Trick or Treat

Happy Halloween!

The Pardys are all over their colds from last week - back from the dead and ready to eat candy! It's Halloween!

Like most Americans, we will be celebrating in full-fledged pumpkin fashion, dressing up our children (so we have something to blackmail them with later in life) and parading them around, freely exploiting them so as to obtain obscene amounts of candy! Hooray! Yes, parents MUST have invented Halloween...well, scheming children who then grew up to become parents who still maintained their childhood passion for all things sugar, at least!

And, speaking of embarrassing...let me just cut to the chase and let you know now that this is going to be a blog (though, short as it may be) that will most likely go down in blog history. The kind of blog you pass onto your friends. The sort of post you might dog-ear/bookmark on your browser so that you can click on it when you need a good laugh in the middle of a hum-drum day. If you think I'm joking, then you haven't scrolled far enough down to see what I'm talking about.

I grew up in a very creative family. My mom is not only an excellent seamstress, she is also a bargain hunter. I'm gonna guess that, oh, back in say 1984 or so there was some brown corduroy on sale...probably right next to a rick-rack 2 for 1 deal...and an idea was born.

Now, still, to this day, I don't know if this was a trick or a treat for her. Did she actually think this was cute - or did she know that someday she could use this photo to make sure neither of us would ever be allowed to run for office or be famous (or make normal friends)??? Certainly, I was too young to take any blame. My sister (bless her) was most likely bribed into yet another "matching her sister" scenario with promises of candy or toys, or who knows what (a new Atari game? a new Easy Bake oven recipe?)

Nevertheless, that Halloween, we became: THE GINGERBREAD SISTERS

Be afraid, be very afraid! We will come and steal your children at night! Ok- maybe not - but can you stop cringing long enough to laugh, or can you stop laughing long enough to cringe? (I know - it's okay - it still creeps me out quite a bit too.)

Either way, it is a humdinger of a Halloween memory, and I'd say I have the photo to prove it.

I'd like to take a chance later in the week to reflect more on Halloween growing up (clearly, this photo leaves much to be discussed) and include some photos of tonight - when I get to embarrassingly dress up my own girls and then steal their candy (did I say steal? I meant share).

Until then, I hope this memory has been a treat for you. Now, what are you waiting for??? That candy is not going to eat itself!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Home Work

Today, my baby girl, Daphne, turns 3 months old. Today, would have been the day that I would have had to return to work if I hadn't quit to become a stay at home mom (SAHM). I could not be more grateful - to God, to my husband, and everyone else for their prayers and support - to be home today. I know exactly what it is like to leave home and go back to work, and I am relishing the fact that I get to be here at home today...and the next day, and the day after that... Truly, a blessing.

When Matilda was born, I took the whole 13 weeks off of work. I cherish those moments to this day - going on walks with her, nursing and rocking her, staring at her and snapping photos nearly every five minutes. Being a new mother was lovely and joyous - even amidst the spit up, the diapers, and the 3am wake up cries - I took pride in the luxury of giving Matilda my full, undivided attention.

But, as soon as she was born, I also felt something else that I didn't anticipate. A clock was ticking. As I had counted down the days to her arrival, I thought that the "ticking" would stop when she was born...but, instead, the clock continued...week by week...now counting down to the day I would have to leave her to return to work. The day I would have to adjust to a "new kind of normal" all over again.

I started crying about it nearly 3 weeks before the day came. I felt guilty, I felt sad, I weak. I felt nervous about things I'd never done before (how does one excuse oneself from a meeting at work to go pump breastmilk before her boobs might explode?) I felt self-conscious (can you see my Spanx under this top? what about my nursing pads?) I felt excited to catch up with everyone - to show off pictures of my new baby, of course! But, most of all, I just felt burdened. How can I do this? How do I juggle it all? How do I not cry at my desk all day? How will she make it through the day without me? How do I FIX this so I can stay home???

Don't get me wrong - work wasn't a horrible place or anything. Everyone at the office was very encouraging, empathetic, totally accommodating and sensitive...but, well, they weren't my baby! I kept reminding myself why I was doing this. First of all, we simply had no choice. We couldn't make enough "cut backs" in our life to afford to have me home. It wasn't a matter of adjusting our value system. And, since I was returning to work, I could provide wonderful things for my child in the meantime: health insurance (that's a biggie) and also social interaction with others for her sake - this would be good for her, right?

