Originally published August 25, 2011, I think it bears repeating. Often.

She was standing, staring listlessly at the merchandise on the children’s medicine aisle at CVS.

As I searched for Ali’s Ibuprofen, she turned to me and asked, “How do you know what to buy?  I mean, there are so many options.  It’s just overwhelming!”

I looked into her eyes for the first time.  She looked exhausted and despairing, and was carrying an equally tired-looking baby.

“What do you need it for?”

“Teething.  He was up all night last night, screaming, thrashing his arms, and absolutely miserable.”

She sighed and looked at the floor.  “I’m so tired.”

I saw the look in her eyes – the one I’ve seen so many times in other first-time Moms, and the one that I owned for the first six months of Ali’s life.

Fear.  Anxiety.  Despair.  Panic.

“Oh I’m SO sorry – that is the worst.  We haven’t started teething yet, but I expect it any day now.  It is not fun.”

She had already seen Ali, but she noticed Noah for the first time, sitting in my grocery cart.  “Oh – how old is he?”

“Eight months.”

Her eyes lit up, obviously thrilled to find someone else in her place in life.  She motioned to her baby.  “He’s eight months too!! When is your baby’s birthday?”

Her excitement over our commonness made me even more aware of how alone she felt.

We kept talking, discovering that our boys were two weeks apart, discussing about the difficulties of babies, and picking out a pain reliever.

As we were walking away, she looked me in the eyes.  “Thank you so much for your help.”

I hadn’t helped with the pain reliever thing that much, but I knew what she meant.

As I got in my car, my heart ached for her.  I wanted to do more – I wanted to run back, give her a hug, promise that it gets easier, it gets better, and that she will get to a place where parenthood is enjoyable.  There was so much more I wanted to say.

“They get to be so much fun – I promise!!”

“Just wait until the first time that he says ‘ub oo, Mommy’.  Your heart will somersault!”

“We’ve all been there – anything you’re feeling right now, I bet I’ve felt it too!  You’re not crazy, you’re not alone, you’re not an unfit parent.”

“It’s all a phase.  Everything is a phase – both the good and the bad.”

I remember the misery that infanthood can be – something that I mercifully didn’t experience with Noah (or perhaps was more prepared for), but certainly had my share of with Ali.  Infanthood is so different than you expect that it makes you feel completely isolated and inadequate.

I also remember that my saving grace through it all was the honesty and compassion of my closest friends and my Mom – both of whom were willing to boldly share their own struggles of motherhood and reassure me that they had experienced the same feelings.

Had they not been there, I would have despaired even more, thinking I was the worst mother in the world, and that I was somehow missing the Mommy gene that everyone else seemed to have received.

Because of their impact on me, and because I remember those feelings painfully well, I am determined to show the same mercy, compassion, and most importantly, honesty to every other new Mommy that I run into.

I want to be an Ambassador for Honesty About Parenthood.

No, babies and kids are not always easy – and not in a romantic, “oh this isn’t easy but it’s worth it” way – sometimes it’s so hard that it doesn’t feel worth it AT ALL and you wonder why you had kids.

Yes, you very well may panic after having a baby, wondering what you’ve done to your previously perfect life.

No, you may not feel immediately bonded and in love with your baby.  They may feel like a tiny, screaming intrusion.  But love will come.  It will grow in your heart until you are bursting!

But most importantly? It gets better!  You will enjoy your child.  You will feel unsurpassed love for them.  You will “feel” like a Mommy.  You will get your sense of self back.  You will be able to think about other things than your new baby all the time.  You will be able to take a break and get away with your husband without worrying about your child the entire time.

It is worth it and you will love it!!

And also, not all Motherhood is created equally – your second baby may be a joy – mine was!  You don’t have to fear that having another will sink you into the depths that your first may have done.

