Growing up in Tennessee, it was no big deal to play in the rain. I lived on a cul de sac with a big drainage ditch (aka roaring rapids after a storm) running behind my house. I have some fabulous memories of getting messy and muddy with my brother and our neighbors. When we dripped our way back indoors we could just strip down in the laundry room and leave our wet shoes on the porch.

Right now I’m raising my girls in Queens. In an apartment. Things are a bit different.

Stomping in puddles requires choosing the appropriate gear. Packing up the stroller. Taking the elevator to get downstairs and walking a couple of blocks to the park. When we get home, wet items are either dumped in our tiny foyer or tossed in the bathtub. Laundry is done once or twice a week, so damp and dirty items are quite a nuisance. This said, we don’t do it often enough.

This is one reason I treasure our weeks spent at my parents’ home down south. The Nut digs in the yard. She adopted a found turtle this week. We can walk out the front door barefoot or eat a snack on the deck.

And when it rains, we can leap unabashedly.

My daughters are half. Half me and half their dad. Half sleep-in, half get up early. Half coffee, half tea. Half chaos, half calm.

Half jumbled-up European ancestry, half Chinese.

We throw this word, half, around. I don’t identify with any particular ethnic background other than burns easily, ages poorly, plain ol white. However, when I hear or see something about China or Chinese culture I’m always quick to point out to my kids, “You’re half Chinese!!” Or “Yeh Yeh and Paw Paw were born in China!”
I never really considered explaining what I meant.
Recently we were with my mom and the topic came up. She asked The Nut what made her half Chinese.
After just a moment’s hesitation The Nut replied, “It’s the bottom half, I think.”

A hilariously lovely answer from a wholely beautiful girl.

You are six months old. So tiny, yet already halfway through your first year.

Your hair is growing longer. You’ve had your two bottom teeth for half of your life.

You’re nursing a bit more comfortably. You’ve begun to take a decent nap when I can plan my morning around putting you down in your bed at home.

You’re recovering from your third cold. Being a little sister is tough business.

You smile at everyone and everything. Your cheeks are round and rosy, your eyes are bright, and you bring sunshine with you wherever you go.

You love your Sofie the Giraffe and pretty much anything else you can get your mouth on. You soak through at least five bibs per day.

You’ve tried a few bites of solid foods and I have a feeling you’re going to dig this eating thing.

You now weigh almost 15 pounds and you’re 27 inches long. Statistically you’re in the 90th percentile for height and head circumference, 20th for weight. To use the term my friend HS coined, you’re a lollipop kid.

You still love taking baths, strolling, and being carried. Most of all, you love your big sister. Just the sight of her makes you grin. If she makes a silly face or sound you erupt infectious laughter. She calls you her ‘cutie bunchkin’ and you’re the first thing she wants to see when she wakes up. I pray that your devotion to one another lasts a lifetime.

The moments are flying by, little Pie. You are beyond precious, adored more than you can know. You were invited into our lives by uncertain minds but you immediately filled our hearts to bursting.

Happy half birthday. We love you always.

The Nut has taken lots of classes. We started with music at five months (for me WAY more than for her), and since she’s taken art, swim, soccer, tumbling, ballet, and gymnastics.

I recently signed her up for tee ball. I was a bit nostalgic about it since I have positive memories about my own experiences playing as a kid. She knows a couple of kids on the team. She’s the only girl, though I don’t really think she’s noticed.

It just doesn’t seem to be her thing. She doesn’t like the downtime. Standing around while waiting to bat or hanging out in the field really tests her patience. She has been adamant that it’s “no fun at all.”

I’m not letting her quit. I won’t force her to participate when this session is over, but for now I think she needs to learn to stick things out. She’s catching on to the basics of baseball and she’s gaining grace (or at least practicing) in the areas of listening to coaches and waiting her turn.

And she’s really stinkin’ cute out there.

We live in an age of Facebook and Instagram. We post pictures of our lives as we live them. Or do we?

We all “like” the adorable photos of our friends’ children. We appreciate their accomplishments and their cute outfits. We’re jealous of date nights and lavish vacations.