And, as ideal a situation as it was (my amazing sister-in-law and her sweet daughter were going to watch Matilda at our home the 3 days a week I was at the office) it was simply hanging over my head. It was daunting and sad - and I just knew that the anticipation of it all had to be worse than the actual day-of. Indeed, it was. That first day was a hum-dinger...full of holding back tears and taking big gulps as people would greet me and ask how it was to be back.

I know this is all quite dramatic...I mean, I was going to return to her each evening, and she was going to be absolutely fine. But, let's face it, there's no "reasoning" with a mother who is separated from her child, no matter the time or distance. Bottomline: it sucked.

So, finally, finally when everything came together this last spring and my husband was offered a job that could actually support our family - we made the plunge into being a single-income home. Yikes! and Yippee! And here I am. Home. Babies napping, sipping on some coffee, writing because I want to be writing...dream come true. Sure, we worked hard to get here, we put in many prayers and hours towards this goal, but it is honestly only because of God's grace in opening doors that we are able to view this time for the blessing that it is!

What's awesome (well, not awesome, but you'll know what I mean) is that Matilda is actually sick today...and I didn't have to leave her or Daphne at all. Instead, I'm exactly where I should be. Staring at their little faces, not missing a moment...and wiping that sweet snotty nose for the umpteenth time today. Yup. This is where I belong.

Nap Time

It's nap time. That magical hour when the house falls silent and I can actually blink long enough to regain focus of my ever-elusive goals for the day and, oh yeah, finally get a second to wipe that spit-up off my shoulder that's been there since this morning when I was trying to balance baby on one side and a now-cold cup of coffee on the other while turning up the volume on the Today Show so I can at least act like I know what the heck is going on in the rest of the world...right.

But, this nap time is not so easy to come by at the Pardy home. Oh, no. I know there are many kids out there who have snooze-buttons built in...kids whose parents wind them up in the morning only to perfectly settle down at an appropriate time, sleep for a few hours, and get beautifully recharged, awakening at another appropriate hour as pleasant, well-rested children who are neither manic nor depressive and who, regardless of their lengthy siesta, still go down for bedtime at (you guessed it) another appropriate time of day. Yeah, this is not us. And maybe it's not you either (don't make me hate you)...but chances are good at some point you've heard "Oh really? She doesn't like to nap? Little Johnny gets in a good 2pm-5pm nap like clockwork!" Well, good for little Johnny. [Names have been changed to protect the innocent.]

Nope, not my eager-to-go-get-em (and by "em" I mean all things in the universe within her sight) miss Matilda. I'd say on average it takes about an hour and a half or longer to put this child down for a nap. We are in that ridiculous phase of giving up two naps and switching to one...only to find that this doesn't necessarily mean the child will understand the idea of "consolidating time"...so instead of two short naps, we get maybe one short nap!? This does not add up.

So, what does she do when she is supposed to be napping but not napping? Um, ANYTHING. The stinker has the stalling game down to a freaking science.

Up out of bed.

Reading books.

Playing with stuffed animals.

Dancing with said animals.

Diapering said animals.

Throwing said animals.

Singing.

Undressing herself.

Climbing the bed.

Climbing the glider.

Removing the cushions from the glider.

Removing the sheets and pillow from her bed.

Building a nest in the middle of the floor with said sheets and pillows.

Yelling and making airplane noises ("neeeeeer").

Yelling "I have poo!" only to fake us out once we go in there.

Yelling "I have poo!" and actually having poo which may or may not have made it onto the floor depending on how clothed she may be at the moment.

Knocking on the door, leading to throwing her body against the door, followed by hitting her head against the door.

And the list continues...

All of which begs the eternal question I ask myself daily as I sit and watch her in the video monitor "Do I go in there?" (Sigh of frustration). Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't, sometimes we start the nap time routine over from the beginning (new diaper, storybooks, sing "Jesus Loves Me", put her down, hit the glow worm and walk out) and sometimes I just return her to bed like a silent nap-time-nazi-robot-mother. The point is, regardless of routine, regardless of the amount of activity beforehand, regardless of eating beforehand, regardless of the time of day or the amount of yawning involved...there is just absolutely no way to predict if this child will go to sleep or not.

Suggestions? (This is the part where you give me your anecdote and free advice on how to all-but-give-Nyquil to my toddler).

