Cheers to a bittersweet year!

As today comes to a close, I can’t help but feel a little bit of relief. I’ve been nervous for a very long time about how I might handle Grady’s first birthday. It was definitely a bittersweet day for me. In fact, this entire year has been 366 days (yes, it was a leap year!) of “bittersweetness,” if that’s even a word.

This year has been sweet because I love seeing how far Grady has come, and the kind of boy he is becoming. I love seeing his smile when he discovers something new, or how proud he becomes when he finally figures out how something works. His personality is one that can brighten anyone’s day, and his laugh is quite contagious. My little boy is the peas to my carrots. I look back at my life before Grady, and I know that now I’m more complete with him as my sidekick. My life has improved exponentially every day that he has been a part of it.

Now to the bitterness. Yes, with the good definitely comes the bad. A year ago, I was scared. No, I was petrified. I had no idea what my future held. I didn’t know how I would measure up as a mom, and my biggest fear was that I’d raise a son that resented me for being inexperienced and ill-prepared. The worst feeling I had was the feeling of loneliness, though. It felt as though it was Grady and me against the world. I realize now that we all knew exactly what this year would hold for Grady as far as his parents were concerned. Everyone knew that by the end of his first year Grady would have only one parent, but no one had the courage to say it. We all hoped we were wrong, but we weren’t. That was what scared me the most, and that is something that still troubles me today, although not nearly to the same extent as it did a year ago.

As friends and family came to visit Grady and me in the hospital, they all had words of encouragement and offers of hugs and assistance. Everyone seemed to have more confidence in me than I had in myself. It’s a terrifying feeling, knowing that you’re responsible for such a small and helpless person, but doubting your abilities. I loved Grady from the first moment I saw him on an ultrasound, and even more when I saw his face for the first time after he was born. When he cried, I couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my own face. When he smiled, I couldn’t help but smile. The bond was immediate, and the love was unconditional. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this sweet little baby, knowing that he would grow up with a single mom and no semblance of a “normal” family. Everyone tried to convince me otherwise. “What is ‘normal’ these days anyway?” they would say. Or “he’ll be so loved that he won’t even know the difference.” But I would know the difference. It was just us versus the world, and it felt like a losing battle.

It was the evening after Grady was born that I finally felt a sense of calm about our situation for the first time. I was lying in my hospital bed, Grady was asleep in a crib next to me, and his dad was asleep on the couch in our room. My phone rang, and I recognized the 5-digit number immediately. I answered, and walked out into the waiting room. I’d been waiting for this call all day. The conversation began the way most of my conversations over the previous 18 hours had, with “congratulations” and “how are you feeling?” Small talk followed, and I was thrilled to just be talking to someone a little more disconnected with what was happening around me. After a few minutes of “how was your day?” and “what’s the weather doing there?” I finally mustered up the nerve to let a little bit of my true emotions out. I explained that I was scared and worried, and I felt very alone even with everyone around me. And that’s when I heard the best thing anyone could have said to me in that moment. “You have no control.”

It seems so obvious now. At first it seems like such a meaningless and almost rude piece of advice, but at the most difficult and emotionally draining moment of my life, it was exactly what I needed to hear. “You have no control.” As a person who is very accustomed to having complete control of my life, that was a hard pill to swallow. I had fought this truth for nine months. At first, I was a little offended. It’s very difficult for me to get angry at someone on the other side of the world though, and especially when they’ve taken time away from their 12-hour workday in a war zone to talk to me and give me a few words of wisdom. As someone who has dealt with his own share of difficult and trying times, I knew he was speaking from experience and I should listen.

It was the truth. The only thing I had control over was myself. No one could say for sure what the future held for Grady and the paternal half of his family. No amount of worrying, crying, or hoping was going to change their actions or reactions. I did have control over my own relationship with my son, though. As I heard these words, I felt a sense of calm take over. He’s right. I need to spend as much time as possible making sure my son understands and feels how much love I have for him. I shouldn’t make it my goal to make him feel “normal.” That was just setting myself up for failure. My new goal was to make him feel like his family was the perfect family for him, regardless of the number of parents or grandparents in his life. Instead of driving myself crazy trying to make everyone else feel the way I did, I needed to focus on the things I could control.

So here we are, a year later. I haven’t always succeeded in my attempts to let go. For a long time it was a daily struggle for me to try and understand how a person could act so indifferent to my baby. To his own baby. Time heals all wounds though, and after 12 months of slowly accepting my lack of control, I finally feel as though my internal struggle is over. I do have to admit that my sanity has been maintained through the constant support and reassurance of my family and friends, most notably my parents. And each time I’ve attempted to manipulate the things I can’t control, I’ve had the same person reminding me to just let go. Without these three people in our lives, I feel certain that my son and I wouldn’t be the same happy and secure people we are today. I can’t protect my child from all the bad things in the world. I shouldn’t even try. That’s how people end up certifiably insane. One day Grady will want to know the details of why his life began the way it did, and I’ll be happy to tell him. I’ll be able to confidently tell my son that I did the very best I could for him, and all I can do is hope that he understands that not everyone is equipped with the capacity to love and the selflessness necessary to be a parent.

I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of myself and my amazing monster. In the battle of us versus the world, we seem to have conquered what used to seem impossible. What a wonderful and satisfying feeling. Grab a glass of wine (or whiskey), and let’s all toast to this next year’s roller coaster ride! Cheers!

The New Fish

Well, we all knew it was going to happen eventually. Some people saw it coming well before others, just because I tend to share the details of my life with a small circle of folks before announcing them to the world. The Monster has a new pal, and I’m pleased to announce that it is going rather well.