Or maybe you will struggle with a different phase than I did.  My hardest was my first newborn, but Ali’s two’s were more terrific than I could have imagined.  Your child may be hardest at two, and be a perfect newborn.  Either way, you will get past your stage of misery, and you will enjoy your life – and even parenting – again.

Oh – and Mommy Guilt is a completely normal occurrence – a state of mind even.  If you have a moment of motherhood that you’re not feeling guilty about something, enjoy it!  And try not to let the guilt get you down.

Even if I’d seemed like a nosy freak that day in CVS, I wish I had done more.  I wish I’d offered to hold her baby for a minute to let her compose herself, and then reassured her that this too, will pass.  And, on a morning not too far off in the future, she will wake up thanking God for the amazing blessings of children that He’s given her – because that’s what I was able to do this morning.

There are too many books on how to parent, but not enough on how it feels to parent.  If you want to be a blessing to someone today, don’t tell them how to fix their problem, just tell them that you understand where they are, and that you’ve been there too.

If you’re struggling with Mommyhood and need a friend, please email me at rachel (at) graspingforobjectivity (dot) com.  I’ve been there!  And it does get so much better – I promise!!

Originally Published August 8, 2011. If you ever wondered what was wrong with my head…

I have been known to break my nose whilst blogging.

I have also been known to visit the emergency room at wee hours due to sleepwalking injuries.

I like sticking to a theme.

Which is why, I suppose, I took this weekend as an opportunity to break my nose, while sleepwalking, whileat a blogging conference.

Friday night.  It had been a full day of BlogHer, and I was excited for a night of deep sleep in preparation for my San Diego Date Saturday with Chris.

We settled down for bed, and I fell asleep before Chris made it back from brushing his teeth.

It was glorious experience to inhale the deep aroma of sleep.

Until about 1 AM.

At which time I dreamed that Noah was running toward a balcony edge to the left of the bed.

Naturally, I jumped up and sprinted toward him, doing my Mommy job of saving him from all danger…

Which is when I discovered how close the wall was to my side of the bed.

THWAP.

I crushed my nose and my left knee into the wall.

…which woke me up enough to remember that Noah couldn’t walk yet, certainly couldn’t run, and also happened to be 2,000 miles away.

Chris didn’t move, being quite used to wives that go bump in the night.

I crawled back into bed and fell asleep, albeit a bit damaged.

Then came 2 AM.

I dreamed some combination of Ali running toward a cliff and being on an intense search for The Deathly Hallows.

Naturally, I jumped out of bed and sprinted toward her.

Which is when I was reminded how close the wall was to my side of the bed.

THWAP.

I also discovered that I run much faster at 2 AM than I do at 1 AM.

The pain in my nose (and my knee) created tears – the kind that naturally spring forth from sheer agony, not from crying.  I sat down on the corner of the bed and let out my first whimper, considering the weighty reality that I had just managed to run into the same wall twice in one night.

This did not bode well for my 2AM to 8AM sleep shift.

I whimpered again.

I felt my nose.  I heard a crunchy sound.  I was reminded of my favorite childhood cereal.

It was clear that my nose couldn’t withstand that side of the bed anymore.

I nudged Chris.

“Wha…what’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep on this side of the bed anymore.  I’ve sleptrun into the wall two times, and I broke my nose the second time.”

“Oh.  Okay.  I’ll swap sides with you.”

He rolled over to my side and resumed snoring peacefully, in no danger of breaking his nose against the clearly hazardous wall.

I moved to Chris’ side of the bed.  Obviously,  I couldn’t sleep.  My nose was throbbing, I was possibly in shock (okay probably not), and, most disturbing, I was on the wrong side of the bed.

And so my mind began spinning…

2:05 AM: I always thought feng shui was feng crap.  This is not true.  The design of my sleeping environment is so important that it very well may keep me from accidentally offing myself one day.

a.  I need a runway next to my bed.  No walls can be within five feet, and blinking lights need to be added to all surrounding surfaces.

b. No sharp edges on any bedroom furniture can be tolerated.

c. You know what would be perfect? A padded cell.

