You're never too old for Catholic guilt.

While I don't usually post about politics or religion (or anything else that would encourage people to send me hate mail), I feel the need to share our recent encounter with the church.

I don't want to be accused of blasphemy, so I'm simply relating the story exactly as it happened. I'm not speaking ill of the church, just stating the facts, ma'am.

Mr. KK and I aren't super-religious people. We were both brought up Catholic and attended mass with our mothers throughout childhood. We don't currently actively attend church, though we do make monthly donations to the parish in which Mr. KK grew up.

The last time we went to church was probably for someone's wedding or a funeral.

But we're Italian, and Italians like nothing more than tradition. And traditional Catholic Italians baptize their babies. So we were going to dress Max up in a snazzy white outfit and head to the church.

But first, as parents, we had to attend Baptism class. Yay!

When we pulled into the parking lot one night last week, we were worried we were going to be the only couple in the class. But then another SUV (the 'new parent car of the moment') parked next to us. We watched the other couple get out and head up the stairs.

"It's showtime," I said to Mr. KK, who was looking up everything about Baptisms as if trying to cram before a final exam.

"If he asks questions, I want to be prepared," he said, his face lit up by his phone screen. And this is one of the many reasons I love Mr. KK.

Our class leader was a old-school deacon who had been with the parish for about a hundred years. He had an oxygen tank with him, as if to verify his time on earth. More than once throughout the night I was worried we were going to lose him.

The other couple sat across from us, the girl wearing a perma-frown. She truly looked bored and bothered that she was at the class. Hey, we ALL wanted to be home with our babies, but this was just something we had to do. This girl could have been awarded an Oscar in eye rolling.

The deacon walked us through the baptism, asking us not one, not two but a bazillion questions along the way. The first one being, "So, why are you here tonight?" It's a pet peeve of mine when people ask questions like that. It's like walking into a history class in college and the professor asked, "What are you all doing here?"

Mr. KK – God love him – knew the answer to one of the deacon's questions. I was very proud of super-smart husband. Of course Mrs. Eyeroll across from me looked at her husband and said, "Surprised you don't know the answer, Mr. Know-It-All." She sounded like a really fun and easy to get along with wife.

At the end of the class, the deacon excused the other couple and then turned to us. "If you could please stay after class, there are a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

Oh boy.

Nothing ever good came from being asked to stay after class.

He shuffled the paper in front of him, no doubt containing the answers I gave to the secretary's questions when I called to register for the class.

He started by rattling off our address. "Why are you at this church? You live in St. Carmel's jurisdiction."

Mr. KK was quick to answer. "I grew up in this church. I was baptized here, made my communion here, and my mother still goes here."

And, I added in my own head, this is the church we donate to on a regular basis.

"I see," the deacon replied.

He scanned the paper further. "Why weren't you married in a church? Was there a reason?"

It was only a matter of time before this question came up. In a way, I was waiting for it.

"It wasn't because we weren't allowed to," I replied. I felt the need to clear that up. We didn't get married in a church because we didn't want to, not because the church wouldn't let us.

"Have you both been married before?" He eyed us skeptically. I had learned just a half hour ago in this super-informative Baptism class that if you had been married before and you didn't have your marriage pardoned or annulled by the church, then you couldn't baptize your baby. So I knew what he was getting at.

"No," we both replied in unison.

He then explained that while we were married, we weren't truly married in the eyes of the church. He almost made it sound like our marriage was fake, like we stood up before an Elvis impersonator wearing shorts and flip flops. He strongly – and I mean, strongly – encouraged us to contact the priest and have our marriage validated by the church. Because right now, the church didn't recognize our marriage. And that we should do it for our son.

In true Catholic form, Mr. KK and I were feeling guilty. For what, I don't know. Living where we did? Getting married the way we wanted to? I felt like I was in high school getting in trouble.

The deacon looked up from the form once more.

"University Hospital in Georgia," he said.

Um, is there a question in there somewhere?

"What's that all about?" he finally asked.

"Our son was born via surrogate," I replied, my back immediately up and my over-protective Mommy gene on overload.

"I see," he said. He was quiet for a moment and then said, "I guess that should be okay."

Should be okay?