I guess for the sake of consistency within the blog, I might as well give this guy a moniker so that we can keep up with who’s who. So we shall call him The Soldier. Maybe one day he’ll earn a spot in the Cast of Characters, but we’ll just stick with a post for now.

Understandably, I was pretty worried about introducing the little man in my life to a new man coming into my life. There were some definite positives, though. The Soldier is someone I’d known for a while, and someone that has been a part of The Monster’s life since before he was born. He was pretty much my go-to man when I’d have a hard day being big and pregnant, or during my many hospital stays for preterm labor. The negative? The Soldier was overseas from the time I was about 3 months pregnant until The Monster was 6 months old. For those of you not so good with numbers, that’s 12 months total. So for 12 months, we had to rely on technology and luck in order to talk to one another. Luckily, The Soldier had made an amazing impulse purchase right before leaving: an iPad. Thank goodness for iPads and iPhones! He was able to download an app that allowed him to text with people, and so that was our main means of communication while he was gone. Almost every single day we were able to text, and sometimes use FaceTime or Skype. Oh modern technology. Through you, all things are possible.

Knowing that eventually I would be bringing these two men together was pretty nerve-wracking for me. The Soldier is really good at playing it cool, but I’m pretty sure he was a little nervous, too. Living in a war zone for a year? That’s nothing. Flying helicopters through mountain ranges and blowing stuff up? Piece of cake. Facing a 6-month-old? Yikes. His attempts at seeming calm about the subject were cute. He was obviously trying to help me calm my nerves, but I’m one of those people that just can’t be talked out of nervousness. I can’t even describe to you the nightmares I had leading up to The Meeting.

Months before The Soldier’s triumphant return to the US, I decided to follow the “new fish in the aquarium” method of introducing The Monster to The Soldier. If it works for goldfish, it probably works for people. So the idea was to start out slowly. Kind of like when you buy a new goldfish and you put him in the aquarium still in the bag for a while before releasing him into foreign waters. Same concept. The Soldier has very little experience with babies, which kind of works out because The Monster has very little experience with strangers. And I have very little experience (correction: no experience) introducing The Monster to boyfriends.

Step One: Spend time with The Soldier sans The Monster.

It started with the day The Soldier returned. I drove two hours north the night before in order to see him bright and early when he arrived. It was the first night I spent away from my monster, but he was with Grandmom and Pawpaw. They managed to raise two kids on their own, so I was pretty confident they could handle 24 hours with The Monster. The next morning, The Soldier and I were reunited and spent the day together. It was by far one of the best days I’d ever had, and it made me even more anxious about introducing my alpha male monster to this new guy. Step One: complete!

Step Two: Look, but do not touch.

After a few times of spending time with one another without The Monster, it was time for The Soldier and I to add in the third wheel. Knowing my monster, though, I knew it would be best if they were around each other without actually directly contacting one another. This sounds a little weird, but if you’ve ever had a 6-month-old you’re trying to introduce to a complete stranger, you understand. He was in the middle of his “I only like Mommy” phase. Was? Ok, he still is. So The Soldier went with me to pick him up from daycare. Aside from pretty much completely ignoring The Soldier, I’d say The Monster took it rather well. I’m pretty sure he was convinced The Soldier wasn’t coming home with us. But he was. After returning home, I made sure to keep The Monster occupied. I didn’t want to make The Soldier hold him or anything, because 1) I didn’t want to freak The Monster out and 2) I didn’t want to freak The Soldier out. Step Two: complete!

Step Three: Contact.

Admittedly, I probably jumped to step three a little too quickly. The same day that we accomplished step two, I decided to take the chance of going for step three. Too soon. Before putting The Monster to bed, I asked The Soldier to hold him so I could grab fresh diaper. Big mistake. Let me paint the picture for you. The Soldier is completely inexperienced with holding babies, apparently. You would’ve thought I handed him a nuclear bomb. Bless his heart. He tried. He really did. It was a pretty poor attempt at looking comfortable, though. And The Monster? Well, he can sense fear. Before the transfer had been completed from my arms to The Soldier’s, The Monster was already sticking out his lower lip and had tears welling up in his eyes. Good grief. Once contact with my fingertips was broken, the screaming commenced. Step Three: a total and complete failure.

In an attempt to not repeat my mistake, I kept The Monster out of The Soldier’s arms for a while. Slowly but surely, they’ve become pals. Luckily, The Soldier is pretty much just a big kid himself, and so he and The Monster tend to relate pretty well. I had to explain the rules of sharing toys to them both, and now they have a rather harmonious relationship. After the initial meltdown, things have gone swimmingly. It’s only a matter of time before The Soldier begins teaching my sweet monster all the annoying things that boys do. Soon we will be tackling Step Four: A day out with just the three of us.

Lord, help us all.

“Screw it,” and other pearls of wisdom

When people find out you’re expecting, they bombard you with their opinions and advice. Whether or not they’ve ever experienced the miracle (or misery) of pregnancy themselves, they’ll fall all over themselves telling you what you should do, because they saw it on Dr. Oz, or read a magazine article, or their best friend’s boyfriend’s brother’s roommate’s stepsister just had a baby. You’re pregnant, and suddenly everyone is the expert. All the books tell you to graciously listen to the advice, regardless of whether or not you agree. Oh, books. They can be so helpful. Too bad they don’t come with a gag to put over your mouth when you’re 8 months pregnant and it’s 110 degrees outside and the guy bagging groceries gives you a weird look for purchasing breast pads. Those are the days when I probably shouldn’t have even left the house.