But what aren’t we seeing? How often do your friends post pictures of snotty noses or temper tantrums? Fights with husbands and dirty dishes? These aren’t the images we share with the world and perhaps they’re not the images we want to see.

But get real. We’re all hiding shit. And if we know we’re not alone, it feels better.

So today I’m going to air my dirty laundry. Nothing scandalous. Just the day to day stuff that I’m not necessarily glorifying on my Facebook wall.

1. My 3.75 year old sleeps in my room. As in her bed is next to mine. And she has no interest in leaving. Right now it works.

2. My 3.75 year old still sleeps with a pacifier. In my room. The “Paci Fairy” came and FAILED nine months ago. Don’t tell our dentist.

3. I drink wine from a box. And you should, too. It’s better for the environment (less garbage, less fuel needed to transport) and it’s very cost effective. Plus it’s tasty. Go buy a Bota Box and tell me I’m wrong. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it. If you do like it, invite me over.

4. My baby takes baths a couple of times a week and gets pacis off the floor. ‘Nuf said.

5. I just put away my maternity jeans. Like, today. Six months postpartum. I finally accepted that going up a size isn’t going to kill me and I bought a new pair. Without elastic. Oy.

So next time I post a photo of one of my gorgeous daughters or some fancy meal I’m enjoying, take it with a grain of salt.

While this is what I’d usually choose to share:

This is what you’d be more likely to see if you popped by:

It's 6am. And we've been up for two hours.

I know I’m not alone. Even if you choose to do it anonymously, leave a comment sharing why you aren’t perfect, either. Come on. It feels good.

It seems like just yesterday they were here:

at two and six months

And today they are here:

3.75 years and their first "picture day" at school

I truly pray for these children to hold each other near for life. Their bond is deeper than they know.

Last week my friend Sarah at The Stroller Ballet posted about surviving the first three months with two kids. Since our kids are about the same ages, I totally appreciated her advice.

If you don’t know Sarah, she is absolutely one of the most “put together” people I have ever met. Whether with toddler, pregnant, or now as mom of two, she never has a hair out of place and she wears real pants! With zippers! She’s also an all-around fabulous mom, wife, writer and friend.

After hearing throughout my pregnancy, “The first three months are the worst!” and “The first three months are okay but the next three will be hell!” but mostly, “”By six months you’ll find a rhythm and everything will get easier,” I realized upon reading this it was time to give myself a pat on the back. I made it!

Like Sarah, I felt that I barely survived my pregnancy. I could hardly imagine getting through the early months of raising two kids. And now we are almost halfway to a year as a family of four. I thought you might like to hear my top five tips as well.

1.Take pictures. The days are long but the years are short. Even the hardest days will have beautiful moments. Capture them. We all have smart phones attached to our thumbs. When you’re up at 2am nursing or walking the floors with a sleepless nugget, it may help to flip back through your photos and to see just how quickly these days are already passing and just how precious they have been.

2. Spend time with friends. It’s easy to fall into a “sleep when baby sleeps” mentality. Even if you’re not actually sleeping, laying around or hibernating may seem much more appealing than making plans. However, I promise the effects of a nice walk, coffee, or dinner with a girlfriend will last much longer than a catnap. We need that camaraderie that our husbands and children just can’t give us.

3. Wear make-up. I agree with Sarah on this one. While my entire routine takes about 30 seconds and I have no brand loyalty, I don’t even walk The Nut to preschool without primer, blush, and mascara. It makes me feel (and look, I hope) a little more human even after the most torturous of nights.

4. Accept, and occasionally beg,  for help. I have absolutely enlisted the troops. I had my mom here for the majority of the first nine weeks. I’ve asked my in-laws to step in plenty of times. I have a cleaning lady. I’ve had friends walk The Nut to school or bring her home for me. (Thank you, SO and HS!) When I’m reaching my breaking point, I tell B and I slip out or sleep in. While I’m usually the head honcho with the kids, I realize that it takes a village.

5. Amazon Prime. It seems I can hardly make it 48 hours without realizing there’s something we need. Diapers, a new pacifier, lotion, shoes for my preschooler’s ever-expanding feet. Amazon sells everything and they deliver to my door. Fast.

