Birthday bash

Brody's very first birthday is coming up soon, and we're celebrating in style! Of course, all of our friends and family are invited, and, if you're reading this (and you live in Hampton Roads, Virginia), you've already been invited.

We hope to see you there!

Mom battles co-conspirators: baby and dog

My latest Daily Press column:

About four months into my marriage I told my husband that I needed a puppy or a baby.

"You’re great," I told him. "But I need something to take care of."

A few weeks later, we picked up our skinny, timid Weimaraner and named her Lady. My instincts took over instantly.

Family and friends were forbidden from giving her table food because it upset her stomach. We arranged baby sitters if we were going to be out for more than a few hours, and I let her snuggle in our bed despite my previous tirades against dogs in beds.

Two years later, we brought home another tiny bundle. This one wasn’t so skinny — he weighed almost 10 pounds — and his cries were anything but timid. Once again, my instincts took over.

I guarded my new baby’s food jealously, prohibiting everything but baby food and formula. The only arranged baby sitters were family, and the dog was kicked out of bed to make room for our baby.

My now-grown Lady was second string.

I anticipated that change and apologized to Lady in advance. I worried that we would have to give her up if the two didn’t get along. But I never imagined my two charges would work together against me.

That phenomenon occurred about the same time Brody began taking his meals in a highchair. He figured out that the sniffing beast under his chair would lick his fingers, and the sniffing beast discovered a whole new array of tasty treats.

To combat this dinner time conspiracy, I transformed into a contortionist of sorts, extending one leg to block the dog and reaching with the opposite arm to spoon feed the baby.
Apparently, I’m no match for this baby-dog duo.

Usually, I’m able to sneak most of Brody’s meat and vegetable mash into his mouth while Lady circles the table and Brody leans from side to side luring her with his sticky hands.

But there are times — more often than I’d like to admit — that the two outsmart me.

One particularly harried evening, the pair mastered their dinner dance so well — Lady had scored at least half-a-dozen drive-by lickings while Brody dumped out the entire contents of his baby food jar in an attempt to hand it to her — that I gave up dinner altogether.

"You feed him," I snapped at my husband as he walked through the front door. "I’m done with these two. It’s like they’re executing some carefully plotted strategy."

But, though the kinship was born at the table, it doesn’t end there.

All of our training efforts in baby-toy avoidance were lost once Brody was able to offer his toys. His bird-like call prompts Lady to come, and when he shoots out his fist full of stuffed animals, she gingerly accepts one and trots away. She even begrudgingly shares her bone during those mom’s-not-looking moments.

And for a few bizarre moments, I’ve caught Brody acting more like a dog than a human.

During his favorite imitation, he crawls around the house with a toy dangling from his mouth. And whenever the doorbell rings or a stranger walks in front of the house, Brody is right alongside Lady "arf-arfing."

On the positive side, my 8 tennis-ball-obsessed dog has found a new playtime partner, and the two of them occupy each other for hours. Brody has become quite the pitcher, even impressing a few older playmates with his launching skills.

Even so, I worry when I read stories about dog bites, and we’ve been working on petting Lady "nice" and "easy." But I think Brody has found himself a best friend.

Happy Anniversary

Happy Anniversary Sweetheart. I love you.

Your Husband Duane

PS. Scroll over the cookie Monster :)

The best three years of my life

Who said marriage isn't all bliss? Duane and I have been married for three years now, and it's been the best three years of my life.

We celebrated our anniversary (June 17) with dinner at Bonefish Grill (yummy!) and some music by The Fray at the Virginia Beach Amphitheater.

Small steps give first-time mom parenting confidence

Here is my latest Daily Press column:

When my little boy pointed his tiny index finger at his crib, I nearly wept with joy. Then I called my mom. And the next day, I gave the full report to my co-workers.

It’s taken 11 months, but Brody has learned to accept his bed.

He’s always been a reasonably good sleeper — as long as the setting is perfect. In his world, there’s nothing better than being nestled in his mother’s or grandmothers’ arms, and there’s no reason to accept anything less comfortable.

Since he is the firstborn — of the grandchildren, too — we all have the time to carry him like a miniature sultan from place to place. And all three caretakers (his two grandmas and me) cherish our afternoon snugglefests while Brody sleeps next to us.

"He’s only a baby, after all," we tell each other.

But as he neared the 1-year mark, those infant wails transformed into toddler tantrums. I had seen this day coming, and I was dreading it — the day of discipline.

I’ve always appreciated parenting theory, and my husband, Duane, and I would discuss techniques even before we were married. Children are not capable of deciding what is best for them, and parents should have the backbone to enforce the rules.

Fine, but he’s just sooo cute.

I began to worry about my discipline chops when I realized that I have no control over our 3-year-old Weimaraner, Lady. Sure, I watch "The Dog Whisperer." I just haven’t figured out how to be the pack leader.

