And now, a word about cup hooks.

When you were growing up, did your grandmother have her tea cups or mugs neatly hung from little hooks on the inside of a kitchen cabinet? Mine neither, she wasn't that organized, but I saw other kids' grandmothers' kitchens, and they had cups hanging from cup hooks. I'm pretty sure that's how I developed the opinion that cup hooks are for old ladies, and people who have tea cups. Imagine my surprise when a little light bulb illuminated in my brain (doesn't happen often these days!) and I realized cup hooks aren't just for cups. Or grandmothers, for that matter.

I was searching for ways to organize the top of my kitchen sink. Between a few different scrub brushes and sponges for various kitchen cleaning tasks, the sink area was getting crowded. I'm not a fan of storing wet sponges under the sink (because mold, ew), so I started looking at what other sink items I could stash. That sad, lonely, hardly used (read: often dry) drain stopper caught my eye, and after a little musing I realized adhesive cup hooks on the inside of the sink cabinet would hold it up nicely. Observe Figure 1:

Fig. 1: Assembled cup hook drain cover storage.

 

Now I'm not the most patient person in the world, which means I don't typically have the patience for measuring and stuff. So to get this little system attached, I simply slid the cup hooks onto the drain cover, held the whole arrangement where I wanted it to make sure it would fit, and then removed the backing from the adhesive cup hooks and pressed both into place while they held the drain cover. I wasn't sure it would work, honestly, but it did so WOOT! Here is what the attached cup hooks look like when they're not holding the drain cover:


I got so excited by The Great Cup Hook Success that I started trying to find other ways to use these handy little guys. I had been keeping a rubber lid opener on a shelf above the kitchen sink to remove the expertly attached lid from my husband's coffee mug when he brings it back after a day at work (seriously, if the mug was used to store Kryptonite, Superman could carry it around without care after my husband put the lid on). I never liked having the grippy thingy on a shelf, but it was better than fishing around in a drawer for it after my hands were already wet from washing dishes. Cup hook to the rescue! Observe Figure 2:

Fig. 2: Ugly-but-useful rubber lid opener ON A CUP HOOK!

I just used a regular hole-punch to add a hole to hang the lid opener from the hook. Not the most beautiful solution, but very effective. Someday I might get a cuter lid opener, but for now this works!

And to the left you will see the adhesive cup hooks I used (or what's left of them).

Once upon a time I used screw-in white coated metal cup hooks to add storage for keys to a large letter sorter (which has since been repurposed as a wall-mounted library in the nursery). I plan to use those prettier cup hooks for other projects, like hanging my measuring cups and spoons inside my baking cabinet, and hanging my dish brush and bottle brush above the sink. Those projects will have to wait until I can find that box of remaining cup hooks. I know it exists somewhere in my garage, and I refuse to buy new cup hooks just because I can't figure out where the hell my husband put the ones we already have.

Have you used cup hooks to organize your home? How so? Do you prefer adhesive or screw-in? Share your stories in the comments!

Easy Alternative Dog Bed

Last week I talked about my dog and how my feelings towards him changed so much once Scoops arrived. This week I'd like to share a simple solution (I can't really call it a project) that I implemented to give him a cozy new bed and help me regain some sanity, and feel a little less resentful.

When we brought Opie home from the pound 13 months ago, we needed a makeshift bed for him. We weren't certain which dog we would be adopting, so we didn't buy a dog bed ahead of time. We brought out a huge (I'd guess about 5' x 7') old fleece blanket that my husband had grown up with (and, incidentally, that his one and only childhood dog had birthed her puppies on). Given it's age alone, the thing wasn't in great condition, but Opie didn't care. He ran up to meet it as we brought it towards him and wrapped him in it. He knew it was for him and snuggled right down into it. Great! Except that it was literally about 8 times bigger than a blanket should be for a roughly 10 pound chihuahua mix.