2:12 AM: It helps to already know that little can be done for broken noses.  You’re not going to get me with your out of state 50% insurance coverage, Blue Cross Blood Suckers!

2:16 AM: It is nice to be rooming with one’s husband.  If this had happened my first year at BlogHer and I’d had to ask my I-Just-Met-Her roommate if she would kindly mind swapping sides of the bed with me to prevent the crushing of my nose for the third time in one night, it might have been slightly embarrassing, aside from taking a bit longer to explain.

2:18 AM: Could I petition for a new Americans With Disabilities Act ordinance that prohibits hotel walls from being within five feet of beds? Because I singlehandedly prove that sleepwalking is a disability.

2:22 AM:  I am so proud to know that my husband no longer doubts my credibility when I tell him that I’ve severely injured myself in my sleep.  Last time, I had to show him the blood streaming down my arm before he quit telling me to get back in bed and go to sleep.  This time, I received his complete and immediate acceptance.

2:36 AM: Maybe too much acceptance.  He sure is sleeping peacefully over there.

2:39 AM: One should never play with their broken nose while laying in bed and pondering their situation.  The sound of tiny particles cracking and grinding is not healthy for one’s nose, one’s pain level, or one’s mental stability.

2:48 AM: My last sleepwalking injury was saving Ali from certain falling, as well.  Obviously, I have issues with small children running in high places.  Noah, don’t do it.  I’m likely to plummet to my death in the attempt to protect you, and that’s a weighty guilt for you to carry for the rest of your life.

2:51 AM: Although a broken nose is quite painful at 2:51 AM, also achy are my neck and shoulders, now most certainly needing an adjustment.  Apparently, hitting the wall at high speeds with one’s nose is not good for alignment.

2:52 AM: The knee rash from multiple contacts with the wall is also bothersome.  Which is pretty petty at this point.

3:01 AM: I can’t sleep on the wrong side of the bed.  Which is worse – not sleeping for the rest of the night, or risking a third injury?

3:09 AM: Not sleeping.

And so I tapped Chris again.

“Wha..what’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep on your side of the bed.  I need you to swap back with me.”

“Okay.”

He rolled back over and continued sleeping hazardlessly.  He has no idea how good he’s got it.

Originally published November 19, 2012, this story is and will remain one of the shining jewels of my parenting career.

It all happened on Saturday: It had been a bad afternoon.

I felt impatient and emotional, completely unrelated to the fact that I was still coughing and hoarse from the illness that Noah had so kindly passed on to me.

Chris had taken the kids to the football game by himself that morning and had left me home alone to heal and get things accomplished, so I felt worse that I had no reason to be in such bad sorts.

Noah had napped for 25 minutes on the way home from Tuscaloosa, so Chris texted me and suggested that I meet them at the park at 2 pm – because that’s totally what two worn-out, cranky, undernapped kids need.

Everybody was whiny.

Nobody was happy.

And I experienced continuously increasing levels of icky.

Then Chris suggested that we ride up the road to the mall, eat dinner in the food court, and perhaps visit the toy store, two more really great things to do with attitudinally-challenged children.

We abandoned the mall at 5 pm, with the full intention of putting both children to bed record-breakingly early.

But it was Saturday night – so they had to be bathed first.

And of course their bathroom is still in shambles, so it had to be done in our tub, which is not kid-friendly due to it’s double depth and lack of removable shower head.

Ali was dramatically bemoaning me detangling her hair.

Noah was splashing her in the face and repeatedly walking over her legs, pacing the full length of the tub over and over.

(In retrospect, he must have been sniffing out the perfect spot to take a dump.)

Ali was howling about Noah splashing her in the face.

Chris was watching over my shoulder, giving me “suggestions” and offering to “help.”

The stress in the air was thicker than a snowsuit wedgie.