The crazy thing? She goes down for bed (almost nearly) every night with no problem! Matilda the enigma. Granted, her throughout-the-night sleeping habits have been hit or miss. Some nights are perfect. Some nights she is up out of bed determined to start the day at 3am (the other night she even fell back asleep in her glider after getting up to read books to her animals...in the pitch black of her room).

And the majority of nights she just has very restless sleep, but manages to stay in bed. (We see her over the video monitor kicking and yelling, tossing and turning, rotating and completely sleeping with her head in every possible spot of the bed throughout the night.)

Apart from having this child tested to see just how much monkey DNA is in her blood...it's all I can do to keep up with her!

So, when there are moments like now - when she is down for a nap and (prepare for a standing ovation) Daphne fell asleep at the same time (thank you, thank you, no really - okay, thank you) I count my blessings, my lucky stars, and the chores on my never-ending to-do list. It's quiet enough to even hear the voice in my head - shouting out all the things I could do to fill this precious moment: shower? fold clothes? dishes? blog? eat? tv? nap? floss?

Well...I guess we all know now what I chose. You'll have to give me grace (and a breath mint) foregoing all the other options.

What's that noise? Crying? (Uh oh). Matilda is awake? Hello afternoon! Here we go...

Wipe Out

The other day, I was in Target (shocker!) and I overheard a mom talking to her youngster in the cart just a few feet behind me: "Uh oh, are your hands sticky?" the little girl was starting to throw a fit, smacking her fruit-snacked-hands together in dismay..."I'm sorry, honey," the mom anxiously continued, "mommy doesn't have any wipies, you will just have to wait. I'm sorry, I don't have any wipes!"

No more did the sentence leave her lips when I stopped in my tracks, jammed my only free hand into my purse, and whipped out a single wet wipe as I spun around in her direction: "I have a wipe!" (I'll admit I kind of felt like some sort of superhero coming to the rescue - albeit a single moist towelette being my secret weapon leaves much to be desired among powers...still...)

The woman paused for a second, glanced at my child-be-cumbered cart and smiled in relief. "Thanks!" she said as we exchanged short introductions followed by friendly "I've totally been there" anecdotes and typical mom "yay for Target" farewell quips. A single wipie saves the day again.

These wet wipes, I tell ya, they have got us moms hooked for life. They are the single deadliest weapon in a mother's baby bag arsenal. They have gotten me out of so many jams, I'm pretty much planning on keeping them in my purse from now on, long after my kids' behinds might need them. I don't know about you, but for me (in a pinch) baby wipes have been stain lifters, furniture polishers, underarm savers, booger pickers, feet cleansers, wall scrubbers, toddler bathers, cart disinfecters, ear swabbers, lense swipers, table dusters, paci sterilizers, and of course...bottom wipers. To name a few. (You can't tell me you've never given your kid a "hobo bath" to stretch their bath time onnnne more night???)

But, until that day in Target, I never thought a lone little wipe could be a conversation starter. Okay, it wasn't that big of a deal, really.

But, you know that moment when you are in a store and your kid hasn't napped yet, and all it takes is one tiny thing to set off the emotional bomb that your child is containing, but for some reason you still think "this will be a short trip, I only have to get such-n-such and we're outta here, surely we will make it before the bomb goes off" and you nearly would - you truly almost do - except that the dollar aisle caught your eye and you just had to stop and see if those $1 kitty halloween socks come in her size...and turns out those kitty halloween socks were the one tiny thing to trigger the end-all-be-all tantrum bomb of all time and...boom!

Toddler emotional explosion. Total wipe out.

Yes, well, I have been there. (See picture [please don't think less of me for snapping a photo of my crying child mid-tantrum...it was the exact moment her father texted to see how our day was going - and that was my text-photo reply, no caption, enough said.]) And, that day in Target I could tell that not having that single wipie to rescue her daughter's sticky hands was her child's "tiny little trigger"...and, well, I'm glad to say the bomb was diffused quickly and safely that day and no Target customers were harmed in the explosion of that toddler's tantrum that day.

So, stash your arsenal, mommies.

Wipes, dipes, and a good helping of encouragement

(emphasis on courage).

Maybe your kids won't need them on that outing, but you never know who will. Next time you see a mom in need, or a kid on the verge of total breakdown, resist the urge to think she doesn't have it all together (who does?) and offer her a smile (or a wipe if need be!) and pass on a little reminder that sweet moments are just around the corner. Sometimes it just takes a while (a deep breath, a good nap, and a hearty diet coke) to get there. (See picture). Ahhhh.