Then again, I wasn’t the overly eager pregnant lady. I was never concerned with whether or not my unborn child would prefer the walls of his nursery be painted “china doll” or “springtime fawn.” The walls are tan. Who gives a crap? I’ve always been one of those people who prefers to learn things on my own, and I feel like I was wise in deciding that my son would probably end up the same way. He and I were able to figure each other out. I’m not saying I have this whole motherhood thing down, but I think that The Monster and I have an understanding.

At one point while I was pregnant, a woman told me I was standing too close to the microwave at work while I was heating my lunch. Really? Look, lady. I’m starving. I will stand however close to the microwave as I damn well please. The closer, the better, in my opinion. That just means I can shave off a few more milliseconds from the time it takes the microwave to beep until the food makes it into my mouth. Back off. If I wanted your opinion, I assure you, I would’ve asked.

The downside to not asking for advice from those with experience? I feel like I don’t have much to offer those who ask me. It seems that I am at the prime baby-having time of my life, so all of my friends (both in the world of Facebook and real life) are currently reproducing like a pack of jackrabbits. You like that bit of imagery? You know you do. It made me chuckle. All these women, knowing that I am a mom and was in their shoes not that long ago, tend to ask me for advice. Oh man.

So here I sit, with a 7-month-old Monster, with only a few pearls of wisdom for those wide-eyed pregnant jackrabbits. Take it or leave it.

My first bit of advice: immediately upon finding out that you will be growing a creature in your uterus, purchase the book Pregnancy Sucks, and read that sucker. There is also a version for men that I highly recommend you make the other half read. You should probably also read What To Expect When You’re Expecting, just because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but Pregnancy Sucks helps you come to terms with the fact that not everything is going to be butterflies and rainbows while your body is being invaded by your future curfew-breaker.

Second: screw it. Yeah. You read that correctly. Screw it. This needs to be your new mantra. I promise it’ll make you feel better. I had this epiphany one day when I was about 10 weeks pregnant. For about the 20th day in a row, I had woken up, showered, and immediately needed a nap. Then it hit me: screw it. Take your damn nap. Who cares? Throwing up all morning and haven’t showered in two days? Screw it. You earned the right to smell bad. Can’t button your pants but don’t want to purchase maternity pants yet? Screw it. Wear your pants unbuttoned. Feel like purchasing your fourth snow cone of the day and devouring it in the privacy of your car? Screw it. It’s pretty much a scientific fact that fetuses prefer ice covered in syrup over anything else. Feel like chewing out the woman at the pharmacy for quietly judging you for drinking a giant coffee drink while obviously 9 months pregnant? Screw it. She probably deserves a good ass-chewing.

This brings me to my next point: the only advice you should follow is your doctor’s. Every doctor is different. Just because your BFF’s doctor told her that she should completely abstain from all forms of caffeine while pregnant doesn’t mean that you should. If your doctor tells you that you can consume caffeine, then you can. I’m pretty sure there isn’t an obstetrician out there who gets their jollies by giving expectant mothers bad advice. Some are very restrictive, and some can be very liberal. Honestly, if I had an OB tell me that I couldn’t eat chocolate because of the caffeine, I would’ve been shopping for a new doctor immediately. Chocolate was pretty much the only thing keeping me from going on a hormone-induced shooting spree on multiple occasions when I was pregnant. I had two different OBs during my pregnancy since I moved while I was 6 months pregnant. My original OB was amazing. He was one of those who ran on the philosophy that if women had been doing it for centuries and still produced healthy babies, then more than likely it was safe. He also wore ostrich skin boots with his scrubs, which is really what won me over. I’m impressed by things like that, though. The point is, you’re going to drive yourself crazy trying to keep up with what your doctor tells you and what everyone else’s doctors have told them. Odds are, you will come across conflicting information. Just stick to your doctor’s advice. You chose them for a reason. They spent a lot of time and money on medical school. You can trust them.

If you have horrific morning sickness, don’t wait for your doctor to recommend something. Ask for medication to help. I had the hardest time keeping anything down for the whole first half of my pregnancy. Finally, my OB prescribed me Zofran. Suddenly, I felt like a whole new woman. No one gives you a medal for puking your guts up constantly and not asking for relief. Ask for the drugs. Life is too short, and pregnancy is hard enough without you being exhausted and hungry all the time from vomiting.

Dance. Yup. Dance. Well, unless you’re on strict bed rest. Then by all means, do not dance. I don’t know how to explain the way you’ll feel doing it. At first, when you aren’t very pregnant-looking, you’ll feel dumb. It’ll make you feel good though, I promise. Then as your abdomen expands, it’ll become more fun. I had the amazing experience of working with the athletes of a major university before and during my pregnancy. As a result, my classroom often became a kind of night club with rap music and crazy dancing. The bigger I got, the more they encouraged me to dance, and the more I had a good time with it. There will be days when you’re tired, or mad, or annoyed, or sad. Dance to the most ridiculous song you can find. It’ll put a smile on your face, as well as anyone else’s face who is fortunate enough to witness it. Plus, your uterine parasite will enjoy the movement.

Before heading to the hospital to deliver, stop and eat a big meal. I don’t care what other people tell you about eating a lot before pushing a baby out. Just do it. Who knows when you’ll eat next? They starve you while you’re in labor. And it sucks.

Now for the post-pregnancy advice: before your child comes into this world, you should purchase a ton of giant overnight maxi pads (I will not horrify you with the details, just trust me on this), a good underwire bra, a good bra without an underwire, lots of ready-to-eat snacks (Lunchables are awesome), and some of that spray-in shampoo that you can use without showering. You will need all these items when your bundle of joy makes their arrival.