Those doubts have flickered in and out of my mind since Brody was born and are likely one cause of my discipline procrastination.

But not everyone in my family is an enabler. Brody’s Uncle Shawn and Aunt Amanda — both in their early 20s — have made it clear that they won’t accept a spoiled nephew.

"You’re not going to let Brody act like you-know-who," Shawn says, referring to an atrociously misbehaved relation.

"Of course not," I offer weakly, trying to figure out exactly where "you-know-who’s" parents went wrong.

So, I took my first stab at it by giving Brody the firm instruction "No."

After a few tries, Brody understood that "No" also meant "Don’t touch those TV wires," and he easily complied.

No tears, no tantrums.

"I think I’m good at this," I told myself with a sigh of relief.

Then it was time to schedule a reasonable bedtime. It was high time this child was put on a toddler’s routine and a toddler’s early bedtime, my mom reminded me, daily.

We settled on 8:30 p.m. and set about the experiment.

Three nights into it, Brody was falling asleep in his bed on his own accord. No more rocking until his arms flailed to the side and his mouth dropped open. No more laps around the pool table or early bed times for mommy as Brody fell asleep in her bed.

And it was one night during the routine’s second week that Brody sat up from my lap and pointed to his bed.

Holding my breath, I laid him in the bed and watched him snuggle down into it.

"That’s right," I thought, giddy and breathless. "I’m the mom. I’ll say when you should go to bed, and you’re going to like it."

Now that I have a few parenting triumphs to my name, I’ve developed a bit more confidence. Most recently, we’ve learned that pointing and grunting does not mean mommy will tote you wherever you please, and screaming for a cookie (the dissolvable variety) does not result in a tasty treat.

All that’s left to cover is back talk, dating and driving a car.

STOP THE PRESSES!

Brody took his first real steps yesterday! He'll be cruising before we know it. Brace yourselves!

Young mom's baby reminds her of youth, then and now

Here is my latest Daily Press column:

Recently, I caught myself clucking at the office printer.

My father-in-law has a few chickens in a coup at his South Carolina house, and we’ve decided that "cluck" is the first animal sound my 11-month-old son should imitate. That and "woof woof" so he can play with our Weimaraner, Lady.

It seems, though, that I’m taking away more from these lessons than Brody, since he hasn’t deemed it necessary to cluck like a chicken, yet.

But regurgitated farm animal sounds aren’t the only evidence of my backslide into babyhood.

Since Brody first scooted across the room on all fours, I’ve rediscovered the thrill of crawling through the house in search of the wild wonders of domestic life.

On our side-by-side adventures, Brody and I maneuver to the top of the stairs and slip our way past the spilled water from the dog’s bowl. The magic of a flickering hall light keeps us occupied for no less than 10 minutes and a bucket of fishing crickets is not something to shirk from, but to dive into.

Laying cheek-to-cheek on the floor, we browse our favorite book about a sad bumble bee who can’t understand why humans run away from him and giggle when I take his pacifier and put it in my mouth.

And when I collapsed with laughter after my signature waddle/crawl/bunny hop, all done with a pacifier in my mouth and eyes rolling around in my head, I realized I had turned into a baby.
It’s not exactly that I’ve recaptured my youth — I’m only 24 — it’s that Brody reminds me to cherish it.

While I’m playing with my son, I see the world from his vantage point. And it’s a goofy, strange world. The space underneath the pool table is the perfect setting for a fort and the feet of the kitchen table are not only shaped like lion’s paws, they’re as big.

At times, I become so absorbed in my baby’s world, I forget that there’s an adult land waiting for me when the games are over.

As a child, I was always ready for the next step. Like most kids, I thought that bigger was better, and I was ready to grow up. It still irks me a little bit when someone reminds me that I look like a teenager. (I know, that’s almost as bad as Jessica Biel complaining that she’s too beautiful. Boo hoo).

But I wanted to play with the big boys in a big boys’ world.

That meant instead of dolls and Barbies, I asked for gifts of office supplies so I could realistically play the part of a lawyer or real estate agent. Interior decorator was another favorite role.

I sat for hours arranging my desk, neatly placing date stamps on important documents and making phone calls to other very important, very busy pretend lawyers.

I even considered law school as a way to live out my childhood games, but the reality of adult land prompted me to change course.

Now, the childish games that once bored me are exactly the amusements I seek.

Maybe it’s the sparkle in Brody’s eyes when he laughs at our peek-a-boo games — a sparkle my husband says only I can see because I’m his mother — that draws me into a child’s pretend world.

Or maybe it’s the fact that our contorted faces and high-pitched baby babble makes me laugh even harder than Brody.

Whatever it is, it goads me into playtime when laundry is stacked halfway to the ceiling and I should be thinking about a well-rounded dinner instead of another frozen pizza.

I may not remember having this much fun playing peek-a-boo when I was a kid, but there’s nothing else I’d rather do now.