Friday Night Lights

This last weekend we went to Crean Lutheran High School's Homecoming football game. My husband works there as the Director of Admissions and Marketing, and so it was awesome to bring the girls and rep the Pardy fam (nice to meet you, Mrs. Pardy...very weird stuff this being-all-grown-up business). It was also awesome to once again be at a high school football game - something I haven't experienced in (ahem) years.

I grew up on a farm in the middle of Kansas, as most of you know. And when I say "small town football" I don't think a lot of you quite understand what I mean. Not really, anyway. Let's just say that when I was taking my husband home for my 10 year high school reunion I had him watch the entire first three seasons of Friday Night Lights to get amply prepared. And then I told him "scale down the school and exaggerate the pride..." believe it or not, that is how it really was. (Did I mention my graduating class was 16 students?)

To make matters worse/better, I was a cheerleader. True story. And I'm not gonna lie - I totally loved it, and was pretty darn good at it (hey, I conquered the toe-touch back then, so that has to count for something). We had a little squad of 6 super-perky girls, ready to sis-boom-bah you into a win every Friday night. I was the tiny freshman "flyer" they would prop up in the air, pom-pons a fluttering, and cheering the audience into a Thunderbird spirit frenzy! After all, we were the T-Birds (the mighty, mighty T-Birds).

I remember loving pep rallies - getting the school all fired up for the big game, a nice chill in the air (they actually have seasons in Kansas) and helping paint posters that our boys would soon destroy as they ran onto the field. I totally remember feeling important - feeling noticed - and the drama of high school would fade into the background for those four quarters that our columbia blue and white padded soldiers took battle on the fifty yard line...or was that the twenty yard line?...or...was that the first down?...it didn't matter. My hair was cute, my skirt was ironed, my shoes were shiny...I was a cheerleader.

Watching the high schoolers on Friday night brought it all back for me - all those memories of school spirit and go-big-blue pride. The CLHS cheerleaders were far better than I ever was - it almost made me nervous for them thinking how much more pressure there must be these days to be a cheerleader in high schools today. But, well, they seemed thrilled to be out there, so hey, I'll smile and clap and accept the fact that when you look at me, miss cheerleader, you don't see a girl who is sorta dying to jump out there and try to do a "herkie"....you see a mom. You see me, with my baby bjorn on, rocking my Saints sweatshirt, holding a half-eaten hot dog. That's right. And you bet I will clap with you and for you and help you cheer on those Saints! And you're welcome.

Yup. I'm old. And I can no longer do those high kicks or jumps, and frankly, no one wants to see me in that short of a skirt, thank you very much. But kid, I got something that makes me more cheerful than any bubble-letter-poster ever could: perspective.

On our way home from the game, Josh and I were sort of high from all the school spirit, reminiscing about our own high school days. I said, "wouldn't it have been great to just go back for a day, but with this brain - this amount of wisdom and perspective that we've gained so far?"

Sort of the quintessential "what would you tell your high school self" kinda question. Man, to relive that time (which honestly, I wouldn't ever want to do - my glory days of popularity were extremely short lived) knowing how little it all mattered. No worries about who is dating who (Is she wearing his letterman jacket?) or having a cow over the tiniest things (I can not believe my mom didn't wash my Jordache jeans, she doesn't understand anything obviously) or caring so so so so so incredibly much about ourselves constantly (think how many times you must have used the phrase "Oh, I know" when you were a teenager...and how you really, actually, truly did not, in fact, know). Well, it might be fun to go back for a day with that perspective and appreciation (totally having a Zac-Efron-in-Seventeen-Again moment here) and just have fun.

Until time travel is a viable option, however, we'll just have to be grateful to be all grown up, having this Friday-night-lightbulb-moment for the time being. It's nice to be here - with my baby bjorn, my comfortable sneakers and sense of security...thankful for the high school memories I have, good and bad, and mostly glad that I don't have to go through it ever again.

Now, hold my hot dog for me so I can go grab my toddler before she runs onto the field and gets tackled...