Is the baptism of our child being questioned because he was born via surrogate???

My first instinct was to reply with a snarky comeback (who, me?). 'Well, God gave me cancer, so…' was almost out of my mouth. But this was a deacon and we were in church, so I decided to behave myself this one time.

On the way home, Mr. KK and I couldn't stop talking about how we got held after baptism class. "He doesn't even think we're married, and he almost wasn't going to let Max into the church!" I exclaimed, my blood boiling with each passing minute. "I'm not so sure how I feel about this now. It's all like, 'Well, I guess you guys can join our club…'. It's ridiculous. I thought God didn't judge and accepted EVERYONE???"

I preached on and on the whole ride home.

And then I had a glass of wine and felt a little better.

The WORST Question You Could Ask a New Mom

As I settle into my third month of motherhood, I’m getting used to being asked tons of questions.

And I’m happy to answer most of them. As most New Moms would be.

There are three questions, however, that I think are taboo. These questions should never, ever be asked of a New Mom.

First: “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Sure, everyone knows that all new moms are sleep deprived, so maybe you’re just looking for confirmation. However, this question insinuates that she looks tired, which is almost worst than saying ‘You look tired’ because it shows you don’t have the guts to outwardly insult her; so instead you’re going to hint at the fact that she has circles under her eyes darker than a Kardashian tan.

Second: “Do you think you’ll have another baby?”

Honestly, people, her oven hasn’t even cooled down yet! Right now New Mom is doing all she can to make sure her baby is fed, diapered and happy – all while trying to stay sane, keeping an every-other-day shower schedule, and making sure she’s wearing a bra when company shows up. Now’s not the time.

But the worst question – and I mean THE WORST question – you can ask New Mom is this: “When do you go back to work?”

A little part of me just died even writing the words.

How am I supposed to leave this face???

No new mother who is home caring for her new baby even wants to think about the day she has to change out her pajamas into her big girl clothes, kiss her little one good-bye for way longer than a nap, walk out the door and drive to the cruel place that is holding her hostage from her baby for 8-10 hours, causing her to miss every coo, smile and milestone.

So, please, do us all a favor and Just.Don’t.Ask.

When we found out we were having a baby, we made the decision that I would stay home with him on leave for as long as I could. Our son was born via surrogate, which meant I wasn’t able to take advantage of my company’s paid maternity leave, because I wasn’t physically giving birth (don’t even get me started). But I was able to take advantage of FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act), and in the state of Connecticut you can take up to 16 weeks (most states it’s 12 weeks). Plus, it took six years for our little nugget to get here, I was going to do everything possible to spend as much time as humanly possible with him.

I MAY be breaking every parenting rule out there by letting him 

nap on me all day but I don't care. I can't get enough of him. #sorrynotsorry

For those people who know me, they understand that I’m a severe Type A personality. I’m as organized as they come and a perfectionist, so I took my job very seriously. So they’ve been asking me about going back to work since my second week home. They know my job can be pretty demanding, with long hours and last-minute travel. These are all things that don’t mix well with having a baby at home.

And every time they would ask me when I was going back, I would muster up a smile and look them in eye, “The end of January. But we don’t talk about it.”

So instead, I play a little game of make believe in my head (and my own little world, apparently) that I’m not going back to work. It’s how I escape obsessing thinking about leaving Max every day.

Conversations in our house have been going something like this:

MR. KK: “When you go back to work…”

KK:  “What do you mean? I’m NOT going back to work.”

MR. KK: “Right, right. Well, IF you were going back to work, what time would we need to get Max up?”

KK:  “Well, I’m not. But if I were to guess a time in that horrible scenario, I’d say 6:30am.”

"Mommy? Please don't go."

Pretend is fun, but I’m a realist. So even though I’m not going back to work (wink, wink) we’ve started Max on the ‘When Mommy Goes Back To Work Schedule’, which pretty much starts to implement a regular time for him to get up in the mornings that allows me to wake him up, snuggle with him and feed him before I have to go to the place that is robbing me of spending time with my son work. The new schedule also allows me to have play time and bath time after I get home.

NOTE: Alternate names of this schedule are: ‘Mommy’s Sorry She’s Abandoning You Schedule’ and the ‘Watch Mommy's Heart Get Ripped Out Schedule’.