Ali looked to the left, gasped, and shrieked, “Noah pooped in the tub!!!!”

I looked over, and there it was.  Just one.  But wow.

It was one of those that is so massive you’re more impressed that it made it’s way out of a creature half it’s size than horrified that it’s SHARING A BATH with your two kids.

But the horror caught up with me quickly and I yanked Ali out of the tub and stood her on the mat.  Chris shrieked and pulled Noah, yelling in my direction (over the kid-cacophony) that there was more poop hanging off of Noah’s butt.

Ali stood shivering on the mat, Noah stood shivering on the floor, and I stood staring at the GIGANTIC INTRUDER in my bathtub.

I thought about the wash cloth.  I thought about my bare hands.  I decided on toilet paper.

I rolled off way more than six squares and reached into the water, barely able to get my fist around the giant squid.

I pulled it out of the water and turned to lob it across the room and into the toilet.

But the lid was down.

So there I was, holding a quite impressively heavy (yet sturdy) turd in dripping, quickly disintegrating toilet paper.

And there he was, all tending to our naked, cold, poopy toddler.

…Instead of what he SHOULD have been doing, which was noticing that the toilet lid right next to him was closed.

That might have been the moment I cracked.

“Toilet! Toilet!! TOILET!!!!!!”

Chris checked up, reached around, and lifted the lid.

But I didn’t wait on him.  I launched the log prematurely.

And as it sailed in a beautiful arcing spiral five feet across the bathroom, it hit Chris square in the back of his retreating hand.

After it donged off the upright, The Rocket dropped right into the bowl.

kerploosh.

I looked up and made eye contact with my husband.  This was a moment – a climax even – of unendurable foulness.  What was he going to say?

But he started laughing hysterically.

And then I started laughing, physically feeling the burden of stress dissipating instantaneously.

Noah continued complaining about his cold, poopy butt.

Ali didn’t take a break from whimpering about her share in the tragedy.

But we ignored our naked children as we convulsed with laughter, fully enjoying the experience of having happy hearts for the first time that night.

———————–

The moral of the story is: He who can withstand rockets of crap and return volleys of laughter is well worth keeping around.

Epilogue: The next morning, it became apparent that the pre-church bath had been completely unnecessary, as Noah and I were coughing worse than ever and Chris had developed some sort of horrible stomach plague.  It is undecided as to whether Chris’ illness was caused by his poor choices at the mall food court or from the five pound brick of e. coli that I threw at him.  But either way, our Saturday night was better because of it.

Originally published October 17, 2011. Although I don’t drink any carbonated drinks anymore, if I did, it would be Dr. Pepper TEN. Because we have a history. And The Doctor emailed me. And it is tasty.

On our trip to Atlanta last weekend, Chris and I were introduced, via the ripe discovery grounds of a Quickie Mart, to Dr Pepper TEN.

Being an avid Diet Drink Hater up until this year, I’m still trying to discover ones that I can stomach, and possibly even enjoy.  And Dr Pepper TEN was delicious – it tasted exactly like real Dr Pepper – at least to my diet-ravaged taste buds, anyway.

But I immediately found an irreconcilable problem.

You see, I’m a continuity geek.

So when I saw this diametrically opposed mathematical claim on the front of the bottle,

I was thrown into an monumental existential crisis about my newly discovered drink.

Dr Pepper is a DOCTOR!! And he can’t do simple addition??  How could this be?

This confirms my suspicions that calorie counts on foods are all ridiculously erroneous and not to be trusted.

It probably has some random calorie count of 18.65 but they didn’t want to name the drink Dr Pepper EIGHTEEN POINT SIX FIVE.  The marketing department is just using calories as a manipulative ploy to sell drinks.  How dare they exploit our beloved dieting tool in that manner?!?!

Now obviously, it matters not whether the calorie count is 10 or 20 or 2.5 – it’s not enough to even bother counting.  But as I mentioned previously, I’m a continuity geek.