Weighty

If I was a celebrity, the news of the week would be that I finally hit my pre-pregnancy weight this week, two and a half months after Daphne's birth. But, since I'm not a celebrity (whew!) I can shout from the rooftops that it is a freaking miracle for me to already say I hit that beautiful number on the scale so soon. Honestly, it took me by surprise, and I can only credit my giant daughter who breastfeeds non-stop for the accomplishment. And don't think I don't thank the Lord for Spanx every day also. (I'm not even joking).

But, don't hate me so fast. And stop rolling your eyes.

The truth of the matter is that I gained some weight RIGHT before getting pregnant - so it is a bit easier for me to exclaim this truth sooner (sneaky, I know!) So, I'm not at my "goal" weight - just my pre-pregnancy weight. And let's face it - usually we all have a "goal" weight that is somewhere between unrealistic and a hot fudge brownie...and that brownie almost always wins (darnit).

I know what you're thinking..."Emily, who cares?" I get it. If you are female, if you have kids or not, chances are good that you are either trying to maintain your weight or trying to lose weight, or at the very least praying that the pumpkin spice latte you had this morning won't stick to your thighs the way it stuck to your blouse when you spilled it on your way into work this morning. Am I at least a little bit right? We all think about our weight. And it totally sucks.

Let me see if I can peg you down even further. (We are in this together now, so hang on.)

Weight is a very personal and touchy subject. (duh) It has most likely fluctuated over the years for most of you, and we all commiserate in the fact that it will continue to ebb and flow as we get older. (Sigh).

We all have a couple friends in our lives who absolutely can eat anything they want (is she scarfing down another bag of Cheetos? and is that regular Coke?) and never gain an ounce, and we pride ourselves in the fact that we don't claw their eyes out every time we see them cause we are just so gosh darn jealous of their stupid metabolism.

We cringe at the sight of those ridiculous skinny jeans - the ones that are obviously meant for toddlers and not grown women - and wonder what the statute of limitations is on that belly band still at the top of our underwear drawer just in case we're having a "bloatish" day.

We are almost always in the mood to shop for shoes or jewelry, because, frankly, they won't make us want to strangle the retail associate in the store after we try them on.

And, we love to watch makeover shows because we never ever look nearly as bad as the "before" and we truly believe somewhere deep inside that we could absolutely pull off the "after" if someone would just watch my kid for a good three hours so I could dig out that curling iron from underneath the bathroom sink somewhere among the 8 bottles of firming lotion that promised me a new rear end (and lied).

So yeah - it gets touchy when some chick who just reached her pre-pregnancy weight has the gall to blog about it and open up a cavern of insecurity among those who may or may not be turning her picture into a dartboard right now. (What is she trying to say? Get to the freaking point, blog girl.)

Ah yes, my point. This could be a post all about how kindness comes in all sizes and so do we - so let's all get along and if you can't say anything nice...then shop online, I guess. But, it's not. Honestly. Because like it or not, in reality, we aren't at all concerned about whether so-n-so fits into her jeans from high school or not. We couldn't care less what who's-her-face ate for lunch. And we don't have the time to listen to what's-her-butt go on and on about how she is giving up sugar for the zillionth time. We are all far to concerned about our own selves! It's nice to get compliments from others, sure, but it's worth so much more to actually believe them...and (dare I say it?) compliment ourselves.

Pat yourself on the back. Go ahead. (Really, no one's looking, do it.) You are average - and awesome. Tada! But, don't take my word for it, take your own. Chances are, you are smaller than some people you know, and larger than others. Some people consider you skinny, others might think that skirt you're wearing is doing you no favors (heyyyy! sorry.) And truth be told, almost no one who looks at you can tell the difference between your "good looking" days and your "shlumpy" days...but you. See - nice and average! Hooray!

I may be delightfully surprised to have reached this pre-pregnancy weight before I thought I would - who knows, maybe I kept low expectations so I could celebrate more easily. (I'll be writing more in the future about body image and how our views shift through pregnancy and childbirth, by the way.) And as much as I strive to stay realistic, balanced, and happy - I'm not immune to the lies that if I don't look a certain way I won't be "good enough". So - I have to vaccinate myself against those lies. Counteract them with truth, relating to others, and simply believe that my worth is not found in an unattainable stack of size 6 jeans at the GAP.

