She laughed!

Rain laughed! Punch my card, 'cause my mommy skills have been validated!

Quit Trying to Eat My Baby!!

Last night I slept in a hotel. I had a bunch of weird dreams, which always happens when I don't sleep in my own bed. I don't recall what most of them were about, but when I woke up I told Tim something like, "I had a dream about this fly who bit you. Then he tried to bite me, and I was running around everywhere ..." It was kind of funny, since I hadn't seen a fly all summer.

Anyway, today we returned from our trip. I was proud of Rain, who had demonstrated excellent behavior the entire time. I expected her to wail during the car trip and have difficulty sleeping in the hotel, but neither was the case. Still, when we arrived home, I was tired. I got in bed, nursed Rain, and drifted off to sleep before I was the wiser. Fifteen or twenty minutes must have passed. I woke up to Rain whimpering.

"Come on, Baby," I cooed, "please go back to sleep. Mommy's very tired." I snuggled her and closed my eyes again. A few minutes later, Rain was crying. My eyes were dry, and sleep was a blink away. "Please, please, Rain," I begged, "go night-night." I tried to sleep, but every few minutes, I would wake up to Rain fussing. I hadn't slept well the night before (that's a story for another time), and I could feel annoyance rising up in me.

Tim came in to try to soothe Rain, but no dice. Finally, Tim left to take care of a few things, and Rain and I were left to suffer in bed together. She wouldn't take a pacifier, and I knew she wasn't hungry. Her diaper was clean, so I said, "Honey, it's nap time, so we're going to nap." Just as I was about to close my eyes again, I spotted something on her forehead. It was red. I wiped my eyes and looked closer. It was a bump, a definite bite.

Something flew by my ear, buzzing as it went. "Another mosquito!" I thought, and ran for the swatter. "I'm sorry, Baby," I told Rain. "Mommy didn't know, but now she'll go get that bug!" Rain smiled at me, as if happy I figured out the problem.

I heard buzzing again, but this time behind me. I whirled around but saw nothing. I closed the bedroom door, so the mosquito would be trapped. I waited. I circled the room several times and finally decided to wait in bed for it. With swatter in hand, I kept guard. A minute later, the nasty thing flew by. Was it a mosquito? Nope. It was ... (drum roll) ... the black fly! The one from my dream!

I was horrified. Not only had I never seen a black fly (which according to my husband, are commonplace in the northeast), I didn't even know flies could bite. They actually tear flesh open to feed! The flies we have in Texas are puny little things that we shoo away from watermelons and hotdogs. I didn't realize our flies were the runts of the fly species. Black flies, and their bee-sized behinds, have apparently migrated south, because one was flying around in my bedroom.

I swatted at it with all my might and could not kill it. I trapped it behind the mini blinds, and still, he avoided me. I smacked at him as he crossed the bed to Rain. He disappeared. I thought I had killed him, but I found him crawling along on the floor underneath the bed, waiting for me to give up the hunt. I had to vacuum him up with the wand, for crying out loud!

So, to those of you causing global warming (us) and therefore making black flies move south towards innocent people (me), I demand that you (me) stop your Earth-breaking habits. To black flies everywhere: I frown upon global destruction, but I have no qualms with insect extinction.

Follow-up: Tim thinks that there's nothing supernatural about my nightmare fly becoming a reality. I think he just doesn't have enough imagination.

Multiple Choice

When Rain wakes up in the morning, she's the happiest she may be all day. She nurses, smiles, and is all cuddly-wuddly for a half hour or so before returning to sleep. When she wakes up, she coos and snuggles with me, and I think, "This mom gig is kind of ... sweet."

Sometime about noon, I start to see the signs that Baby Jekyll is going out to lunch, and Baby Hyde is on call. After that time until dinner, Rain gives me a short minute to figure out her needs, and if I don't comply quickly, she does what I call "raise the roof." When she gets going, she can scream 'til the roof might go. Scream, not just cry, people.