At first it was cute to see that little dog wrapped up in his ridiculously oversized blanket. But as Opie got more and more comfortable, and began "nesting" more and more in his bed, the blanket began to spread into our tiny space. I decided it wasn't a big deal, and just kept repositioning the blanket, swirling it back into a neat little nest several times a day. Opie would sometimes get up to walk away from his bed and accidentally drag the whole blanket with him. It often ended up parked right next to our front door, or in our kitchen. Eventually, the binding on the edges began to wear off, and Opie started getting his head through the sizeable rips and wearing the blanket like a cape. So regal. I figured that just wasn't safe, but "someone" still didn't want to get rid of his childhood blanket, so I just cut the torn bits of seam binding off. 

I also purchased a charming little fabric dog igloo, one that coordinated much better with our living room decor than did this big brown blankie with a tiger face on it (oh yes, one of those), for Opie shortly after he joined our family. Opie decided the igloo was a throne instead, and would mash the top of it down until he could sit on it, and then ultimately pushed it out of the way so he could just use the blankie. He really wasn't a fan of the igloo.

We ended up burying it under the blanket, and eventually tossed it out when it collected more hair and dander than I or the washing machine could remove, and it was obvious Opie was never going to use it as was intended.

After Scoops came home, and after the initial postpartum high had worn off (seriously, when we brought her home I was laughing about how filthy the house was - crazy hormones), I began to feel very annoyed with the gigantic blanket taking over my entire small downstairs. So we set out to find a nice, comfy, stylish pet bed for Opes MaGopes. After a little searching through HomeGoods, and much poo-pooing of the available pet beds there (they were all so ugly!), my husband discovered a charming little woven rush basket for about $8 in the home organization section. It looked like it was meant to hold magazines or papers, but we knew it would easily hold our dog. We took it home and put a thrifted fleece baby blanket in it, but it wasn't quite soft enough. My husband had some foam packaging lying around, so I wrapped that up in another thrifted baby blanket (or maybe it was the one we took home from the hospital, but I'll never tell), put the thicker fleece baby blanket on top, and BOOM. Opes was comfy. He loved it, and still does. I think he likes how small it is, because it feels cozier to him. I love it because his bed stays confined to his own little corner of the living room (mostly - he still drags the new blanket around like a cape sometimes) and the stylish little basket actually looks nice in my living room. 

Materials used: thrifted baby blanket, woven rush letter basket, and packing foam sheet.

"Oh where, oh where has my fave blankie gone?"

In the photo above you can see I've substituted an old bath towel (which I'm suddenly thinking I may keep on as the primary because I like the color better) in place of Opie's regular blankie while it's in the wash. As I wrote this post, I discovered a new colony of monstrous fleas on him and had to wash eh-ver-y-thing before I could finish writing. Good times!

So there you have it. We got creative with materials and used our resources to save money and find an aesthetically pleasing compromise. The dog is happy, I'm happy, and that means daddy is happy. Everybody wins. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go clean dog poop off the stairs again.

Why Valentine's Day Isn't the Actual Worst

This past weekend the Western world observed Valentine's Day, a holiday that has the ability to both unite and divide people like no other holiday I know. While the modern purpose of the day is to celebrate romantic love, many cynics (or realists, however you want to look at it) deem the occasion simply a "Hallmark holiday," spawned to feed the money hungry corporations of America that peddle useless crap and sub-par sweets. I admit I typically fall into this camp, and have never in my adult life been a real fan of Valentine's Day. At best I've felt it's a forced and ingenuine moment for couples to competitively out-romance their fellow couples by flaunting their love for each other with cheesy oversized stuffed animals and exorbitantly overpriced red roses. At worst, it's a cruel reminder to everyone who is unintentionally not in a romantic relationship that they are, in fact, still single, their willingness to mingle completely aside. This year, however, I was surprised to find I felt a change of heart (ha! - pun not intended) towards Valentine's Day.

As February 13 crept towards a silent and uneventful close, I began to feel a little excited about the holiday rapidly approaching. It didn't take long for me to realize that having a new baby was making me feel like celebrating, in general to be honest, but also particularly this day dedicated to Love. (Interestingly, having a baby also made me feel very strongly that we needed to put up Christmas lights on our tiny rental this past yuletide season.) I didn't expect anything from my husband, and hadn't planned a gift for him. There was no dinner reservation, no hair or mani/pedi appointment, no giant bouquet of flowers, not even a card. We had talked when he arrived home from work on the evening of the 13th about spending some time outdoors as a family at a local historic attraction the next day. That was the extent of our plans. Yet I felt excited to actually celebrate a day of love, which is exactly what it turned out to be. We had a relaxing morning laying around in bed with our new baby, visited some very dear friends and their new baby, enjoyed a warm afternoon outdoors as a family, and spent the evening on the couch snacking on a tapas-style dinner and watching Eddie Murphy "Raw" on Netflix after Scoops went to sleep. 

