I wasn't a new mom snob. (I swear)

Most of my friends fall into two categories: friends with no kids or friends with kids who are older.

When it was our time to become parents, our experience was so unique compared to everyone else’s that we knew. People were intrigued to hear about it, but I didn’t have a lot of those, “Ugh, TELL me about it. When WE were 700 miles away from our unborn child, I was all blah blah blah’” moments.

Prior to our son’s birth I read TONS of blogs and comments and even flirted with the community boards on a few websites. But that’s as far as I went. I never announced myself or shared. I was more of a message board stalker (totally acceptable behavior in my book, btw).

After we got home with Max, I focused on being a mom. I was so overjoyed to have this time with him. I wanted to do and learn everything all by myself.

So I didn’t reach out to fellow Moms. 

Look how easy this is:

I don’t know why, I just didn’t.

Maybe part of it was that Mr. KK and I thought of ourselves as two relatively smart individuals, and that we could figure this "whole parenting thing" out on our own.

Check us out! Don't we look like we know what we're doing???

 

Another reason might have been that I was one of the oldest one of my friends to have a baby, and maybe I was too proud to ask them any questions. I felt that they all did it, I should be able to do it, too. I was older! I was wiser! Well, I was definitely older.

But what about new moms who weren’t friends of mine? Certainly I could chat with strangers about the woes of motherhood. My pediatrician’s office posts signs about a New Mom group that meets every Wednesday night where moms gather and chat about the good, the bad and the ugly. They bond! I could have put on my Big Girl pants, tucked Max in his car seat, and commiserated. I could have been part of a local mom community!

But, still, I didn’t.

Instead, I kept mostly to myself. Of course friends and family came by to visit often; I wasn’t a totally recluse. But I kept quiet about new motherhood. I didn’t cry on friends’ shoulders. I didn’t bother them with a zillion questions. And I didn’t vent on message boards.

Why?

Because everything was going along swimmingly! I felt horribly guilty sharing that with Moms whose lives weren’t quite as rosy.

Plus, I didn’t want them to hate me.

Also, Max is like some bizzaro Fake Baby who is super easy to take care of.

Did I mention that I didn't want them to hate me?

First off, I was healthy and felt great! I didn’t suffer through the trauma known as childbirth (or any of the after effects that can rival any horror movie). I wasn’t recovering from skin tearing (um, you have stitches where??). My boobs weren’t sore. I was zipping up the same jeans every day that I wore 9 months earlier (I KNOW. I’m sorry!).

And because I wasn’t recuperating, I was able to multi-task like the Type A that I am. While Max napped, I would prep gourmet meals for us to eat each night. I’d put out happy hour for when Mr. KK got home from work with snacks and cocktails (no breastfeeding = adult beverages for Mama). I wasn’t trying to show other Moms up, I was just trying to keep busy with stuff other than folding laundry and watching talk shows.

Which leads me to sleep. I was never tired. Why? Because Max was a sleeping superstar. Since the day we got home he’s always slept in 4-5 hour stretches (thank you, Similac). In the first two months I think we slept until 8:30 every morning. I read so many blogs and comments and articles about new moms walking around like zombies because their babies would get up every 2 hours (some said every 45 minutes!) so they weren’t sleeping at all. I think sharing the fact that I was getting a solid 10 hours of sleep in each night might earn me a punch in the face.

Our little sleeping hero:

Speaking of awesome feats of sleep, from a little over 3 months, Max started sleeping 11-12 hour stretches each night…and I mean 11 hours STRAIGHT with no wake-ups*. When we shared our tremendous sleeping-through-the-night news with our pediatrician she politely warned us, “I wouldn’t go telling other moms about this. They might not like you very much.”

And then there’s feeding time. Max is a champion eater. He’s been on the same formula they started him on in the hospital. He doesn’t spit up. He’s had zero reactions. We are yet to see vomit. Fake Baby strikes again!

And that, my friends, is why I kept to myself. Not because I was being a hermit, or a snob, but because I was afraid other new moms would cause some serious bodily harm to me when they heard I was well-rested, cooking gourmet meals each night and that Max never cried.

And it’s also why Max will be an only child. Because you know if we had a second, Fake Baby would go out the window, and new ‘this-is-what-it’s-really-like-baby’ would test my limits and sanity like nobody’s business!

*We’ve only had 2 bad nights with Max, and one of them was New Year’s Eve, and I’m still convinced he didn’t want to sleep and miss all the fun.

The Mushy Mom Gene

I believe there’s this thing called the Mushy Mom Gene. 

It's the genetic make up where from an early age you can’t wait to be a mother. You start babysitting at nine years old and don’t stop until you graduate college (and even then you might make yourself available to that one family who’s in a bind because their kids are just so.freakin’.cute).

