It's funny what having such a tiny little person around will do to all those perfectly laid-out plans.
"I will not co-sleep/bedshare."
When I was pregnant, I swore up and down that Peyton would sleep in her crib from DAY ONE. After all, she had this beauuuutiful nursery that we spent a lot of time and money on, so why not put it to good use right away?
Once I brought her home, that went right out the window. We didn't have the monitor we wanted yet, and the thought of shuffling back and forth with such a tiny, hungry baby in the middle of the night while nursing seemed so exhausting. So I slept on the couch in the living room while Peyton slept in the Pack and Play about five feet from me. Did I miss sleeping in bed? Sure did. Denny's parents gave us a gorgeous bassinet that I put in our bedroom at the foot of the bed in hopes I could sleep on a normal mattress again. Unfortunately, Denny never slept well while she was in our room, and since he was the one working I just manned up and camped out on the couch all night. When she was a month old we got the monitor, and I told Denny I would start putting her in the crib. But I just liked having her near me. So for three months, I slept on our couch every night.
Peyton is finally in her crib, but there are some very early mornings when I will bring her to bed with me. Sometimes you just need to sleep; Peyton's Great Sleep Strike of Fall 2011 is the perfect example.
Besides, morning sleepy cuddles are the best.
"I will not become a crazy Facebook mom."
I am, without a doubt, a HUGE offender. It started during pregnancy. No offense to my mommy friends with older children, but baby-related Facebook statuses drove me up a wall before I was pregnant. Plus Facebook raises such insane privacy issues that I promised myself that no, not everyone needs to see my kid's face every day, and no, not everyone cares that Peyton finally rolled over.
Now that I have a baby of my own to show off, it's like crack. There is a post, a photo, something baby-centric at least once a day. I can't really help it, though; this child is my life and I am consumed with love and adoration for her AND I JUST WANT TO SHARE IT WITH ALLLLLL 600 OF YOU.
To my non-parent Facebook friends: sorry. You'll get it one day.
"I will not talk about Peyton/kids 24/7."
I think this would be different if I was working, but it goes hand-in-hand with the Facebook thing. I spend 10-11 hours a day with my peanut, five days a week, just me and her. Truth be told, you forget how to talk to other adults and you forget what the hell you're supposed to talk about. Current events? The weather? What's going on in other people's lives? Yo, my kid is starting to sit up on her own, isn't that exciting? No? Not to you? Oh, alright then. I guess you don't care. JERK.
Case in point, a scene from this past weekend. A conversation between me and Heather (more or less summarized):
Heather (holding Peyton): Wow, she's got a huge boogie in her nose.
Me: I know. I've been trying to pick it all day, but it just won't come out.
Heather: You know what works? Try squeezing her nose and it should just come out on its own.
Me: I will have to give that a try, because that boogie is driving me insane.
Heather: Did you ever think our conversations would ever sound like this?
Me: Ha, nope.
You see what I mean here? Booger talk runs my life. I'm okay with it, though.
"I will never leave the house looking like a hot mess."
HAHAHAHAHAHA. I thought I'd be the cute mom with the cute hair and make-up magically done. Seriously though, I look homeless ALL. THE. TIME. Sometimes I totally forget to brush my hair before I walk out the door. I NEVER left the house in sweatpants (yoga pants were acceptable). Now I leave the house in sweatpants and a huge spit-up stain on my shirt. No joke, I went out the other day wearing: Uggs, gray cropped sweatpants that left a six-inch gap between the top of my boot and the hem of the pant leg, a navy blue nursing tank top, and an orange cardigan. What the hell?
You better believe Peyton is dressed to the hilt. Even if mommy is a hot mess.
Which leads me to...
"I will not buy a ton of baby clothes because she will not even wear half of them."
Oh God. The baby clothes. Do you even KNOW how cute little girl clothes are? They're so cute it should be a crime, that's how cute. I have not bought a single item of clothing for myself in almost a year. But you know I have baby jeggings with SEQUIN HEARTS ON THE BACK POCKET.
I wish this photo was closer to truly get that there are A LOT of clothes there, and that's just 0-3 months.
It's really a cute little problem I have. To the point that Denny will give me money because he knows I enjoy shopping for baby clothes. Sheesh.
"I will not give Peyton a pacifier because I don't want it to be something I have to take away eventually."
Well, part of this went according to plan, but by no fault of my own. Peyton, until about two days ago, HATED pacifiers. When she was born I was terrified to give one to her because breastfeeding started out so shakily for us, but we got the hang of it so well she eventually started using ME as a pacifier. Then I started to wish she took a binkie. I tried every day for her to take one and she is just now coming around to it. I'm torn about this because before, since she didn't take one, it was something I didn't have to worry about taking away from her down the road. But if it gives my boobs a break, I'm just going to go with it for now. We'll worry about being a mean mommy later.
See that? There's a binkie there!
All in all, I had plans. Most of them crumbled the second I brought that sweet little girl home, and that's okay. If anything, becoming a mother taught me that things aren't always going to go the way you want them to, but it's how you adapt that makes it okay. Besides, Peyton probably isn't going to remember the sleepy cuddles, the bedazzled baby jeggings (and if she does she'll probably want to kill me when she's a teenager), or mommy obsessing over boogers, but I will. So I'm making the most of this time, plans or not.
After all, my baby won't be a baby forever.