It. Was. Perfect. 

Every other time I've celebrated this holiday, even when I've anti-celebrated it as a single person (I once hosted a St. Valentine's Day Massacre themed singles party), it has been so full of expectations. I've been so attached to the outcome of the day that I, like so many others, completely lost sight of what the day should mean. Now I know it's just Valentine's Day, so who really gives a whoop what it means and whether or how it's celebrated, but bear with me a minute, because this year I learned a few things about this holiday that I think are rather notable:

1. Having a baby changes everything - even holidays. Truthfully, I wanted to celebrate this holiday this year because I am so incredibly filled with love for my beautiful new daughter. I found myself reflecting on a certain Valentine's Day dinner my mom hosted for our little family one year when I was a kid. She may have hosted similar celebrations other years, but I remember one year in particular, coming downstairs for dinner to find the table set with gleaming red glass dishes, candles glowing, and a homemade stretchy bracelet of red heart shaped beads set at each place setting for me and my two sisters. I felt special and loved, and I definitely did not feel that way because of some boy or love interest. As a mom myself now I can easily assume my mom wasn't trying to fulfill an obligation to celebrate Valentine's Day, but was simply so filled with love for me and my sisters that she felt compelled to celebrate it! Which leads me to:

2. If you're not feeling it, don't do it. I really felt inspired to celebrate Valentine's Day this year. But my definition of "celebrate" was a little different than what convention dictates for this holiday. I didn't want a romantic date with just my husband, away from our child. I wanted to celebrate the lovely changes we've all experienced together, as a family. My husband and I are both a little different now that we have a baby, and it seemed so right to celebrate all the love she's added to our lives. We made no real or definite plans. We didn't cook a special meal. We didn't buy or even make presents for each other. We just spent time together as a family. We talked about how much we love each other. We told stories about our childhoods and pondered the possibilities of our individual and collective futures. We tried not to spend too much time on our phones. Mostly, we just let the day happen without trying to control the outcome.

3. Valentine's Day is for all kinds of love. For the most part, I have always felt this way. This year it just felt more true than ever before. I think the reason Valentine's Day gets a bad rap is because it's marketed to be very exclusive. If you're not in a relationship, Valentine's Day doesn't apply to you, or at least that's the message we all seem to be fed. I'm openly challenging that now. In the past, that has meant that I shunned the holiday and scorned anyone who celebrated it. Now, it means that I'm going to celebrate the holiday in whatever way feels most genuine to me. This year, it meant spending simple time with the people I love most, and celebrating the love I have for each of them and the love they add to my life. Yes, Valentine's Day is for lovers, but as my mom inadvertently (or maybe intentionally, I don't honestly know) taught me with that family dinner long ago, Valentine's Day is not just for lovers in the romantic sense. It's for everyone. Even the dog. If that's not the true meaning of the holiday, it should be, and it will be for me and my family from now on. 

My husband challenges people who give him a hard time for not planning some extravagant Valentine's Day date by asking them, "What does Valentine's Day mean?" When they start jabbering about romantic love and doing something special for your significant other, he points out that he makes a conscious effort to show his wife love every day of the year. He's very right, in a sense. We shouldn't limit ourselves to only one day of showering our loved ones with affection. But what if, on that one day every year, we amplify the love we share? Not just with our spouse or lover, but with everyone, even ourselves? Rather than view Valentine's Day as a limitation, we can treat it as a chance for expansion, specifically to expand and share all the love we can with as many beings as we feel led to share it with. That does more than make Valentine's Day less than terrible. It makes it actually worth celebrating.

