaller ones. No, no, no, that implies bigger boobs make one more womanly. There are a million ways to be “womanly”.
Finally something hit me. Something true.
“That’s because everyone’s are different. Yours are yours”.
And it’s true, isn’t it? I marveled at the truthful simplicity of the words that came out of my mouth. We are who we are and those of us who are happiest with ourselves are the ones who accept this.
Whether taught or innate, we compare ourselves to others. How many times have we women looked at another and had the feeling that we weren’t pretty enough, sexy enough, strong enough, good enough? How many times have we doubted our worth or our woman-ness, shrugging off compliments or praise with a “But, mine don’t look like that!”. What a waste of energy that is. Comparison about bodies serves no purpose. It doesn’t do us any good to wish to be someone we’re not, in any way, especially physically.
The fact of the matter is, we are who we are and we aren’t going to become anybody else. To be happy with ourselves we must be grateful for what we have, embrace it, and treat it right.
Having this conversation with my daughter made me reflect on why women tend to become so much happier in their thirties. Their bodies have finally stopped wildly changing. There’s been some time to become acclimated with who they are, physically and emotionally. The ones who are taught from the beginning that bodies are nothing more than the physical housing of our being, and that beauty is more than skin deep, begin the path of self-acceptance and self-appreciation. Those who are not fight a losing battle against other women, against time and gravity, and ultimately against themselves.
My daughter smiled and wrapped her arms around herself, giving her chest a split-second hug before reaching for a book and asking me to read her a bedtime story. She was satisfied with the answer. As we all should be.
1. Make sure your diaper bag is big enough to pack all of the essentials. Opt for the satchel with plenty of extra room, just in case you need to hold a few of your favorite things.
2. Use Your Role as Grocery-Getter to Your Advantage: Remember that there is really no need to begrudge your spouse for never setting foot in the bread aisle because the wine aisle is usually right next to it. When you want to make a wine run, but don’t want to hear any grief from your spouse about how you can’t make it a day without wine, you can use the old, I-need-to-go-to-the-grocery-because-the-baby-needs-diapers excuse.
3. Take a Special Treat to Sip As You Stroll: Endorphins plus wine = happiest of mamas. Just be sure to put your mommy juice in a cup with a well-sealed lid (do as I say, not as as I do) and take care to dodge the potholes.
4. Of course, don’t overindulge. A little nip to take the edge off is well and good, but there is no repercussion worse than having to parent with a hangover. You only need enough wine to counter the whine. Proportion wisely.