Do not be alarmed if you weigh the same (or more) when you are released from the hospital after having your baby. The Monster weighed 6lbs 11oz when he was born, so I thought that surely I would’ve lost at least 6lbs. Wrong. I gained 4lbs. Don’t underestimate the effects of IV fluids. It’s as thought the saline went straight to my ankles and hands, and stayed there for weeks. You’ll lose the weight, don’t worry. The Monster is now 7 months old, and I weigh less now than I did before I got pregnant. There were a few weeks there where I was legitimately worried that I would never get back to “normal,” but I did. The human body is a crazy thing. Don’t fret.

So there you have it. Advice from The Monster’s mom. Or at least, the little golden nuggets of advice that my mommy brain allowed me to remember.

Confessions of the Selfish Mom

As a mother, it’s my duty to spend 24 hours a day with my child.

Let’s take a second. I just said “duty,” and chuckled. Am I immature? Yes. Is it going to make you chuckle every time you say it now? Probably. You’re welcome. That’s just a glimpse into my sleep-deprived, scrambled egg of a brain. Feel free to stop by and visit anytime.

Ok, back on point. As a woman, I’ve been programmed to feel that it is my duty (teehee!) to spend every second of every day with my son. Perhaps this is my poor attempt at compensating for The Monster’s absentee father. I believe that more than likely though, it’s remnants of the ideal 1950’s image of the stay-at-home mom and housewife. Oh, 1950’s stay-at-home mom and housewife. You’re so smug in your A-line dress and apron with your broom and well-behaved children. Dinner on the table by the time Daddy gets home? No problem. Let me just unpin these curls so I can have perfect hair to go with my perfectly red lips and porcelain complexion. I hate you, perfect 1950’s housewife. You suck.

Reality check: it’s not 1952. Rarely is a woman able to stay home with the kids while her husband goes off to his 9-to-5 job in his navy blue suit and freshly starched white collared shirt. What’s that? You wanted a starched white shirt to wear to work this morning, honey? I guess you should’ve ironed it yourself last night.

Before I had The Monster, it was always my dream to be the 1950’s stay-at-home mom and housewife. Well, except with modern day luxuries like internet and cable TV. I guess you could say I was just biding my sweet time, waiting for the perfect man to come along and sweep me off my feet, then I’d spend the rest of my days sweeping up after his feet and rearing his children. Honestly, I blame June Cleaver. Poor Barbara Billingsley. She had no idea what kind of unreachable dreams she was creating in young, impressionable minds. Decades later, and we still feel guilty when we can’t “measure up.” What the cameras fail to show is a disheveled June downing a bottle of Boone’s Farm in the garage while punching a life-sized cutout of Ward. Now that’s reality TV.

In my well thought-out life plan, I was to stay home with my kids until they all reached kindergarten. And then after that, I would spend my spare time volunteering at the homeless shelter or something. Ok, so it wasn’t so much a well thought-out plan as just some sort of misguided dream of perfection. I really had my head in the clouds. All those images of the ideal motherhood situation came crashing down when I discovered I was having The Monster. There was about a week-long period when I mourned the loss of the dream, and then I put on my big girl panties and made a new (more realistic) plan. This plan included daycare. Oh yes. Daycare. I do believe there is no word in the English language more capable of creating panic and desperate attempts at sanitation among moms.

Two days a week, I’m attending classes in order to get started with a new career. This past spring semester, I managed to take courses only online in order to stay home with The Monster. This summer, however, that was not possible. So off to daycare he goes. The first time I dropped him off, it was a sad, sad day. I cried almost the whole entire time he was gone. There was an emptiness in my heart that no amount of chocolate or daytime television could fill. I nearly died that day.

That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? That’s what we as mothers have been told we are supposed to feel when we leave our children with someone else in order to pursue more selfish goals of a career and alone time. Honestly? I felt bad for leaving him in a room full of people he didn’t know. I felt bad for about 10 minutes. Then I realized, he’s ok. My Monster is a very social guy. He loves other kids, and the woman keeping him for me is a close family friend. I trust her more than I trust myself sometimes. The day off felt amazing, and I actually got to sit for more than 5 minutes. I was able to run errands without worry. There was no feeding or nap schedule I needed to adhere to while taking care of all the things I needed to do. Did I think about him? Oh, heck yes. Every minute of that day, I wondered what he was doing. I took comfort in knowing that he was staying on schedule and was being taken care of, though. And when I went to pick him up that evening, guess what? He was just as happy and healthy as when I dropped him off. Imagine that!

That first week, I didn’t have classes when he was at daycare. Now, twice a week I drop him off at an ungodly hour, go to class, study, and then go pick him up. I never thought I’d say this, but those two days of school are the best vacation I could ever ask for. I find myself counting down the hours until bedtime on the days when he doesn’t go to daycare, because I know that he’ll sleep all night and then I get to drop him off right after he wakes up the next day. Does that make me a terrible mother? Convention says yes. I love my son. I love him more than anything. I want to be the best mother to him that I can be, but surely these feelings of monotony and this desire to be apart from my child aren’t natural. It got to the point where I wasn’t feeling guilty about leaving him at daycare, but instead I was feeling guilty about not feeling guilty. You always hear about these moms that become physically ill after dropping their children off. My Facebook newsfeed is full of posts about mommy guilt related to leaving kids with babysitters. Am I that heartless? Am I such a bad mom, that I actually enjoy the time away from my son? Oh man. I better put on the sad face and fake my way through being a good mother. It was only a matter of time before the news stories ended up in the paper: “Unloving Mom Dumps Angel Son With Stranger, Enjoys Alone Time Too Much.”