Most of the time, thankfully, it's easy to figure out her needs by her cry. She has one kind of cry for hunger, another for a dirty diaper, and another for sleepiness. Other times she has gas she can't get rid of or is tired beyond her ability to put herself to sleep. The problem with this multiple choice is that (1) if I've missed her early cries, I can't tell what she wants by the time she's screaming, and (2) at least twice a day, usually in the evening, it seems like none of these are the answer. The hardest to call is gas and sleepiness. Unless she's tootin' a lot or pulling her knees to her chest, it's hard to tell if she's got gas. Because she fights sleep anyway, who knows if she's really tired or not?

Whatever the answer is, if I don't come up with it ASAP, I'm going to face the headache-inducing consequences. That's one of the hardest jobs about my new life. Rain can't talk, but she needs things. I want to give her those things, but she can't talk. The vicious cycle isn't hard to pick out.

But when I guess right .... oh, yeah! I'm so proud of myself and thankful that she's content. She gives me this look like, "Finally, you figured it out! If I had to sit in a wet diaper one more minute ..." Baby Jekyll returns for a spell, and Mommy might even get in a short nap.

There's nothing more frightening, though, then waking up next to Hyde.

So What Had Happened Was ...

Guilt: some of us have it, and the rest of us are in prison. So, I was feeling guilty about Tim, right? He had practically coddled me after I had all of my wisdom teeth removed, and there I was, barely getting together instant mashed potatoes for his dinner. I wanted to do better, even if that meant Rain's desires would come 2nd for the first time in her very short life.

So. It was late at night, and I was in the living room. I had to take a restroom break, but as I made my way there, I heard Rain making fussy noises. Normally, whoever is closest to Rain when she cries picks her up. "I'll hurry up and use the bathroom," I thought. "Then I'll rock Rain to sleep before she gets too loud and bothers Tim." I rushed through the bathroom doorway, fearing Rain would begin to wail and wake Tim up before I could get to her.

SMACK!

I crushed my two smallest toes against the edge of the door, whose position I had sorely miscalculated in the dark. I stumbled the rest of the way into the bathroom. I grabbed my foot and squeezed my toes together to numb the pain. There was no crying out, as I did not want to agitate Rain further. I rub-a-dub-dubbed next to my tub-a-tub-tub. I've stubbed my toe before, but this had a bit of a pinch to it.

I hobbled to the bedroom and sat on the bed. I rocked back and forth with my foot pressed between my hands. I had pushed out a 9-pound baby; I wasn't gonna cry! Yet, anyway. When all was gathered and calculated later, these were the results:

1. I had popped the veneer on the door off, so the door would no longer close. Tim ended up repairing it (*sigh*).
2. I have a hairline fracture in the toe next to my pinkie.

And Rain? That night, Tim had given her a pacifier while I was injured in the bathroom, so she never truly woke up, anyway. Ay ...

The First Shall Be Last

My husband had dental surgery on Friday. He had all four wisdom teeth pulled. Because two were compacted (read: would have to be shattered and torn from his body), the procedure promised to be less than ticklish. Tim never had any kind of surgery before, and the idea of being awake, without feeling or remembering anything, weirded him out. Plus, I had the same procedure done a year ago, and the whole time he could hear me singing from the lobby a country song I didn't even know I knew the words to. The idea of losing control didn't sit well with Tim. Or maybe it was the whole being asleep, dying, and never knowing what hit him thing--who could say?

I waited in the lobby with Rain while the sound of buzzing instruments made me squirm (poor fellow next to me didn't seem happy, either). I willed that Rain would sit quietly and not make a tense situation worse. She squirmed and grunted, and I was sure she was a second away from a meltdown. But, Rain kept it together, and finally a dental assistant said we could see Tim.

The moment I saw Tim's eyes, I knew he was still somewhere between Disneyland and the moon.

"It was great!" he said, cheeks puffed up with gauze. "I don't remember a thing. How long was I in here?"

"Twenty minutes," I said.

"Wow," he said, still lying on the table. He told me how scared he had been at first, and his heart monitor had gone crazy. "But," he said, "it was great! I don't remember anything .... How long was I in here?"