Easy Entryway Solution

 I don't know about you, but my home isn't exactly sprawling, and doesn't exactly have a formal entry. My husband works at a very dirty job all day every weekday, and when he gets home I really like him to have a dedicated space to sit down to take off his filthy boots before he tracks all manner of grossness through the house. This is not because I've probably recently cleaned and don't want him to mess it up, but because I never have time or energy to clean and don't want him to add to the dirty atrocity that is our floor. 

A while ago I was on the hunt for the perfect shelf and hook system to fit the small space of wall by our front door, so that we would have a place to hang keys and other items. I finally found one at HomeGoods, probably for less than $20 (although I can't remember exactly) because I'm sure I wouldn't have budgeted more than that for some hooks on a shelf. It really isn't perfect, because the hooks used to hang it to the wall are those little triangular hinged picture hangers, and they're down far enough on the back of this shelf to cause the whole thing to tilt slightly forward when it's hung on the wall. Quality craftsmanship right there, but it was cheap and coordinates well with the other stuff in my home. I threw an oversized basket (stolen from my mother - ok, I didn't steal it, she was getting rid of it anyway) under the shelf to corral shoes, which is what the basket has been doing for years at my mom's house. 

Before: No seating. :(

It's been working this way for over a year, but there never has been a proper place for my husband, or anyone else, to sit down and remove his shoes. An old leather armchair (another hand-me-down!) on the other side of the front door has served this purpose and become increasingly filthy after being caressed repeatedly by my husband's work pants. So I began The Hunt for the Perfect Small-Entryway Bench. Let me tell you, there aren't a lot of affordable options out there. You might think that looking for a smaller item to fill a small space would mean a smaller price tag. You would be right, relative to the cost of larger things, but not relative to the cost of my unreasonably low budget. I scoured the internet for tutorials on easy DIY entry benches, but didn't find anything I felt I could effectively build by myself in an afternoon. Are you wondering why I didn't just ask my husband to build me one? You must not be married.

The hunt continued and I finally started to give up on finding the perfect bench, which in my case does not mean I abandoned the idea of seating in general, but started to get creative about considering alternatives. Instead of a bench, I thought, why not a chair? Well, then the possibilities widened considerably. There are far more cheap chairs out there than benches. But if we're going for cheap we might as well look for free, right? And I happened to have a pair of nice, wooden, very free folding chairs standing in my garage. BAM. Problem solved.

After: Free chair! :D

Is it perfect? No way. Was it free. Heck YES.

You may have surmised by now (if you've been following my posts) that I'm all about a broader learning experience when I tell my stories. This experience was a great reminder for me to be creative, utilize my resources, and ultimately be content with what I have. I don't need the most beautiful entryway ever. I don't need an expensive storage bench for seating and shoes. I had a free basket, and a free chair (and a $20 shelf). My entryway is functional, pleasing to my eye (which is the only eye that really needs to be pleased by it), and didn't put me in debt. What more could I ask for?

What about you? Have you completed any projects like this using hand-me-downs or garage sale finds? Share your photos in the comments!

I love my dog, but...

Recently it seems I've seen a lot of blog posts and status updates about the sudden new-found hatred for a pet that comes, apparently inevitably, with bringing home a new baby. I admit I was pretty much feeling this way after I brought Scoops home. My dog, Opie, who was of course my first baby (and also my first dog, incidentally), was suddenly no longer a soft snuggly creature to be cuddled, but a disease-carrying vermin out to contaminate my helpless child. I shouldn't say "suddenly" because the feeling actually developed over a couple of weeks. 

The first few poops and pees in the house were expected. His barking at the wind as soon as I finally got Scoops to sleep was pretty much a given. I wasn't even surprised when he stole one, then two, then three of Scoops' soft toys (my mistake for leaving them within his reach, but in my defense, baby came early, and mama didn't have time to finish the nursery). But when the behavior not only continued, but worsened over time, I quickly went from mild annoyance to absolute intolerance. I blame sleep deprivation, but then I've never been entirely patient by nature. Let's be honest, I was royally pissed to have to clean dog poop and/or pee off the stairs almost on the daily while trying to figure out the mystic marvels of breastfeeding, sleeping when the baby sleeps (seriously, does anyone do that?), decoding baby's cries, and actually eating a meal. I was even less thrilled when I returned to my half-eaten homemade meatball stew one night (seriously, the one time I bothered to cook a proper dinner) to find Opie had climbed on the table to finish it for me while I ran off to the nursery to change a poopy diaper. I let my overwhelmed self cry more than I would have pre-baby when, just a week after we brought Scoops home, we discovered Opie had fleas (keep in mind, first dog = first time dealing with fleas, and in my sleep-deprived head, it was the end of the world and we were all going to get The Plague from flea bites). But when the dog straight up growled and showed his teeth at Scoops, I just about lost it.