Wait a minute. Since when does guilt equate to being a good mom? I blame my Catholic upbringing. If I don’t feel guilty for something, I must be doing something wrong, right? Wrong. After receiving advice from an old high school teacher of mine, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that sometimes “being a good mom” means taking some time to recharge the battery. I need to take the time to create a life for myself and my son, even if that means spending some time away from him. At the end of my life, I want The Monster to be able to say that his mom was her own person. I want him to know me as more than just the woman who fed and clothed him. I want him to be able to describe me as a whole person, and not just a mom. So now, my definition of “good mom” has drastically changed, and probably not for the last time. It is this mom’s opinion that a “good mom” is someone who is happy with herself and her position in life. Sometimes that means dropping the kid off with someone and getting a pedicure or sushi. Or letting the grandparents babysit while she reads a good book, or maybe a not-so-good book. Call up a babysitter and go on a date! Who cares? Take the time to be yourself. You were a person before you were a mom, and who’s to say you don’t have the right to be a person now?

So go forth, mothers! Get that massage! Attend those classes! Apply for a fulltime job! Sit and stare out the window without interruption! Don’t feel guilty. Daycare isn’t a dirty word. It may be a dirty place, but it’s a place for a kid to be a kid, and a place that allows a mom to take a break. The dirty diapers and crusty stains will definitely still be there when you return to your career as mother. Recharging the battery is a must. If you ask me, that’s what makes a good mom: someone who knows when to step back and take a break, so they can be refreshed and revived enough to enjoy the time they have with their children. Am I still jealous of those moms who get to stay home with their kids all day? Absolutely. But I’m being realistic. I’ve been there, and I’ve done that. It’s the hardest job I’ve ever had. This whole daycare thing isn’t so bad after all. In fact, I think even stay-at-home moms should look into Mother’s Day Out programs, even if it’s just for an hour or two a week. Go get you some child-free lunch. You more than deserve it. Mommy guilt no more! Recharge away!

10 Things Not to Say to a Single Mom

It’s been my experience that people don’t usually intend to be insensitive or nosy. At least, most people don’t. And maybe that’s just what I like to believe. Whether or not it’s true, who knows? After spending the last 6 months of my life as a single mom, and coming across many many questions and comments from both friends and strangers, I’ve decided it may be necessary to create some ground rules. Luckily for everyone involved, I’m a very open person. I don’t mind discussing my situation or how I came to be a single mother, and I don’t often take offense when people say the wrong thing. I know how awkward it can be to find yourself suddenly in a conversation involving delicate subjects. I am, as most people know, the Queen of Awkward.

Although it may seem obvious that some of these things are not appropriate conversation-starters, you’d be surprised how, when facing an uncomfortable situation like pregnancy out of wedlock, people’s brain-to-mouth filters malfunction. Or their brain in general may malfunction. I have had personal experience with every single one of these questions or comments (some of them, multiple times), so I’ll be writing a response as though they were directed toward me. I obviously did not answer them the way I truly wanted to when people asked. Believe it or not, I’m a pretty patient person in real life. In real life, I’m good about responding to people in a nice way, when I really just want to slap my palm to my forehead and walk away. Scratch that. I really want to tell them what I’m about to write. This whole blogging thing has just released my inner cynic.

10. “I can’t wait to get to know your son/daughter better.” (from someone attempting to make a move)

Oh boy. I understand the attempt at seeming “ok” with the fact that I have a kid. I can appreciate that. You should probably try to come across as less of a creepo, though. Believe it or not, you probably won’t ever get the chance to get to know my kid, especially if this is your first response to finding out that I am a mom. Why? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we just met, you don’t even know my last name, and it’s a little weird to assume you’ll be “getting to know” my baby better. News flash: the vast majority of single moms (if not all) are extremely protective of their little ones. I, for one, do not plan on letting my son be around just any Joe Blow that may take me out to dinner. That’s how you create a messed up kid quick, fast, and in a hurry. So put on the brakes, big guy. Not happening.

9. “I wud like to at u on a date” (received via text or social networking)

Bravo, my good sir. You figured out every mom’s secret turn-on: a man who cannot form a sentence without sounding like a rambling idiot. Thank you for taking me into consideration while perusing your files for a potential mate. You’ve managed to be sensitive enough to look past the fact that I have a young child, and you’re obviously a very deep thinker. Never mind your inability to spell, punctuate, or correctly use the English language without butchering it beyond recognition. This is what social networking and cell phones are all about, right? Picking up hot moms you haven’t spoken to since grade school and “atting” them out on dates. I’ll be responding to your message just as soon as I find the desperation required to do so, and as soon as you find the autocorrect feature on your phone.

8. “Aren’t you worried about how growing up without a male role model will affect your son/daughter?”

YES. And if I wasn’t before, then now I am. Thanks for bringing this blatantly obvious and unquestionably worrisome issue to my attention. I actually do worry about my son growing up without a dad. When? Every second of every day. Every time I see one of those Huggies commercials with all the dads who are attempting to change their babies in record time, or who give them bottles until they go down for a nap, or who strut around the mall with their babies strapped to their chests, I get a little emotional. I realize these commercials are only advertising the reliability of Huggies diapers and/or wipes, but to a single mom, they’re also a reminder that my child doesn’t have that person in their life. Let’s get real, though. Odds are that the man responsible for 50% of the genetic makeup of a single mom’s child isn’t actually that standup of a guy anyway. Look what he’s done: he’s left his child with half the number of parents he or she needs. Regardless of circumstance, that’s enough reason to be satisfied with the fact that that man isn’t too involved in the child’s life. Not to mention, most women I know (single mom or not) have plenty of great guys in their lives that can be that role model. I, for one, have Pawpaw. I couldn’t ask for a better role model. I also have my older brother who lives about 10 miles away, and he is as dedicated a father and uncle as there ever was. And let’s not go into my several friends who happen to also be male, and are excellent people to raise a child around. Yes, my child will be able to burp the alphabet and play catch with the best of them. So yes, I do worry. But no, I don’t lose too much sleep over the subject. Believe it or not, I think my son will be just fine.

