Goes to Starbucks twice in one day.

Says, “Did you make a poopy?”

Has a couple containers of Wet Ones on hand

Adds an annoying baby-voiced ‘ies’ to every. single. word. See: lunchies, jammies, munchies, toesies, sleepies

Shops more than two grocery stores in one week.

Says, “I need my wine.” On second thought, who am I kidding? I think I always knew I’d end up the kind of person who says that.

Buys organic and feels smugly confident that I’m doing ‘what’s best for my family’.

Gets excited when the weekly circulars come out, and refers to them as ‘circulars’ with a straight face.

What about you? What kind of person have you been embarrassed/disappointed/humbled to discover you’ve become?

But this year?  This year felt different.  This year I turned 29. I know, 29 is no milestone. It’s an odd number. It’s not pretty like 20, comfortable and easy like 25. It’s not established like 30. But 29?  It’s kind of like that blaring yellow sign on the freeway, “Last Exit Before…”, a strong and direct warning that you better know where you’re going because if not, you’re going to end up in a place you don’t want to be.

Mike has told me for, well, five years now, that turning 29 is much harder than turning 30. At 30, I guess, you’ve come to terms with your fate.  You’ve gotta accept that you can no longer enter a college bar and assume that you blend in with the students.  Likely, you don’t. I suppose that’s the purpose that 29 serves: a whole year to come to terms with facts such as these.

This year, instead of the usual “I guess we could go out to dinner?” I suggested a BBQ to celebrate my birthday. I’ve met many new friends over the past few months thanks to my wee sidekick and I thought it’d be fun to get these new pals together with friends I’ve known for years in one place to mix and mingle.

The turnout for the soiree was so fitting for 29. There were friends I’ve known since college–friends who were present for (and partners in) some of my most debaucherous moments. At one point we all shook our heads at the realization that we’d known each other for over a decade. There were friends I’ve met only a few months ago, but who already feel like sisters because they are my seatmates on this exhilarating ride called parenthood. They don’t know about the time I fell down drunk in the middle of the street after stumbling out of a frat party (although now, I guess they do). But they know how many hours I slept last night, and my thoughts and fears about the best time to have a second child. There were babies, adorable babies!  On one hand it felt so natural; on the other, so weird.  When did we become the kind of people who throw parties involving children?

So when they brought out the cake–a strawberry flavor I’ve had every year since I was a toddler–and everybody gathered in the dining room (I have a dining room!) to sing happy birthday before my friend’s 2.5-year-old son leaned in to blow out the candles, in one room I saw my past, my present and my future, swirling and mixing into one solid picture: my life at 29.

All kinds of people stop me, but mostly women, and many of them older. I enjoy the attention and it’s sweet to see the joy spread across an older lady’s face when she sees Drew, someone decades and decades younger than her. Sometimes these women will talk about their children or their grandchildren, and even when they don’t I can sometimes see wistful memories flicker behind their eyes, his chubby cheeks reminding them of the people they themselves shaped and then released to the world.

Today Drew and I were wandering around Lord and Taylor, whiling away a rainy afternoon. Sales clerks from the shoe, handbag and makeup departments all made passing comments as we strolled aimlessly around the store. I hesitate to say that I was growing tired of the comments, but after so many consecutive exclamations of “look at those eyes!” my mom-pride tends to fatigue and I lose a little bit of enthusiasm.

It was around this time that I was approached by an elderly woman who stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Drew. As much as I wished I could continue my beeline to the Marc Jacobs bags, she was just so damn excited to see a baby that I had to humor her. “What a beautiful baby!” she exclaimed. And on and on she went, making silly faces at Drew, babbling in a high pitched voice to elicit a smile from him. She may have made some comments to me about how blessed I was, but I’ll be honest, I was tuning her out and just doing the nod and smile. And then.

And then!  Mid-sentence, her fucking dentures fall out.  !  One moment she’s babbling away, and the next the right side of her mouth comes flying down with the left side not far behind. It was as though someone hit the slo-mo button and all I could see was the slow descent of a rack of upper teeth.  And I gotta give it to this lady. She caught ‘em! Don’t let the age fool you, the ole bag had lightning quick reflexes.

So she’s catching the dentures and I’m just standing there, kinda frozen, trying to maintain a face that belies neither bemusement nor horror. I flashed back to childhood summers spent at my Grandma’s house, her ending each night by shuffling towards the stairs and proclaiming in her proper British accent that she had to take her teeth out. In the end, at Lord and Taylor, it was the elderly lady who saved the awkward moment, prattling on about some dental work she’s getting and the troubles she’s been having. Clearly. “I hope I didn’t scare him!” she chortled, leaning in towards Drew. “No, no!” I assured her in an all too high-pitched voice. We parted ways, and before I could even get my phone out to Tweet about this encounter of awesome, she left me with even more material.