So please, ask me ANYTHING except you-know-what.

Because we’re not talking about that.

On babies watching TV

The other night I came home to find Max in the living room in his Mamaroo, head turned toward the TV.

KK:  "Um, Max is watching the Kardashians. Please change the channel, he's losing brain cells."

MR. KK: "Sorry. I meant to put on 'Silence of the Lambs'."

KK:  "Oh. Much better."


True story.

Before anyone sends me hate mail, we don't let Max watch TV. Unless it's the Food Network, which is totally cool.

Adios, 2014!

2014 was a BIG BIG year over here in the KK house!

I turned 40!

I know.

And what a birthday it was! I took it in stride, 40 is the new 30, blah blah blah. Plus Mr. KK planned a nice birthday weekend that ended with tickets to…

WAIT.

You thought I was going to say the arrival of Max was the highlight of the year?

OF COURSE Max was the best part of 2014!

(But that surprise birthday trip to Mexico was pretty good, too. Mr. KK, you have set the standard for my birthday gifts now. I can't wait to see what you have up your sleeve in 2015.)

Funny coincidence: while we were in Mexico for the week enjoying margaritas and eating our weight in guacamole, our little Max was the size of a lime. Perfect, no?

 Yes, 2014 is definitely one for the record books.

We finally ended a our almost 6-year journey to familydom with the birth of Mr. Maxwell, who has stolen the hearts of everyone in the family. Seriously, this kid can dial up the cuteness.

I met an amazing and giving woman who partnered with us to bring Maxwell into the world, and I made a lifelong friend in the process.

We were blessed with a big Thanksgiving, with representation from our West Coast families, filled with fun, food and laughs.

I've had the pleasure of being home with Maxwell for the last three months, watching him grow and change every day. Plus, I've gotten to spend so much more time with Mr. KK, which is just an added bonus.

Hey, my pants may be tighter than they were when I started the year, but if that's the only downside, I'll take it. (And I'll buy new pants, too.)

So, 2014, I'm sad to see you go, but I'm looking forward to 2015.

In fact, here's what I'm hoping to do/see/accomplish in 2015:

1. Find the perfect work/life balance. I may as well have said I'm looking for nirvana or a purple unicorn because, really, does this even exist? Well, I'm hoping it does – or there's a version of it that does and that works for me – because the end of January and my return to work will be here in the blink of an eye (cue the tissues, please). And for the sake of those around me, I better find that balance. Quickly.

2. Work out at least ONE day a week. Hey, I'm not crazy; I know I'll never get back to hitting the gym five times a week. So why put that unrealistic expectation on myself, only to be disappointed and frustrated. ONE DAY. That's it. Can even be a Saturday. But that's all the Max time I'm willing to give up (see Number 1 above).

3. Read 2 books a month. I used to read 2 books a week. Again, that doesn't seem like reality anymore, now that I'm a Mom, blah blah. And Max's books don't count.

4. Put down the phone/remote/laundry/spatula. I've read WAY too many blog posts by Moms who wish they played with their kids more. It breaks my heart to read that, because I know how I can be, multi-tasking like a crazed Type A monster. Sorry, work emails, you will have to wait.

5. Try one new restaurant a month. Just because we had a baby doesn't mean we don't still love going out. We'll take Max while he's portable, and we'll leave him home with his adoring grandparents when he's not.

6. Keep blogging. I swear, I'll try. That "work" thing might get in the way, though…

7. Start.Writing.My.Novel. ((sigh))

8. Be a better person. UGH. 'Now that I'm a Mom' (god, I hate that phrase) I suppose I should be more open and accepting and NICE. That waiter with the crazy eyes? Pretend he has a nice, normal, non-creepy stare. The woman in Target who is wandering around talking to herself and in desperate need of a shower? Don't take her picture and post it on Facebook. The weirdo couple who wants to sit on the same side of the table at the restaurant? Well, I'm sorry, that's just ridiculous; they deserve to be made fun of.

Happy New Year!

May 2015 bring happiness and fun…and a little spontaneity!

I married a fruit cake family.

You've seen it in the store – all dark brown with neon fruit and wet looking. 