7. “You’re way too pretty to be single.”

I appreciate the sentiment. I really do. But let’s think about what you just said. First off, “prettiness” is not directly correlated to “singleness.” It’s going to take a heck of a lot more than someone who thinks I’m pretty to fill the shoes of boyfriend/potential lifer/potential stepdad or dad. And let’s be honest, the guy who put the woman with whom you are speaking into her current role as single mom probably also thought she was too pretty to be single. Hence, the existence of the child. And then when she became a mom, “pretty” must not have been enough for him to stick around for the responsibility. Let’s all think before we speak, shall we?

6. “Oh man. This is really going to put a damper on your dating life.”

Wait. You mean to tell me that men don’t find children to be a sexy accessory?! Wow. This is news to me! I should’ve really thought out this whole baby trend before buying into it. Good grief.

But seriously. You don’t need to point out the fact that my dating life is about to take a nosedive down the toilet. Most women who aren’t complete idiots realize that children, especially babies, aren’t a real turn-on for most people. And if they are, then it’s probably wise to turn and run in the opposite direction. Stating the obvious and reminding a woman of her sudden involuntary abstinence is completely unnecessary. Thanks for the reaffirmation, though. Now Mommy needs a bottle of merlot and about a pound of chocolate. Where’s my Adele CD?

5. “You look tired.”

No sh*t?! You know what sucks? Waking up every hour or two in order to try and feed an inconsolable infant. Or chasing around a screaming child who seems to always be able to change directions way quicker than you. Or dealing with a child’s homework assignments and extracurricular activities while maintaining some semblance of sanity. You know what really sucks? Doing all of that alone. People always talk about how they need vacations from work because they’re tired. I feel for you. You know the single mom’s idea of a vacation? Finding a babysitter so she can go to the grocery store alone. Peeing without a miniature person staring at her. Sleeping past 6:00am. Going out to eat somewhere without worrying about the kids’ menu. Locking herself in the closet for 5 minutes of quiet time before she’s discovered (this moment of “vacation” is brought to you by Supermom). I do realize that most moms have these issues, and not just single moms. But now imagine if you will, that the other half of your child’s genetic makeup doesn’t ever have to deal with these things. Stings a little, huh? Trust me, I do realize that there are “involved” fathers out there who still make the mother of their children do everything alone, or who don’t offer to let their wife/baby-mama take a break. Moms whose husbands are away for business or military service, too. As far as I’m concerned, those women still fall into the “single mom” category when it comes to these things. Troopers. That’s what we are. Smelly, tired, grumpy troopers. So I apologize for the bags under my eyes, the greasy ponytail, and the stink of yesterday’s spit-up and today’s BO. I’m one person doing a two-person job. You’d be tired, too. Scratch that. I don’t apologize. You’re just mean. Now stop talking to me so I can close my eyes and nap for a minute and a half.

4. “What did you ever see in that guy, anyway?” (in reference to baby-daddy)

You know what’s always a good feeling? When other people point out your mistakes. Thanks for that. Ever heard the phrase “wolf in sheep’s clothing?” Let’s think about what you’ve just asked. Had I known that I would eventually end up a single mom, I probably would’ve played my cards a little differently, don’t you think? Even the most well-intentioned man can end up panicking when facing adversity. The “fight-or-flight” instinct is a strong one, and let’s face it, no one wants to fight a pregnant lady. “Flight” pretty much always wins. Hindsight is always 20/20, honey. Whether a woman started out married when her baby was conceived, or her child was the result of a drunken night of awkward fumbling, I can pretty much guarantee you that there was something about the father that attracted her to him. Maybe it was his character. Maybe it was his sense of humor. Maybe it was just his tight buns and the way he stumbled across the dance floor in a drunken stupor. Who knows? Who cares? The point is, there was something, even if it’s gone now. Let’s not go poking around and digging up people’s past mistakes. That’s not cool.

3. “What do you do all day?”

Sit on the couch, scratch myself in inappropriate places for inappropriate amounts of time, and eat bonbons. What do you do all day? Ok. Let’s get serious. Do you really want to know? I am both mother and father to my child. I am a chef, a doctor, a counselor, a chauffeur, a jungle-gym, a snot rag, a secretary, a translator, a janitor, and at times even a toilet. I spend most of my day trying to keep my child from somehow injuring or killing himself. I spend his nap times cleaning up mystery stains and washing dishes and laundry. You know what I don’t do? I don’t get to say “your turn” and hand my child over to another person when they get home from work. I don’t get to “take the next shift” when my child wakes up in the middle of the night. My day is pretty full. The life of a single mom is far from glamorous or boring. I can try and pencil you in if you’d like, but I don’t think I have an opening for about 17 more years.

2. “So how much child support do you get?”

This is one of my favorite questions, because this is one of the instances when I get to use my favorite response: “nunya.” As in, “nunya business.” Do I ask you how much money you make? Do I ask you how much you spent on the things you have? No. Why? Because I was raised better than that. Evidently, you were not. But, for the sake of good blogging, I will let you in on a little bit of the financial side of being a single mom. Let’s say the single mom with whom you are speaking is lucky enough to receive child support. Good for her! Now let’s assume that the father of her child(ren) actually pays the amount he is required to pay. Let’s say that woman and her child(ren) live in the great state of Texas. What a coincidence! I live in the state of Texas, and I’ve had some experience with researching what the “normal” amount of child support is. For argument’s sake, we’re going to say this woman has only one child. It gets a little sticky when there is more than one child involved. In Texas, a man is responsible for paying for his child’s health insurance, 50% of medical costs not covered by insurance, and he hands over 20% of his paycheck every time he gets paid. So there you have it. Sounds like a pretty good deal, but I promise you, it’s not. No one gets rich off of child support. Ok, some people do, but no one I know personally. Just those people you see on Entertainment Tonight. Children are expensive. I have a dog, and I thought she was expensive, then I had The Monster and realized what “high maintenance” really meant. Even if I were receiving child support, I can assure you that it would not be nearly enough to even come close to covering the cost of The Monster’s monthly diaper costs, let alone any of his other necessities. Although the idea of child support sounds nice, don’t go assuming anyone is happy with the amount they receive.