“Oh!” she cried. “I thought that was my husband over there. It was a mannequin.” Next stop, eye doctor?

I didn’t feel I had a ‘right’ to attend BlogHer. I felt like a bit of a wannabe. I wanna write more, I wanna be a bigger part of the BlogHer community. I wanna meet more people. Wanna wanna wanna.  So when I found out that this year’s BlogHer would take place in New York City, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to make good on my ‘wannas’. I wouldn’t have to book a flight anywhere. I wouldn’t even have to attend the whole thing – I could just attend the Saturday session. A small obligation, really, one weekend day out of my life. So I registered.  And I took that small commitment as motivation to keep writing, to keep reading other blogs, and to keep seeking out the connections I wanted to make.

By the time I arrived at BlogHer on Saturday, the conference had already been underway for a day and a half. It didn’t take long though for me to feel right at home. I looked around at all the women playing on their smart phones, hunched over their laptops, reading their Twitter feeds and scrolling through their Google readers. This is the kind of shit I do!  These are my people! It was nice to feel I had entered an environment in which I ‘got’ the people there, and felt like they would ‘get’ me too.

I attended a few panel sessions, but I have to say I was somewhat disappointed. The panels are led by fellow bloggers, which of course makes sense, but…well… Most bloggers, I would say, are largely introverts. Isn’t that why we blog? It feels safer to spout off  from behind a screen to an invisible audience rather than in front of a live crowd with all their judgey eyes?  Many of the panel members I encountered seemed to be stumbling over their words, nervous in front of such a large crowd, not strong and confident with their delivery. Of course I get it. If that were me I think I’d be the same way. But I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I paid money to come, to hear what you have to say. Bring it!  And if you don’t feel that you can, hand over the reins to someone else.

My one complaint aside, what I absolutely LOVED about the conference was meeting so many smart, witty, warm people, people who are so compelling and funny and interesting online that you can’t wait to see them come to life in person. I was eager to  get to the Style Lush cocktail hour, where I could meet so many of the writers I follow online. I walked up, knowing no one, and was instantly greeted warmly and graciously by Jennie of She Likes Purple and Jonna of Jonniker. Within minutes, I met several more ladies–Angella of Dutch Blitz, SueBob of RedStapler23, Leah of AGirlAndABoy, AndreAnna of Modern Matriarch, Cass of CassJustCurious, Kate of Sweet/Salty and (my coughblogcrushcough) Linda of All & Sundry. Everyone was so friendly and funny and despite the fact that it was my first time meeting every single one of them, it somehow felt like I was standing, reunited, amongst a group of girls I had known since college.

I only had an hour to mingle with the ladies before I had to dash off for my train back home, but I am so glad I got the hour I did. I can’t be sure, but I have a feeling it was the beginning of many a beautiful friendship.  Thanks, ladies!

Today Drew is Seven Months, and in the past few days I’ve noted a few milestones to mark the occasion. They are not necessarily earth-shattering, but I’d like to record them for posterity so that when friends with younger babies ask me, ‘At seven months, did Drew…’ I can actually answer them because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that mommy’s memory is shot to hell.

First, Drew is sleeping through the night (and now probably won’t since I proclaimed it to the world). Now, I don’t mean the clinical definition of sleeping through the night—five consecutive hours my ass, 7p.m. till midnight DOES NOT COUNT! He’s down around 7p.m., and doesn’t stir until after 6a.m.. I can actually lay down in bed at night and switch off the light without worrying about when the dreaded middle-of-the-night-fusswhinecry-alarm will go off.

Naps have also taken a significant turn, I guess as a result of all the quality sleep he’s getting at night. Where once I could count on a two-hour stretch or two each day, now Drew sleeps in 45-minute increments. As soon as he falls asleep, it’s as though someone hovering in front of me has slapped a red button and yelled, “GO!” I race around the house trying to tackle all the chores I want to accomplish. I cram food down my mouth, run up and down the stairs with laundry, prep food in the kitchen, pay bills, etc. etc. When all that’s done I try to sit still long enough to get through one chapter of my studying. And just as I’ve settled in, I hear a faint ‘whaaaa’ from the monitor. Pencils down!

And then there’s the tooth. A first tooth! I’m excited yet fearful. What will become of my nipples?! TMI? The very tip of one bottom tooth is just poking through his gumline, and it’s a little funny to watch how he’s handling it. And by handling, I mean shoving every available object into his mouth with wild abandon. Yesterday he managed to cram Curious George’s foot and Sophie the Giraffe’s neck into his tiny milkhole and I swear he was eyeing up the laptop cord, too. The kid can gnaw with some ferocity!