In your twenties, the Mushy Mom Gene means you smile and wave at babies in the grocery store, squeal when a friend tells you she’s preggers (then you rub your own empty womb, try not to be jealous and silently tell yourself, ‘some day!’). Or you see a family in a restaurant with one of those little booster seats attached to the table and – even though the kid is throwing french fries at his father – you think it’s the most adorable thing in the world.

In your thirties the Mushy Mom Gene goes into overdrive if you don’t yet have a baby. You see a toddler in the grocery store whose mother is a total hot mess and you start to think of what it would be like if you took the kid home to live with you. Or the minute you walk into a friend’s house you make a beeline for their baby, stick your nose to its head and inhale deeply.

The Mushy Mom Gene can make you do crazy things.

I was not born with the Mushy Mom Gene.

I was an only child, so I spent quite a bit of time letting my imagination run wild, holding conversations with myself and creating a second life in my basement. I had more Cabbage Patch Dolls than I care to admit (only child = more presents), and they would play a part in my world of make believe. 

I would play school, where I was the teacher and the Cabbies were my students. Or I would play orphanage, and I was the cool house mother (a nicer version of Mrs. Hannigan) that took care of the kids until they were adopted. And in some instances, I was their cool aunt who would take them to the movies or ice cream and then drop them back off at home at the end of the day.

In not one of these scenarios was I their mother. I blame this on the absence of the Mushy Mom Gene.

Just because I wasn’t born with the Mushy Mom Gene, didn’t mean I didn’t want to be a mother. Not gushing over babies can make people think that you don't want children.

It's quite the opposite for me. I LOVE being a mother. I LOVE our son. In fact, I wish we would win the lottery so I could spend all day every day at home with him being his MOTHER.

And now that I’m a mother, I see the Mushy Mom Gene creeping its way into my being. I smile at babies in the grocery store! I want to see pictures of your baby and kids on Facebook! I love sharing stories about baby habits or poop debacles!

Now, to be clear, this doesn’t mean that I automatically love every stranger baby and toddler I encounter.

If your baby has green snot running down its face and is trying to reach her germy hands on me or my cart? I probably don’t love that baby.

If I’m eating at a nice restaurant and it’s 9pm and you have your toddler there WAY past his bedtime and he’s having a meltdown? I probably don’t love that kid, either.*

The Mushy Mom Gene is a powerful thing. It makes you cry at Pampers commercials. Get teary-eyed at pictures of newborns. Wave back at kids who wave at you first. 

Damn you, Mushy Mom Gene!

If I had my Cabbage Patch Dolls right now I’d give them all a big old hug…from their mother.

*NOTE: I think kids can and should go to restaurants! We take Max out with us all the time! Just do it at appropriate times in appropriate places and be respectful of others.

How to survive your first week back at work (with the fewest tears as possible)

I went back to work this past week.

I know.

Throughout my entire time home, I never thought about going back. Mainly because I knew I would obsess over it, and I didn't want it to ruin my time with Max.

And – I will admit – going back wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

Here's some advice that helped me make it through my first week back:

1. Call in an Act of God. For me, it was a blizzard. Timed correctly, Mother Nature can really be on your side. Blizzard 2015 resulted in 1.5 days working at home, which meant extra snuggle time with my little nugget. The distraction you select is up to you: hurricane, flood, swarm of locusts.

2. Let people take you to a welcome-back lunch. Order a cocktail. Or three.

3 Bask in the glory of answering: “How’s the baby?” Gush about anything – and everything – you can about your little bundle of joy until they lose interest (about one minute). Once they move on, quietly wait until the next person welcomes you back and asks the same question, and immediately launch into how smart/cute/amazing your baby is. (Refrain from over-sharing, such as poop color and green eye mucus.)

4. Daily showers! You get to take a shower every day! And wear a bra! In fact, your office probably encourages it.

5. Relish all of the free time you have. That’s right, free time. Yes, you’re at work, but when was the last time you found yourself with a few empty moments where someone wasn’t waiting for you to do, well, everything for them? Pay a bill. Update your Facebook status. Put your head down on your desk and take a nap.

6. Go to the bathroom. Remember all those days you thought your bladder was going to burst because you just couldn’t get to the bathroom, like, ever? Guess what? You now can PEE WHEN YOU HAVE TO, instead of waiting for your mother to visit, or when the baby is napping.

7. Your diaper duty has been cut by 75%. The chances of you having to change that explosive diaper after four days of not pooping are pretty slim. That one time when you had to cut off his onesie? Yeah, someone else is dealing with that.

8. Stalk your baby app. Your childcare provider willingly agreed to update the app each day. Become OCD over every diaper change and feeding. Text questions. Make them regret ever agreeing to use it.

9. Two words: Saturday and Sunday.

10. Post-work snuggles. Remind yourself of that little face that’s going to light up when you walk in the door, and that no one can ever replace you. You’re the Mommy, after all.

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.