This sort of thing happened about three times on our way home (a ten-minute drive). He would say logical things at an illogical time. "You should've had me sign papers while I was drugged," he'd say, "because you're a beneficiary" and "Did they give you my teeth? Wait--did I already ask you that?"

I called my brother-in-law to see if he could help me bring Tim in, in case he toppled over. Since he was a few minutes away, I decided to kill time picking up our clothes from the dry cleaner. We pulled up while Tim continued chatting happily about the entire incident. The dry cleaner couldn't find my pants, so I told Tim we'd have to sit a minute while they looked for our stuff.

Tim thumbed his chest. "You should let ME in there," he said. "I'll tell them, 'Where's my pants? What's going on in here, and where's my baby?!?'" I had to laugh. I did let him know Rain was still strapped safely in her car seat, but I don't think he heard.

I finally got Tim home after an incident at the pharmacy (can you say "inappropriate"?) while he seesawed between glee ("I feel great! I don't remember a thing!") and somberness ("Did I cry?"). I put him to bed (he did ask to see his packaged teeth again), and rushed to the store to pick up soft foods while my sister's family kept an eye on Tim & the baby. After, I was prepared to take care of Tim the way he took care of me after my surgery. I didn't lift a finger for days. As soon as Tim woke up a few hours later, he asked if the dentist had given us his teeth. He was excited to see them (again) and began with his first dose of medicine.

No sooner did Tim begin his recovery, then Rain needed a diaper change. Then a feeding. Then a soothing during an unexplained crying bout. Before you can say "pacifier", it was time for her bath and nightly bottle. All the while, I pictured myself in bed a year ago, as Tim cooed, "Do you want macaroni today? What about sweet potatoes? You like sweet potatoes ..." He took excellent care of me, and here I was, running around with my usual routine with Rain. I felt bad, which explains the accident that happened next.

YMCA, Minus the Singing & Fun Costumes

Years before Rain was born, Tim & I had an agreement: if I ever became pregnant, he would guarantee me two things.

1. A subscription to a healthy pregnancy magazine, so I would feel too guilty to put on 60 lbs

2. Once the baby was born, a personal trainer for a month (after my doctor cleared me to exercise again, of course)

If I had any sense at all, I would've asked for a handmaiden, but nevertheless, so it was. I did receive my magazines as promised, and they did guilt me out as expected. Now it was time to collect on the second half of my bargain. Last week, I signed up at my local YMCA. I paid for three sessions with a personal trainer, with the expectation I would do more as needed. Saturday morning at 11 a.m. was our first training session.

Children, listen to Grandma Dowdel: know your weight before you do an assessment with a personal trainer. If you can, get your body fat number, too. That way, you can skip the shock stage of grief and go right to comfort like I did, "Yeah, I know it's pretty bad. But, you know, well." Head shaking followed as I tried to sympathize with my trainer on the load of work she had ahead of her as she attempted to get my rump back into shape.

Apparently, though, her idea was to have me do most of the work. Instead of having me walk a few laps and slowly getting me used to working out again, she had me on a treadmill huffing and puffing. She said she was trying to make a challenging routine for me. She'd adjust the settings and say things like, "On a scale of 1 to 10--"

"Nine! Nine!" And so went the next hour. I ran on the track (something I stopped doing early in my pregnancy), and later, fumbled around trying to find a rhythm on the elliptical machine. I was sweating more than was necessary, and I had forgotten my water bottle at home. I was, by far, the most unfit person in the room.

All in all, a good experience.

Every Breath You Take

Every breath you take

And every move you make

Every bond you break,

Every step you take

I'll be watching you
Every single day

And every word you say

Every game you play

Every night you stay

I'll be watching you
Oh, can't you see

You belong to me?

Did the Police pen these words, or did Rain? Over the past two or three weeks, Rain has shown a definite preference for my presence. Of course, you say, you're her mother. Yes, but I'm almost embarrassed by how much she insists on keeping me at arm's length (remember, her arms ain't that long). When I put her down to do anything, she whimpers. So, I lay her on a blanket in the doorway of our kitchen just so she can watch me cooking, for instance. When friends hold her, she turns her head to follow where I'm going (which is to the nearest bathroom, since I probably haven't gone in hours). Even when family members hold her, she turns to the sound of my voice. Admittedly, this is is both sweet and (*guilty smile*) a bit flattering. There are also times, though, when I'd prefer her to deactivate the crosshairs on me.