We’re in a new phase, again, and all I can do is try to keep up.

Now we live in days. Feedings are no longer painful; they’re an adventure. Each day there is a new food to discover, a new taste. Sleeping is no longer preceded by shushing and rocking. At night, the sleeping is twelve hours straight. Gradually, we rediscovered days that had a beginning and an end.

There is laughter now. More laughter than crying. There is even more love, love that compounds and compounds.

We are getting some of ‘us’ back. At the same time, a new person is emerging and the form he is taking is altering ours in the process. We are shaping him, of course, but he is shaping us as well.

And there is sadness, bittersweet. We are speeding through the first year, and out the window all is a blur. As quick as we learn to deal with one phase, one challenge, it is replaced with another and there is no time to think about what we left behind. We are looking ahead and looking behind, awed and dizzy.

Despite my disdain for dwelling on digestion (how many D words can I use in one sentence??), I find myself spending a large chunk of my day—far larger than I’d care to–contemplating my son’s digestive activity. If I’m not encouraging Drew to let out a burp, I’m wondering when his next poop will come and when it does, fretting over its consistency. The poop!  It’s not soft enough!

Just between, well, ALL OF YOU, and me, I’ve done some surprising (and surprisingly embarrassing) things. Just this morning I squeezed (through the diaper!) Drew’s poop to make sure it wasn’t too hard. With this hot weather and the traumatic, sweaty meltdowns he’s had when having a bowel movement, I’ve been worrying that the boy is dehydrated or not getting enough fiber, or both. Can we take a minute to talk about the meltdowns?  If they weren’t so heartbreaking to watch, they’d be downright hilarious. The kid’s face turns bright red, his mouth opens wide in horror and he looks at me as if to say, ‘what is happening to me, mom?!’  This can go on for a few minutes, and I find myself murmuring in calm, soothing tones, ‘It’s ok, Drew, push it out.’ Safe to say that that line was on the list of Things I Never Imagined I Would One Day Say.  At the end of this tragic show, he’s sweaty and whimpering while I’m chuckling on the inside and shaking my head in disbelief that I just coached somebody through the act of taking a shit.

I’ve taken every precaution to ensure Drew’s getting the right foods to keep things moving—a few ounces of water here and there, plums for breakfast, oatmeal for a side dish. I feel like one of those commercials that air during the nightly news or 60 minutes.  ‘Restore your body’s natural rhythm! Talk to your doctor about Miralax!’

Parenthood. It doesn’t get much more humbling than this.

Now that we’re in a different stage, one characterized by an alert, curious baby, the challenge is coming up with activities to get us out of the house, (and away from that godforsaken singing plastic snail I keep tripping on) keep him stimulated and, hell, I’d like to be mildly entertained myself.   So what have we been up to?

You’ve heard me talk about this several times before, but our number one most frequent activity is Baby Boot Camp. It gets us outside for a good hour and change, lets Drew see nature (the class takes place on a trail that runs alongside a river) and interact with other babies, and allows me to get a good workout and chit chat with other moms. Win, win win.

The library. It’s a free place to go when it’s super hot outside. Free air conditioning and free books!  In my opinion, the biggest benefit here is that I get to pick up some different books to read to Drew so that I don’t want to poke my eyes out at the thought of one more reading of Blue Hat, Green Hat. And, there is the occasional baby music class…

The community pool!  We signed up for a family membership to our town’s pool for the season. It’s been so much fun to see Drew discover the water; over the past couple months he’s gone from ambivalence to excitement, and is now an expert splasher. While I don’t enjoy hauling two beach towels, a picnic blanket, a cooler and a diaper bag across a hot parking lot while also pushing a stroller, I do enjoy seeing Drew become more and more comfortable in the water each time we visit. And, of course, I also enjoy the mom chit chat. I swear, the power of a good ‘mom network’…where else can you turn when you want someone to listen—and listen eagerly eagerly—to you describe the consistency of your child’s bowel movements?  Besides the internet, of course.

Horses! We happen to live near a horse farm and just yesterday we stopped by to see a show jumping competition. I don’t know if I’m using the right language here to describe these activities, but you know what I’m talking about, right?  Girls in their riding gear, horses jumping over those bars, like they do in the Olympics? I figured it might be fun for Drew to see real live horses rather than the cartoon one that lives in one of his books. For a while he seemed pretty curious, following the horses’ movements as they cantered through the barn, jumping over this and that. Eventually he grew fussy and disinterested, but I chalk that up to the combination of late afternoon timing, the heat, humidity and smell of horse poop inside the barn.