1. “Do you know who the father is?”

Really?! At this point, you’re lucky if you’re still standing and haven’t been knocked to the ground by a surprise left hook. The fact that you’ve asked this question is not only insulting, but it’s extremely uncouth. I’m going to play dumb for a moment though and say that you are actually being serious and aren’t trying to be condescending or rude. Perhaps you really are just curious. Fair enough. If we are not good enough friends for you to know who the father of my child is (or even who he might possibly be), then we are not good enough friends for you to ask if I know who he is. There are multiple reasons for this: 1) As Stephanie Tanner would say, “how rude!” Yes, I just made a Full House reference. Move on. 2) Of course I know who he is! 3) Again, “how rude!!”

Now let’s still pretend that you’re just blissfully unaware of how big of a jerk you are just for posing the question. Are you really prepared for the answer? What if the mom you’re asking honestly has no clue who the father of her child could be? Good job, bucko. You’re a giant jackhole for pointing out this woman’s past promiscuity and/or poor decision-making skills. Congratulations. How do you respond when she says “no?” I’m guessing you just stand there with a dumbfounded look on your face. Yeah. Not good. Let’s not ask questions unless we’re prepared to react to whatever response we may receive, and that includes a swift kick to the ‘nads. I hope you’re wearing your athletic cup.

Romance at the Gym

Before I had The Monster, I was in really good shape. We’re talkin’ really good shape. A real rockin’ body. I had finally gotten back to the size I was when I graduated high school, and it felt awesome! Then I found out I was pregnant. Funny how life throws you those curve balls. Oh, life. You’re so funny.

In order to get back in my pre-Monster shape and have an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours per week, I recently joined a gym. I’m still trying to figure out a good time to go and get into a routine. For me, routine is key. If I do something at the same time every week, it becomes habit, and then I’ll always do it. The tricky part of the gym is I have to find a time when Grandmom and/or Pawpaw can be with The Monster. Since they both leave for work at about 7:00am and don’t get back until 7:00pm most evenings, this is pretty difficult. I decided a few days ago that waking up at the butt crack of dawn was probably my best option. And by “butt crack of dawn,” I really mean very early. Very, very early. Oh, the things we do to look good in a swimsuit. So last night The Monster went to bed semi-early. I set my alarm for 5:00am, and arranged with Pawpaw for me to hand off the baby monitor to him when I left around 5:30. Everything was going according to plan.

3:30am rolls around, and for some reason The Monster starts stirring and then crying. Dang it! So I go in his room, feed him, burp him, and then put him back in his crib. By this time it’s about 4:00, and I have Monster puke down my cleavage. My life is so glamorous. So now I only have an hour until my alarm goes off. I don’t know about you, but when I wake up before my alarm, I sit there and count down how long until it goes off. I can’t help myself. It drives me absolutely crazy. So I end up just getting up and getting ready to work out.

How do I get ready to work out? I brush my teeth, put my hair in a ponytail, and put on cut-off sweat pants with a sports bra and t-shirt. Oh and shoes. I do put on shoes. I do not do my makeup. I do not put on a matchy-matchy, head-to-toe Under Armor ensemble, and I do not try and put my hair in a runway worthy ponytail. You may be asking yourself why. Why, Mommy? Why don’t you try and look your absolute best when going to the gym? I’ll tell you why. It’s because I don’t go to the gym in order to pick up men. I don’t go to the gym in order to draw attention to myself on the elliptical or in the free weights area. Shocking, I know. I really go to the gym to work out and do so much cardio that my inner nerd comes out and I begin wheezing. It’s what I do.

The town where I lived before moving back in with Pawpaw and Grandmom was a college town. The only thing there was the university and lots of college kids. This caused there to be an incredible amount of girls who did not have the same goal as me when going to the gym. There were a lot of shorty-shorts, push-up sports bras (oh there is such a thing!), and enough makeup for a drag show. Even among the sea of perfectly made-up 19-year-olds at the gym, about once a week I would be approached by a meat head who wanted my phone number. When did the gym become speed dating? Good grief.

So back to our story. After getting ready for the gym and leaving Pawpaw in charge of the baby monitor, I head out. Upon arriving, I notice there aren’t many people there at all. I guess that can be expected at 5:30am on a Wednesday. Go figure. How great, though! Free reign of the gym equipment!

I walk in and immediately notice a guy who obviously spends a little too much time working out and staring at himself in the mirror. Nice. Then we make eye contact. Awkward. I put my ear buds in my ears and jump on an elliptical. I can’t let accidental eye contact with someone I was judging get between me and some calorie burning.

10 minutes later, I’m sweating on the elliptical and look up to see the pretty boy looking at me. Ok, guy. This is twice that we’ve made awkward eye contact. Move along, Macho Man. There’s nothing to see here.

Another 5 minutes goes by, and I look up again to notice Macho Man walking past me, this time staring me down. We make awkward eye contact again, and this time the awkwardness is enhanced by the smile he flashes at me. I just want to work out! I make it a point not to smile back. Maybe he’ll catch the hint, right?