I may or may not have uttered some harsh words to poor Opes McGopes. Logically speaking I completely understood what was happening, and at the same time simply could NOT understand why he wouldn't stop acting out (aside from the fleas, which obviously weren't his fault, but certainly didn't improve my sentiments towards him). He really wasn't neglected. While my husband and I didn't always feed and walk him ourselves, and almost certainly not on the exact schedule to which our dog had been accustomed, we had countless family and friends who very graciously and lovingly fed, walked, and cuddled Mr. McGopes when we couldn't. We sought advice and tried various techniques to curb his bad behavior, but every time it seemed we'd turned a corner, he'd stare deep into our eyes and pee on the space heater, or the couch, or our shoes, as if to say "I know exactly what I'm doing, and yes, I'm still pissed you brought that whiney hairless puppy into our den." 

Suffice it to say, I very seriously considered more than a few times calling any one of the several people who had offered during my pregnancy to take Opie off my hands if he ended up not getting along with the baby. (I think it's important to note I scoffed at ALL of them when they offered, because I adored my dog and had no doubts that he would in turn adore my baby.) Surely this qualified as not getting along with the baby, right? And yet I never called anyone. I most certainly continued to ask visitors to walk him, feed him, play with him, and snuggle him, but never asked anyone to take him home with them (at least not seriously). Why not? I don't honestly know. Maybe I felt that sending Opie away would mean I'd failed as a pet parent, and being a pet parent was supposed to have prepared me for being a people parent (ha!). Maybe I just didn't want to admit how absolutely hopeless I felt about the situation. Whatever the reason, I kept miserably awaiting the next bad behavior, quietly letting hatred for my dog take hold in my heart and grow. I felt very much alone, as I'm pretty sure even my husband didn't feel the same level of angst against Opie that I did.

And then, like magic, someone posted in an online forum about this very thing. Another new mom opened up and bravely asked the question I'd been dying to ask: Did any of you find yourself suddenly hating your pets after you brought your newborn home? She was honest, I might say at least somewhat apologetic, but boldly shared her story and feelings as pure fact.

The comments. Blew. Up. 

Friends, I can honestly tell you, I don't think I've ever seen more judgement in a new-mom forum. Every other comment on this mom's post was in one of two camps; the yes-omg-thank-you-so-much-for-writing-this-I've-been-feeling-the-same-way camp, or the omg-you're-a-horrible-person-and-you-don't-deserve-your-pets-who-are-clearly-much-better-"people"-than-you-are camp. It was unnerving how many people wrote specifically to pass judgement on this mom and everyone else who agreed with or thanked her for opening up. There was shaming, and name-calling, and vile threats - the negativity was through the roof! No joke, I've seen nicer comments on posts from moms talking about how their kids were stressing them to the breaking point. Whatever solace I'd found initially by seeing the question posed was instantly erased when I realized how many people out there were horrified that anyone would feel, or admit to feeling, the way I and the author of the post did. One of the comments was from a veterinarian, who made such statements as "I hear pet owners in my practice say things like this, and it makes me sad because it's selfish," and "If you could just play with your pets for an extra 15 minutes every day..." Reading her comments, I almost felt personally attacked. Selfish? An extra 15 minutes every day? Lady, if you only knew the amounts of energy - mental, emotional, and otherwise - I've been pouring into rectifying this situation. Did I mention I'm trying to keep a newborn alive? I decided to keep my thoughts to myself after that. Clearly I was in the wrong, and needed to fix my selfish and wrong feelings about my dog.