We got flu shots this weekend. (Warning: obvious analogy ahead.) And just like I don't want to get the flu, so I get the vaccine - I don't want to slip into the all-consuming thought process of watching numbers on a scale go up and down and up and up and down (and so on) each week, quietly judging myself between meals and outfits. UGH. What a waste of mental energy. That is so "1997" for me - and I'm in my thirties now (thank you very much) and I'm just not into the whole self-loathing bit anymore. But you can't just take a shot of truth and suddenly feel great about yourself all the time. Maybe not. I'll admit it is a life-long process for myself and for most of us gals out there.

So, in the meantime - of us all learning how to love ourselves and our imperfect bodies - let's take the time to believe one compliment someone tells us this week. C'mon - someone is going to compliment you on something this week. Believe them. And here's one for starters...my, you read that blog so well and didn't throw one thing at the screen when she talked about her weight - good for you! :)

Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?

Rx: Parenthood

Well, I'm just getting over a brutal cold. I've successfully made it through the "throat-on-fire" stage, coasted past the "did-I-just-sneeze-out-my-brain?" phase, and am nearing final departure of the "just-stop-coughing-just-make-yourself-stop-coughing-enough-already" grand finale. Aren't colds just the loveliest? Ahem.

I hate being sick. I mean, it is silly to even mention because frankly, I don't know anyone who enjoys being sick...but, seriously, isn't it just the worst?

Actually, I do sort of remember liking sick days. Remember when you would wake up a bit feverish and your mom would come in your room to check in on why you haven't come down for breakfast only to find you still in your pajamas...and you were cringing and rejoicing on the inside all at the same time because you knew no matter how awful you felt that it still meant you could skip school so you didn't have to endure Mrs. Alber's PE class of "Sweatin it to the Oldies with Richard Simmons" for the fourth time that week???? (C'mon, don't you remember that? No? Just me? Hmm. Okay then.)

But, you know the feeling. Sometimes there are things worse than being sick. Sometimes we'll take a raw sore throat over that book report we've been dreading, or that big meeting at work, or that lunch date with what's-her-face who only calls you when she needs a favor... And when I was growing up, sick days were a respite from the daily chores of life - of homework - of school time drama. Days when I could just curl up on my couch, kleenex in hand, and watch 4 hours of Anne of Green Gables followed by a long nap and a cup of tea. Ah, those were the days.

And those days are long, long over.

This time last week I was just thanking God that I only had a cold! That I could drink coffee with my sudafed (which I'm still not sure is the best thing, but it didn't kill me, so it can't be that bad, right?) and still care for my kids under the haze of congestion weighing on my head.

Now, instead of resting, drinking fluids, and blowing my nose - I'm constantly sanitizing everything I touch, nursing my daughter between vitamin C boosting juice breaks, and am suddenly fine with Matilda climbing up that chair if it means she is quiet for one minute longer...what...wait a minute...maybe you should get down from there. I'm losing focus again.

Did I mention my 2 month old still wakes up a good three or four times a night? Whew.

There are no decongestants strong enough to un-congest the chaos of your life while you are sick.

All of this, to me, falls in that category of life that is: the things they don't tell you to expect when you are going to have kids, and even if they did tell you, you can't really imagine it until you are there. Bottomline: it is a challenge to be a parent when you are sick.

And yet, you just keep going. Sick or not. That is one of the many things about motherhood that astounds me the most. There are mothers everywhere - we all know mothers, or ARE mothers - and these women, whether they look like they have it all together or not - are still functioning. Daily. They are keeping young persons alive, living and breathing, and consistently losing sleep, time, sanity, even hair over doing so...some of them are even working, volunteering, not to mention keeping up with dishes, laundry, cooking and other mundane necessities...and they just keep going. Mothers are like some powerful machine/zombie combo that just won't stop. Oh yeah - and I'm one of them?!? That hasn't quite hit me yet.

Women - how are we doing this on, like, three hours of sleep? How?

The only theory that makes sense is that these little beings we care for - these children - must have some kind of healing, restorative power in them that somehow rejuvenates our constant desire to maintain and care for them. (After all, they are lucky they are cute, right? Maybe their secret is in their smiles.)

As much as I love sleep (and boy, do I) my need for it is instantly diminished in the tiniest of yelps from my sweet baby. As much as I love to eat (and boy, do I) my hunger pangs dissipate the moment my child cries out. And as much as I love myself (you fill in the blank) I'm transformed into an uncharacteristically selfless creature who will fight tigers with my bare hands any time my babies are in need.

Roar.

Maybe motherhood is the best medicine after all. Now, go take two children and call me in the morning. Wait...that didn't come out right.