And, as Sarah suggested, drink wine.

Yesterday I took my kids into the city. By myself. An old friend and her new baby were in town and I really wanted to see them.

We had one stroller. One diaper bag. Bottles, wipes, plenty of snacks.

Two extra outfits. Two trains each way.

Two sets of stairs going down. A 3.5 year old trusted to manage herself while I wore a baby and hoisted our stuffed stroller.

Manhattan was misty and cold but plans had been made  and there were reunions to be had.

We entered two restaurants (with steps) before we found a table to accomodate.

I ate my meal with a baby on my lap and a chatty preschooler at my elbow. It was delicious.

The drizzle passed and a promised trip to the zoo commenced. We saw one cow, two pigs, three lambs, some goats and an alpaca. We took a quick spin around the sea lions and braved the stench of the penguin house.

After a snack break that left us approaching afternoon rush hour, I decided the polar bears were sleeping.

We walked a few blocks to visit Daddy at work. He armed me with two Godiva chocolates: one for my survival and one for bribery.

I found an elevator to help us descend back into the Earth and we boarded a bullet aimed for Queens.

Upon our arrival a precious teenage girl in a school uniform assisted me in lugging my stroller back up the stairs. I promised her that she would we be rewarded over and over in her life.

I stopped to feed The Nut a slice of pizza on our way home.

All three of us plopped into the tub together for a few minutes, rubbing our eyes and fantasizing about pajamas and wine. Maybe that was just me.

By six I had tucked The Nut into her bed and was feeding Pie her bottle. She passed out cold after an ounce. I went to peek at The Nut and she was conked out with a princess magazine on her chest. I left dishes in the sink, clothes on the floor, and the stroller loaded with our crap and fell into bed myself.

It was an exhausting day. It involved much recovery today. But it was so worth it.

Not only did I get to see my friend and meet her beautiful daughter, but I accomplished something.

I set out on an adventure that was daunting and hard. And on an average Tuesday in April, we made memories.

Showing Baby Graycen our crazy.

Wiped out but happy on the subway home.

I’m a mama to two girls. They were born 3 years and 3 months apart. Though they look quite similar, they are two different people. As mentioned here, they already have different eating habits. One thing they have in common? Sleep. More specifically, an aversion to it.

The Nut didn’t really sleep stretches longer than three hours during her first year. She’s never gone more than four or five nights in a row of sleeping “through the night.” Now she’s nearly four and she wakes us up at least once per night. As The Nut’s mama, I’ve never really worn that badge of honor earned by saying, “My baby is a great sleeper. I did something right.”

And there’s Pie. Her nights are infinitely better than The Nut’s at this age. She regularly sleeps a 5-8 hour stretch at some point in the night. However, it begins around 6pm so someone is definitely dragged from sleep to feed her at some point and following the single long stretch she usually wakes every couple of hours.

But Pie’s major issue is daytime sleep. While most sources say a baby of this age shouldn’t be awake more than two hours at a time, Pie regularly pulls 5-7 hour stretches. And she bridges them with naps of 5-40 minutes. Just yesterday she started her (and my) day before 5am. She took naps of just 5 (FIVE!!!) minutes at 6:30, 8, and 10:30. She then remained wide awake until 4pm. This, despite a car ride, being pushed in a stroller, being worn in a Bjorn. She then slept for 30 minutes and went to bed a bit after 6. That’s just 45 minutes of sleep in a 13 hour period. The kicker is that she’s happy.

Going on seven straight hours of being awake.

A rare moment when the stars aligned, but even the sleeping face says "Hrmph."

I’ve tried some “crying it out.” Just like The Nut before her, she works herself into a state of pure hysteria and any hint of “self-soothing” seems to be a farfetched possibility. And I’ll be honest. Teaching my baby to give up on me, to stop crying because I’m not coming, just goes against my grain.

At this point the only lengthy naps are a result of snuggling into bed with her and being ready with a bottle at any sign of rousing. Not the worst thing in the world, but obviously not a tactic that I can use 3-4 times a day, or even twice a day for that matter. Put in her crib, the stroller, or a carrier, naps don’t break the 45 minute mark.