More recently, however, I read this article by another mom who really opened up big time about her pet struggles post-baby. And then this one, which also echoed what I was feeling, and feeling ashamed for feeling, and the reader comments on both articles were excruciatingly vicious, just as they had been in that forum when I first saw this issue brought up. That first article I read, though, sparked something in me. Certainly it sparked enough to initiate a stronger desire for a change of heart, even if it didn't actually change my heart right away. I found myself in tears after reading it, not because I was angry at the author, but because I so wholly and purely sympathized with her. I saw my own reflection in her writing, and I didn't like what I saw. So I spontaneously began to pray for a change of heart. Tearfully, I asked for patience, tolerance, understanding, and generally to be a better pet parent. I kept reading about the issue, tried to avoid reading the nasty comments, and again found solace that I wasn't alone. 

Then I found this article, and I felt a renewed sense of hope. It seems it is possible to love your dog again after bringing home a baby. And truthfully, I can attest to this. When I send up prayers of gratitude for my beautiful tiny daughter, my amazing and thoughtful husband, and my cozy little home, I send up a prayer of thanks for my dog, followed by the plea "make me a better pet parent." This desire alone I'm sure is responsible for my renewed sense of patience, and my rekindled love for my dog (although, I have to admit, I still don't always "like" him every day again - not yet). Most likely, falling into a regular sleeping pattern, and finding a rhythm to caring for my baby are both contributing to my improved emotional state as well. 

I guess my point is not so much about loving my dog again as it is this: sometimes we decide to be brave and open up about our feelings, and we are met with judgement and shame. That doesn't mean your feelings are wrong, or that you're a bad person, or that you should never open up about your feelings. The way others react to you is a reflection on them, not on you. And sometimes we feel things we don't like or aren't proud of, and want to change. That desire for change is truly the most important part of the process! I promise you, the moment I said out loud and in earnest that I wanted to be a better pet parent, that I didn't want to feel any more negativity towards my dog, I started feeling better about the whole situation. And feeling better gave me the momentum I needed to start actually making positive changes and making my dog something of a priority again.

This journey with my dog has only started. Like everything else in life, I'm realizing quickly that we're still going to have bad days, or at least less-than-pleasant moments. It's a practice. I'm practicing patience, tolerance, and above all, LOVE, with my dog, my family, and myself. And I'm giving you the same permission I've given myself: to feel what you're feeling, express a desire for change, start making changes, and then continue to practice. No judgement. At least not from yourself, because you'll catch enough flack from the rest of the world. But try not to catch it. Try to let it just float on by as it's hurled in your direction, and continue to practice patience, practice tolerance, and practice love. Your pets, your family, and your own beautiful Self will thank you.

My Pregnancy (In a Nutshell)

A friend very recently asked me to recount some of my pregnancy memories as part of a post-grad project she's working on, and as I condensed the story into a few sentences I realized how much I'm already beginning to forget. Scoops is not even 4 months old yet, but pregnancy feels like it was a lifetime ago. I knew motherhood would change me, but I also knew I wouldn't fully comprehend that change until it had already happened. Giving birth was a true rite of passage, and now that I'm on the other side, I look back fondly at my pregnancy and all I experienced. So here, in a nutshell, are the most memorable moments of my pregnancy:

I remember feeling literally dizzy with excitement when I found out I was pregnant. It was a Sunday morning, and I was frustrated with my period for being late again, so I stumbled to the bathroom to pee on a stick. In my half-asleep state, I suddenly realized mid-stream what I was doing, and the potential significance of the situation immediately woke me up completely. I was so ready to be pregnant, I just didn't believe I was. I thought it would take so much more time and effort. So when two little blue lines cheerfully appeared, I was floored. And elated! I laughed, I cried, and I definitely felt dizzy.

I remember the awful, horrible nausea of my first trimester. Ginger made it worse, Preggie Pop Drops made it better, until they didn't and made it worse. Then I found hot tea, of almost any variety, was a good fix, until it wasn't. I spent a whole beautiful sunny Saturday indoors with the blinds all shut, crying my eyes out and forcing myself to nibble on strawberry flavored coconut milk ice cream (God bless Trader Joe's!) because it was the only thing that didn't make me want to hurl (I did eventually add white rice doused in soy sauce to my diet). I remember finally giving in to taking anti-nausea meds, and crying because "If I can't handle the nausea how will I handle labor??" 