On tap for future…a visit to the nearby botanical gardens, maybe a walk along a hiking trail with Drew in the Ergo, and a return to Manhattan, where we don’t have to do much other than park ourselves on a street corner and observe. People watching is free AND priceless.

I didn’t consciously set out on this path. I have been a Baby Boot Camp student since Drew was two months old. Since then, I’ve rediscovered that sweaty, sore muscled-feeling that I always loved about exercise, a feeling that fell by the wayside when I was pregnant. I’ve enjoyed meeting other moms, forming a network of acquaintances—and now friends–who I can share stories with, ask advice, and feel camaraderie with in this most challenging of jobs. Somewhere over the course of these past few months, though, I began to feel that not only could I handle the physical demands of the classes, but also wondered if I had the capacity to lead them as well. One night, over drinks, I asked the instructor how I could become a trainer myself, and the next thing I knew I was gathering information, looking up certification requirements, and mulling over testing dates.

It all feels so right to me. Since resigning from my corporate job, I haven’t felt any pangs of remorse. I don’t miss the grind, the excruciatingly long hours of what was often thankless work. I don’t miss passive aggressive email exchanges, office politics or the countless daylight hours I never saw because I was stuck in a fluorescent-lit, windowless office.  The only thing I’ve really missed is the interaction with other people.

This new opportunity is all about interacting with people, and not only that but also helping them. I can help these moms achieve goals and feel better about themselves. I can help them to feel empowered, inspired and connected at a time in their lives when it’s easy to feel weak, discouraged and alone.

And if I’m being honest, this opportunity, of course, is about me. I can prove to myself that I can still be ambitious and achieve goals while also being a mom. I am a mom, yes, but I am also still a person separate and outside of that. Maybe this is a little bit of insurance. There will be a day in the not too distant future when Drew won’t need me so much. When he won’t whine for my return every time I disappear into the kitchen. There will be a day when he gets on a big yellow school bus and rides off towards his own day, separate from me. Maybe that day it’ll be a little easier for me to watch him go because I’ll have my own day to get to.

Until this point, our evening had been going fantastically. We were both happy that the weekend was upon us. We had relaxed on the couch with some wine, watched a great movie, and were enjoying our “us” time. Drew promptly put an end to where else those good vibes may have led us. I crawled into bed and promptly started whining and complaining about how often he’d been waking up these days, all full of woe is me’s and I cant take it anymore’s. I talked about all those ‘other’ babies out there who were sleeping through the night, declared that he was too old to need two nighttime feedings. “I just want six straight hours of sleep. I haven’t had that in six months,” I whined. “Six months!”

My complaints quickly spiraled into a disagreement between Mike and I, bickering about the same things that all sleep-deprived new parents bicker over, a vicious cycle of who has it worse, where we forget that we are team that must get through this together but turn on each other in a blame game that nobody wins. We fell asleep facing away from each other, frustrated and bitter, sheets pulled tightly over our respective shoulders. We woke up six hours later.  That’s right, after that 11PM wake up that sent me over the edge, Drew slept through the night. The irony of his timing was not lost on us.

“You said you wanted a night,” Mike said the next day. “You got it, six hours.”  Of course, my internal reaction was to promptly think, ‘Is that all I get? One night? Don’t I deserve more?’  That’s the thing with babies and sleep. You get one good night and rather than appreciate it, you desperately hope that you’ll get another. You spend the daytime hours worrying about what lies ahead, you go to bed twitchy and nervous, unable to fall calmly into sleep because you’re worried about the alarm that will sound at some random, awful hour.  Going to sleep becomes like playing musical chairs. Will this be the night the music stops and I fall to the floor in a sad, frazzled, sleepless heap?

And then, the superstition. You think baseball players are superstitious?  I think new parents are worse. Following a good night’s sleep, you recount everything you did the previous day, wondering what contributed to that glorious gift from God of six-plus uninterrupted hours. Spent time outside? Baby had two good naps?  Evening cereal? Bedtime bath?  The formula will be replicated EXACTLY the following night. Even if the last thing on Earth I want to do at the end of a long day is arch my aching back over that plastic whale tub, you better believe I’m going to do it again if I think there’s a chance it will mean one less nighttime wakeup.

Since that night, Drew has had consistent stretches of six to eight hours of sleep. It’s only been four days though, so I’m not yet ready to believe it’s here to stay. I’m still going to bed with my fingers and toes crossed, self-piteously saying to Mike, “see you in an hour” when I flip off the light. I’m convinced that my typing this has probably ruined the whole thing. I would delete this whole post right now, but if one other parent reads this and finds some comfort that they’re not the only one, I figure that’s worth giving up some sleep.  Not much, though; just a little. I’m tired.