I’d like to think this a phase. I know The Nut’s sleep gradually got better, if not great. But it’s hard not to think I may be fostering some bad habits. Or not doing the things that could help her establish better ones. That perhaps I didn’t read the right book, adopt the best philosophy, or employ the ideal parenting tactics to mold my baby into a “good” baby.

And then again, maybe I should listen to my heart and not the sandpaper behind my eyelids. Perhaps I should just be the parent she needs and let her be the baby she is. Remember that someday soon enough, I’ll be waxing nostalgia about the days I was so cool my kid wouldn’t even waste of minute of me by dozing.

*Disclaimer: My brother and my avid follower Franklin may not want to read this post until their future wives have their future babies.*

Most women tend to get hung up on something during their pregnancies. Perhaps weight gain, infant sleep, labor and delivery, your future child’s IQ. For me it was breastfeeding. I knew I wanted to do it but I was scared to death. I read a lot of books. I talked to experienced moms. I even went to a La Leche League meeting before I gave birth.

My nursing experience in the hospital was horrible. I’ll sum it up by saying one nurse grabbed my breast, gave it a single yank/squeeze and said, “You don’t have milk.” This was within 24 hours of delivery. Oy.

The first couple of months remained challenging (bleeding nipples, lactation consultants, finger feeding, pumping, etc) but we finally got the hang of it. After such a struggle, I left bottles in the dust after the first couple of months. By the time I realized I wanted her to take a bottle again, The Nut was OVER IT and refused at all costs. Whoever says that babies will eat when they are hungry never met my kid.

Long story short, I nursed for about 23 months and the brunt of The Nut’s nutrition came straight for the tap for more than a year. I was her primary source of comfort in infancy and the ONLY one to tend to her during the night. I didn’t leave her for more than 6 or 8 hours until she was 15 months old. She probably ingested a grand total of six ounces of formula and I threw away GALLONS of frozen pumped milk that she never drank.

When I was pregnant with Pie I swore I wouldn’t go down that road again. Nursing would be easy the second time, right? I’m an expert! And I would make bottles a regular part of our routine. I wanted B to play a bigger role in her babyhood. I wanted to sleep.

Well, here we are five months in and our story is SO different.

The beginning was still hard. Nursing hurt. I don’t believe anyone who says that it doesn’t have to be that way.

I gave Pie bottles from the get go. She had formula in the hospital and it continued when we got home. She had multiple bottles every day and I even left her for three nights at three months of age.

And then I came back. And the breast made her mad. She would either scream or bite when I offered. The only time she would calmly nurse was upon waking in the middle of the night. We’ve only had a handful of peaceful daytime latches since then.

I’m still pumping and I’m able to give her about 50% breastmilk. But it’s hard. I daresay it’s even harder than exclusively breastfeeding. I have to find the time 4 or 5 times a day to pump. I have to bring bottles with me wherever I go. I have to wash said bottles and pumping paraphernalia multiple times per day. When I will be away from home for more than five hours I have to plan how and where I will pump. I’ve mastered nursing a baby in a park or a restaurant but pumping is a little less public-friendly.

Add to this, my baby is rejecting the most basic way I have to care for her. The very thing that The Nut and I clung to as the basis of our relationship for so long. It’s sad. And it’s exhausting. And I’m not sure how long I’ll stick with it.

This said, I have now stood on several sides of this complicated fence. I’ve been the extreme mother with the breastfeeding toddler. I’ve been the formula-feeding mom. I’ve been the exclusive pumper. None of it is easy. None of it is perfect.

I’m putting this out there because I believe we all do what we can do and we try our best. No matter what, we usually don’t think it’s enough. We beat ourselves up for giving too much of ourselves and for not giving enough. Very few parents, if any, follow the exact paths they laid out for themselves prior to meeting their children. How could we? We’re adding another person to our equation. Obviously he or she will impact the outcome, too.

This is a reminder to credit ourselves with our good efforts, to forgive ourselves our shortcomings (whether perceived or true), and to love our babies in the ways that work for us, the child AND the parent. Our way is the best way.