It's the running joke of Christmas songs and gag gifts.

It's the fruit cake.

Blech.

For a girl who can't stand the taste and texture of candied fruit, fruit cake is my worst nightmare.

And somehow fruit cake is a phenomenon in Mr. KK's family.

It started with his grandmother Helen (in whose house we currently live) and the recipe was passed down to his mother to carry on the tradition.

That's right: homemade fruit cake.

The funny thing is that during the holiday season, fruit cakes sell for like $40 a pop. My mother-in-law makes fruit cakes like they're going out of style. And they are SO much better than the ones in the store. So at $40 a piece, I'm thinking we can find a way for this Mommy to stay home come January.

Just sayin'.

And while I don't eat fruit cake, Mr. KK LOVES it, so Max and I spent the day at my mother-in-law's learning the ins and outs of the holiday's famed dessert.

It's usually a two-day affair, because so many fruit cakes need to be made, and the cooking time is long.

The recipe – which is a family secret that I absolutely can't disclose on this blog – dates back to 1957. It was originally written in Mr. KK's grandmother's handwriting, but has since been typed up for posterity (and probably so it can be passed down to me to continue the tradition).

 My mother-in-law whipping up a batch of fruit cakes. I think her mixer is also from 1957.

Combining the batter and the yucky candied fruit.

Mixing that together was probably the best workout I've had on maternity leave.

Ready for the pans!

 These cakes bake for about two hours!

Cooked to a golden brown.

Next step: soaking them with vermouth.

Meanwhile, Vito and Dino were keeping tabs on everyone. And Dino was conveniently using Vito as a pillow. I guess that's what best friends are for.

It's a big to-do when the fruit cakes get handed out. Every member of Mr. KK's family gets a fruit cake (or at least a piece of one). Not to mention friends who, over the years, have heard about the fruit cakes and who are now on the fruit cake distribution list. 

This list is more exclusive than a guest list at a red carpet event.

And, apparently, fruit cake can last FOREVER. Maybe it's the alcohol soak at the end. I'm not sure, but there have been times family members are still cutting slivers of fruit cake WELL into the spring.

So I guess that part of the fruit cake lore is true.

And after 14 years of being around Mr. KK's family, I am yet to even try a piece of fruit cake. It's the candied fruit…I just…can't.

But I'm in the minority!

To quote 'We Need a Little Christmas' song lyrics: slice up the fruit cake. It's Christmas in the KK household.

This post is about poop.

(WARNING: this post contains graphic material)

Between having a baby, and having a dog, a good portion of the conversation in our house revolves around poop.

Poop frequency, poop color, poop consistency, poop size.

Honestly, I'm pooped talking about poop.

But the big news in the house – in regards to poop – was that Max hadn't pooped for four days.

That meant four days worth of poop backed up and waiting to make an exit.

So last night, Mr. KK decided to take research into his own hands and used our friend Google to check in on babies not pooping for 4 days.

KK:  "What are you listening to?"

MR. KK:  "A video about a baby who hasn't pooped."

KK:  "And?"

MR. KK:  "The doctor says massaging the baby's stomach helps. That's where the colon is."

KK:  "You want me to massage our baby's colon?"

MR. KK:  "And do bicycle legs with him. It helps get things moving."

Cut to this morning.

Max and I start our usual morning routine. I break him free of his straight jacket, and we sing the 'Stretch! Stretch! Stretch!' song while he loosens up his arms and legs.

OMG, look at those thighs! Purely edible!

Then we had our playtime on his woodland creature mat.

And we also did tummy time.

And I also massaged Max's colon.

And did bicycle legs.

And heard the rumblings of what could only mean one thing.

Poopapalooza 2014.

I knew I was in trouble when I unzipped his sleeper and saw this:

I believe that's a look of relief. You can see it in his rosy cheeks.

Poop in the front is NEVER a good sign.

Today will forever be known as the day I took a scissors and cut a onesie off of Max. It wasn't worth trying to save it.

I will spare the more graphic pictures (I had to document this epic poop since Mr. KK was conveniently at work. AGAIN.) but I think you get the idea.

The only way to get the poop out of his belly button (yep, belly button) was to toss him in the bath tub.