I remember feeling more beautiful than I ever had in my life, and I only felt more beautiful as my belly got bigger. I was the easiest time I've ever had accepting compliments. People told me I was glowing, and I actually saw the glow they were talking about. Plus, my skin completely cleared up (except for one "bad" bout of pregnancy acne in the very middle of my pregnancy), so that was undeniably a major self-esteem boost.

I remember waiting to feel "over it" and ready to rip the baby out myself like everyone swore I would, but when I finally did feel that way at almost 9 months in, it only lasted about 10 minutes before I was content again. I truly enjoyed being pregnant, feeling so close to my unborn child, and especially knowing that my baby was the safest she'd ever be while she was in my belly.

I remember worrying about my back giving out and not being able to labor and give birth naturally and without medication. I've suffered from chronic back pain and spasms since I was a teenager, so this was a very real fear, as a spasm was a very real possibility for me. Ultimately I had to practice mindfulness and constantly remind myself not to obsess over what might happen in the future. In the end, I had a terrible spasm the week before I went into labor, and spent the entire week resting in bed. Obviously I didn't know it was THE week before I was going into labor, because I was still a little less than 2 weeks away from my due date, but the point is I had the terrible spasm before labor, not during.

I remember feeling totally unprepared when I did go into labor, immediately after my back had finally healed from that week-long spasm. I remember crying, in fact, about how not ready the nursery and house were. The house was an absolute filthy mess because I'd been unable to clean for a week (but let's be real, it had been well over a week since I'd cleaned the place). The nursery had a crib, and a dresser with a changing pad set up, and that was about it. All the artwork I'd wanted to hang still sat on the floor, many of the gifts I'd been given hadn't been put away, and certainly nothing was organized. I had even started a big 4 foot square painting that was nowhere near close to finished (it still isn't). #nestingfail. Interestingly, however, I didn't cry because I felt unprepared for labor itself, just because I felt like my home wasn't ready to receive my new baby.

I remember feeling so grateful that my husband and I took birthing classes, because he was the best coach I could have asked for, and made my entire 33+ hour labor bearable. Aside from one faux pas (he ran over to the neighbors' house to give them a spare key so they could feed the dog while we were at the hospital, and snuck a couple garlic cheese balls while he was there -- I nearly vomited on him when he came back), he was by my side the entire time, even when he napped while my mom took over to give him a break. He said all the right things, massaged my back and hips, kept me hydrated, timed every contraction, and stayed in constant contact with our doula and family. He was so confident in his role as my coach, and I trusted him completely to help me get through the most difficult task I'd ever faced.

I remember the moment my daughter emerged from my body; how surprisingly quickly she was placed on my chest; how I was confused by my lack of immediate familiarity with that tiny, wriggly stranger, but how compelled I felt to cover her tiny moist face in kisses anyway. (I remember thinking for half a second "Is it weird that I want to kiss her even though she's still covered in body fluids?" But then immediately realized, "Nope, no it's not.") I truly was surprised that I didn't instantly "know" her. I thought after 9 months of talking to her, singing to her, dreaming about her, and waiting for her arrival that I would feel instant recognition when I finally held her. But when she made her appearance on that Sunday morning (ironic, huh?), I felt instead that I needed to instantly learn who she was! (Turns out, that's not a bad challenge to undertake.)

It's a little bittersweet to reduce my entire pregnancy into a few short paragraphs. At the time, it was absolutely the most important thing I'd ever done with my life, but I knew that it would pale in comparison to motherhood. I was pregnant last Mother's Day, and while some people asked me whether I was celebrating and some informed me that I ought to, I maintained that it was a practice round. I didn't fully feel like a mother yet because I wasn't one yet. Pregnancy is to labor is to parenthood what an engagement is to a wedding is to marriage. I honestly enjoyed every moment of my pregnancy (except for those 10 minutes near the end when I actually felt "over it"), and now that I've crossed the bridge into motherhood, I don't want to forget the important but relatively brief events that brought me here. I will never again be pregnant for the first time, and I hope I never forget what that felt like.