And then.

My crisis was exponentially heightened when I bought my first 12 ounce can of the aforementioned drink:

So, let’s summarize.  Between two packaged products, Dr Pepper TEN has made three agonizingly conflicting claims:

1. Dr Pepper TEN has 10 calories per 8 fluid ounces,

2. Dr Pepper TEN has 20 calories per 20 fluid ounces (which would be 10 calories per 10 fluid ounces), and

3. Dr Pepper TEN has 10 calories per 12 fluid ounces.

Obviously, I could not continue live my life burdened by the weight of this illogical inequality.

So I emailed The Doctor Himself.

Here was my inquiry:

Dear Dr Pepper,

I have been highly enjoying your new Dr Pepper TEN this week.  It really does taste like original Dr Pepper – something a diet-drink avoider like myself can intensely appreciate.

However, I am very confused by your product, and I always find myself having an unavoidable need to get to the bottom of a good mystery.

Here is my question:

The first Dr Pepper TEN that I got was a 20 ounce bottle.  It stated that it had 10 calories per 8 ounce serving, or 20 calories a bottle.

Obviously, I was perplexed.  How could this be?  Where did those extra 5 calories go?  Were 4 ounces of the bottle completely calorie free?  And if so, which 4 ounces – top, bottom, or middle?  Unless of course you shake the bottle, at which point it would be all hopelessly mixed together.

Despite my confusion, I wanted more.  So then I proceeded to buy a can of Dr Pepper TEN.  A 12 ounce can.  Which informed me that there were 10 calories in the 12 ounce can.

Which led to more questioning.  Exactly where are these 10 calories and how can there be 10 calories in 8 ounces, 10 calories in 12 ounces, and 20 calories in 20 ounces?  Is there a magical system that always equates out to 10 calories?  Perhaps at the end of the assembly line, there’s a squirt bottle that squirts 10 calories in every previously zero calorie drink?

At any rate, my curiosity is making my soul burn within me.  Can you help me understand this troubling life issue?

And thank you, again, for coming out with such a delicious product.

Sincerely,

Rachel

Within minutes, I received the obligatory computer-generated response.

Thank you for giving a crap about our products.  We will respond to what is probably your petty consumer complaint within 72 hours.  Unless, of course, you found a Chinese Cockroach or Taiwanese Mouse in our product, in which case you can expect our lawyers to appear promptly at your doorstep to offer a generous amount of hush money.

(Worded slightly more subtly professional, of course.)

I considered the fact that I wrote my email at 4:30 pm on Friday afternoon, and assumed that I would probably be receiving my follow-up after those 72 hours had expired – certainly not until Monday morning.

But I was wrong.  Because, apparently, the Doctor has to work on Friday nights.

Here was the Doctor’s response, all grammar left in its genuine state:

Dear Mrs. Rachel,

Thank you for contacting us about Dr Pepper TEN.  Your comments and inquiries are appreciated because they provide valuable feedback about our brands.

The 10 calories come from High Fructose Corn Syrup.  When it comes to counting the calories for our Dr Pepper TEN, each serving are rounded according to FDA’s rounding rules.  Under 50 calories you round to the nearest 5 calories.  Hence, the reason the 8 fl oz serving and the 12 fl oz serving of Dr Pepper TEN are both 10 calories is because when they are rounded to the nearest 5 calories and the result is 10 for both.

Thank you for taking the time to contact us.  We hope that you will continue to purchase and enjoy our products.

Sincerely,

Consumer Relations

Rounding.

Also known as sin to an accountant.

To fully understand The Doctor’s equation, I enlisted my Engineer Husband and his four levels of Calculus and two attempts at Differential Equations (one of which was successful) to help me work this issue out.

Here is his equation, which is so thorough that perhaps The Doctor needs to send this out to future inquisitive consumers:

So for all future intents and purposes, I shall refer to this drink as “Dr Pepper POINT NINE NINE”.