Between breakfast, tummy time, playtime and the poop of the century, Max was beat and fell into a deep sleep.

Which allowed me the opportunity to take Vito outside. 

So he could poop.

You know her. You love to hate her: Braggart Mom.

If you checked my Google history it would probably look something like this:

'how much should my 10 week old eat'

'how often do babies poop'

'when should baby sleep through the night'

I've never had a baby before, so Google is my best friend. Especially after a 2am feeding when I can't go back to sleep. 

Good lord, what did women do before the internet? Figure stuff out on their own?

No wonder we're all so messed up.

Most of the time my search results include websites like Baby Center or Just Mommies or The Bump. There are tons of pages of message boards where one Mom – who is usually exhausted, delusional and at the end of her rope – will ask for help from others Moms to find the best way to get her child to calm down/go to bed/step away from the boob.

And among the sea of mothers who are offering up their own horror stories or tidbits of motherly advice, she emerges: 

Gloating Mom.

UGH. 

Is there anyone you dislike more than the mother who brags? It's as if she were put on earth to make your feel like an inferior mother. It's like you can see her smirking through your computer screen.

It usually goes something like this: A woman will ask about sleep habits for her 4 month old, and when her baby should sleep through the night. This is usually followed up with comments by other moms, sharing stories of their babies: who needs to breastfeed every two hours; the baby who will only sleep for 30 minute intervals; the 6 month old who hates his crib.

But then, emerging from all of the compassionate mothers, there she is: smug and gloating. Her response usually contains a zillion abbreviations (my LO, the DH and I, I'm a SAHM) and goes something like this: "My baby has been sleeping through the night since she was 4 weeks old! One night I put her down and she just kept sleeping! She now sleeps from 7pm-6am. I couldn't believe how easy it was!"

Oh, go to hell with yourself, lady.

And it's not just about sleeping. Her baby also never cries! Her little one held up his head at 6 weeks. Her 2-month-old rolled over. Her 7-month-old woke up and starting walking. And, of course, her 1.5 year old potty trained himself.

But the fun doesn't stop there.

To add insult to injury, I get weekly emails from The Bump to help me track Max's progress as a human being. It's almost as if all of the Bragging Moms out there got together and put together this list of milestones your baby should  be reaching each week to be considered 'average'. Nothing makes you feel like a failure as a Mom more than someone telling you all of the things your baby should be doing. 

The emails start out very positive: 'Your Baby is 8 weeks old today!' 
(Thank you! I know!)

And then they start kicking you when you're down:

"Your baby should be awake for 10 hours a day!"

"Your little one is probably grabbing onto everything in sight!"

"Your baby is now driving!"

First off, at 8 weeks, Max was never awake for 10 hours a day. In fact, I couldn't keep that kid awake for more than 10 minutes. I would feed him and he'd fall into a food coma.

Ahen it comes to grabbing, Max doesn't like to be told what to do. 

So encouragement like, "Can you grab the giraffe? See the giraffe, Max? Grab that giraffe!" falls onto deaf ears. 

Instead, Max simply stares at the giraffe, then stares at me, as if to say, "Yes, I see the giraffe. I don't much feel like grabbing anything right now. I'll wait until you're not looking."

Max grabs my fingers, the collar of my shirt and my hair. He tries to grab his bottle, only because he's a glutton and loves to eat. But he doesn't grab rattles or plastic toys or million-dollar Sophie. At least not while I'm watching.

At 10 weeks, here's what Max is awesome at:

• Getting millions of kisses
• Spitting out his binky right when you take your hand away so that it falls on the floor
• Getting out of every swaddle known to man
• Letting us know he's hungry
• Falling asleep in my arms and the snapping his eyes open the minute I lay him down in his crib
• Waiting until he has on a clean diaper, is wearing a new outfit and is buckled into his car seat before letting loose mega poop
• Falling asleep during tummy time
• Eating
• Looking adorable
• Sleeping through our meals at restaurants
• Acting surprised when he sees the same toy he's seen for the last 9 weeks
• Waking you up to eat in the middle of the night as soon as you hit your deepest sleep
• Being the cutest baby in the universe

In my eyes, he's right on track.

Take that, Bragging Mom.