Rolling Over

Pre Baby, you could frequently hear me suggesting or explaining “roll overs” in the context of 401(k)’s and IRAs while fielding phone calls at INGD. Post baby, I am still suggesting the possibility, but now more literally, and to a much younger client.

Earlier this week, Jane was becoming a pro at rocking from side to side. She really REALLY hates “tummy time”, so I was encouraged to see her enjoying some time on the floor. She really gets a kick out of learning new things, and it’s super fun to watch.

After a few days of the rocking, she started what I like to call “face planting”. I would catch her on her side with her head turned directly into the floor. Being the ridiculous overprotective mother that I am, I was worried that she wasn’t able to breathe. But then I realized what she was doing; she was throwing the weight of her head in hopes that her body would follow.

FINALLY, on Friday, she did it! And of course, she rolled in the twenty minutes I was out of the house getting dinner. Typical. I work with her all week and the husband reaps the benefits.

The really hilarious part is what she does once she is on her belly. Remember how I told you that she doesn’t like tummy time? Once she is over, she is mad. I don’t know whether I should be happy for her since she is immediately crying hysterically. Hopefully, she will use her new found skill to push herself off the floor or roll onto her back again. Or just keep getting her legs stuck in the spokes of the cradle.

Law & Order

TV has become a really unhealthy part of my post baby life. I wake up at 7am, and by 7:15 the tube is on. I may not necessarily watch every second, but it’s on in the background. I watch the morning news, then a cooking show, then some women cat fighting around a table, then the twelve o’clock news and finally a game show. And then the really good programming begins. Rerun after rerun of law and order. Until seven o’clock. Score.

I get a rush from that sound. You know, the “duh-duhn” that’s played at every scene change. And then they interview someone who seems to be so busy that they can’t stop for one second to talk to the detectives. And if they catch the “perp” before the halfway point of the show you can count on them having the wrong guy. And then they go into the courtroom and convict the SOB all in a sixty-minute show. And they‘ve got Elliott Stabler, hottest detective ever to grace the small screen. Perfection.

When Jane was about two months old, I noticed a really weird habit emerging in my daily routine. Everyone became a suspect. I would case every potential perp in the neighborhood. If anyone seemed suspicious, I would mentally note a description. You know- tall, medium build, blue baseball cap, white shirt, jeans. Dark colored, late model sedan. I didn’t get all of the license plate, but I know it started with KRV. New Jersey plates. But these facts are good to know, just in case. You can never be too careful.

Pre Baby/ Post Baby

Lately, I’ve separated my life into two defined stages in my mind- pre baby and post baby. Pre- baby, I was able to make my own schedule, commit to various activities way ahead of time, go out for a DRINK- you know, the things that normal people do.

But now my every move is calculated, and revolves around my little nugget of joy. If I want to leave at noon, I better start getting the baby ready at eleven. If I want to get out sans kid, I better make sure the hubster will be home or my mom is available.

Recently, my mother praised my newly found promptness. I explained that I have nothing better to do than get ready (unless Law & Order is on) and I give myself plenty of time for variables. Like, say, a diaper blow out right after tub time or a major projectile vomiting routine as we are walking to the car. Normal mom stuff.

Ta Ta's

I remember a time when the mere utterance of the word “bra” could make me turn beet red. In the days of training bras and A cups, I could have sworn trips to the mall were some sick scheme for my mother to embarrass me down to the core. She would say, “I think we need to get you some bras a size bigger” and I would whisper yell, “MOM! You can’t say things like that in public!”

But, in the past few months, I’ve lost all sense of embarrassment when it comes to “the girls”. These days, I can be seen popping one out in my living room, in a random (and well lit) parking lot, or (heaven forbid) in front of the in laws. All of a sudden my “voluptuous ta- tas” have become “milk bags”. What gives? A baby, that’s what.