Finally, it happens. While doing squats (Mommy needs rock hard glutes!), I notice Macho Man approaching me. I run through about a million sarcastic and ego-crushing things I could say to him, but I stop myself. This poor man is just taken aback by my breathtaking beauty. I shouldn’t be rude. I mean, I have been working out. Even at this God-awful hour, I look pretty darn good. I probably am pretty irresistible. Not to mention, I haven’t pumped yet for the morning, so my boobs are looking pretty fantastic. Plus, imagine the guts it must take to approach someone at the gym. I have to appreciate his confidence. So we make eye contact, he smiles, and this time I smile back. Then I begin the process of letting this guy down delicately. Poor guy. I’m about to break his heart.

“Hi. I noticed you looking at me a few times while I’ve been working out.”

“Yeah,” he responds with a smile.

“Look, I’m flattered, but I’m really just here to work out. I have a baby at home and I’m just trying to get back into shape.”

“Yeah, I know.” Umm . . . creepy! Is this guy stalking me or something?! Where’s the pepper spray when I need it?!

“Uh . . . what?” I ask trying to sound not freaked out. Which I was.

“I was just looking at you because you have a huge glob of something gross in your hair, and I wanted to come over here and tell you. At first I thought it was glue, but now I think it’s barf. I hear babies barf a lot.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Sure enough, I look in the giant mirror on the wall of the gym and there is a glob of curdled breastmilk about the size of a quarter on the side of my head.

Moral of the story: make sure all Monster vomit and excrement is removed from hair and clothing before heading to the gym and embarrassing yourself by assuming a guy wants to hit on you. Ego deflated. Lesson learned. Gym days changed.

Mommy’s Favorite Brownies

Ok, so breastfeeding does some crazy stuff to you. In addition to constantly having a human being attached to your chest, it turns out you burn between 800 and 1000 calories per day just to produce milk for your offspring. What the hey?! Score!! It seems like (for me, at least) this causes some intense cravings. Worse than pregnancy causes. My most common craving is for anything sweet. Anything. Chocolate? Now that’s ideal. Brownies? Even better. So I was clicking around on the interweb and discovered some brownie recipes, and decided to make a Frankenstein’s monster sort of brownie combining three of my favorite things in the world: brownies, chocolate chip cookies, and Nutella. It turns out this baking experiment came out successful! They’re way too easy to make, so don’t get too scared. Or maybe you should be scared. Scared of the brownie coma you’re about to slip into.

(PS: If you don’t know what Nutella is, you might as well not have a soul.)

Side note: Pawpaw tried one of these last night. He loved them. He thought they were pretty rich, though. “You sure can’t eat more than one of those!” My response: hide and watch, Pawpaw. Hide and watch.

So here we go with a step-by-step guide.

You’re going to need three ingredients: chewy chocolate chip cookies (Chips Ahoy is a good brand), Nutella, and a box of brownie mix. Oh, and whatever the brownie mix says you need to make the brownies. So I guess technically you need more than just 3 things. My bad. You can use some homemade recipe for brownies if you’d like, but I don’t have that sort of time or talent. Also, I made these like cupcakes. Brownies in cupcake form are just easier to eat, in my opinion. This recipe made 12 brownie “cupcakes.”

So put your cupcake liners in your cupcake pan. Then mix up your brownie mix. Mmmm brownie mix. It’s a magical thing, you know. Then you’re going to want to fill the cupcake liners about halfway (maybe a little less) with brownie batter.

Here comes the special and amazing part. Take a cookie. Smear some Nutella on top of it. Really cover that sucker. Don’t eat the cookie. I know, it’s tempting, but don’t do it. It’ll be well worth the wait, I promise.

Put that delicious heaven-covered cookie on top of the brownie batter. Repeat for each cupcake cup. Make sure you push each cookie down until it’s touching the brownie mix underneath it. Feel free to cover any leftover cookies with leftover Nutella and eat those. Every good chef is supposed to sample before serving, right?

Ok. Now cover the cookies with more brownie mix. You can fill the cupcake cups almost completely to the top. Luckily, brownies don’t rise the way cupcakes do when they bake, so there’s none of that math involved with trying to figure out the perfect amount to fill each cup. I hate that stuff. I never estimate correctly.

Now bake those puppies. Bake them for 28ish minutes (I think 30 would actually be best) at 350.

They look delicious, don’t they?! Make sure they’ve cracked on the top like in the picture, and make sure they don’t look too raw. I baked mine for 28-30 minutes, and they were still a little bit underdone. This is not a bad thing in my book, but maybe it is in yours. The best way to eat these? Warm. Add a big ol’ scoop of Blue Bell homemade vanilla icecream, and you’ve got yourself heaven in a bowl. Heck. Yes.

Mommy’s Favorite Brownies

Ingredients:

1 box brownie mix (plus whatever you need to make the brownie mix)

Nutella

12 chocolate chip cookies (chewy)**

1. Preheat oven to 350.

2. Prepare brownie mix according to box directions.

3. Fill 12 cupcake cups a little less than halfway with brownie batter.

4. Cover 12 chocolate chip cookies with Nutella, and place one cookie in each cupcake cup.

5. Fill the cupcake cups with remaining batter.

6. Bake for 28-30 minutes.

7. Remove from oven, and cool. But just enough to not burn your mouth, because trust me, you’ll want to eat these warm

**If you can’t find chewy chocolate chip cookies, you can use the regular kind. Follow steps 1-5, then place cupcake pans in the refrigerator for an hour and a half or two hours. The time in the refrigerator helps make them soggy. Something about biting into a hard cookie in the center of a chewy brownie just doesn’t seem appetizing to me, but if that’s your cup of tea, skip the refrigerator.