It's not just that I can't take a shower without her bawling, "Where, or where, have you gone, Mommy?" It's not that I can't even step in front of the grocery cart for a minute without her grunting disapproval. Specifically, I feel bad when, late in the evening when Rain is the crabbiest, she won't let Tim comfort her. I mean, here the man works all day to take care of his little lady, and when he tries to calm her during a fit, well, only Mommy will do. She'll wail as he walks her around, bouncing and snuggling her. Eventually, Tim gives up and hands her to me. Immediately she stops crying, and I feel like blushing.

"I don't carry her all day, honest!" I want to offer. "She's probably just hungry. Maybe she's got a dirty diaper or ..." But the truth is obvious: she wants me to hold her. But, I'm persevering and insisting that Tim & Rain do some things together sans Mommy. Tim bathes her by himself every other day and gives her bedtime bottle to her most nights. She protests when he takes her from me, but if I don't intervene, she eventually accepts that it's Daddy's turn for cuddlin'.

They always have a good time together, though she does peek at me now and then to remind me, "Oh, can't you see? You belong to me ..."

Round 2

Every day, every single day, a mosquito comes into my place to annoy the ever-lovings out of me. Just now I was doing some dishes, wondering why the latest one wasn't trying to bite at me. Where could he be? Where could he ...

I decided to check on Rain, who was napping in our bedroom. Guess what was sitting on her forehead, sucking the life out of her??

Mommy was all done with peace and harmony with Nature. I smacked at it. It dodged. I cornered it under Rain's blanket, and without one single ounce (do you hear me, PETA?) of remorse, I squashed it! Squash, squash, squash! I am done being nice about this. Next stop: Home Depot, for the biggest, baddest, most toxic mosquito killer I can find!

Nature vs. Mother Nature

My daughter's name is more than appropriate for the weather here. It has rained more in the last four months than I can ever remember. The grass in our Texan lawns is actually green--and we didn't even have to buy it that way! When they say, "The grass is always greener ...," they're finally talking about us! Anyway, the problem with all the rain is, of course, the unfortunate baggage--actually, buggage--that comes with it. Mosquitoes are everywhere. Everywhere. I have bites all over me, and frankly, I'm all funned out. When I come home, I have to open the door quickly and slam it behind me, so the horde won't follow me in.

Every night I have to inspect the walls for a winged rogue, or else I wake up with welts all over my arms. I've been wearing long pajamas to bed and holding a fly swatter all day. I'm sleeping with a flashlight, for crying out loud! I hear mosquitoes whiz by my ears, and I freak out until they're dead. I'm losing precious hours of sleep every week hunting them down. When I kill one, I talk about it all day to poor Tim: "And then, he was right there--behind me! He was there the whole time! So I picked up a shoe ..."

Here's the real issue: at night and in the early morning, I pump milk for Rain. It's when I can get the most for the least effort. To pump, I need to be relaxed and thinking baby thoughts (makes the milk come faster). Well, it's a bit hard to relax when fat mosquitoes are circling my head looking for a meal. They are a part of Nature. I understand. They are Nature, but I, well I am MOTHER NATURE, and I'm put out! So began a battle of wills last week, which culminated in this incident:

The day before yesterday, I checked Rain's humidifier to see if it needed water. Guess what was sitting on top, taking a bath? Yep. I tried to smack him, but I missed. I shut the door, picked up Rain, and explained to her how Mommy was going to kill this mosquito or die trying. I sat on the bed with Rain, waiting for it to reappear. Time passed, and before long, Rain was hungry (no surprise). While I was feeding her, I scanned the room for any hint of my winged friend. Nothing. After another five minutes, I turned behind me to get Rain's pacifier.

AHA!

I picked up my flyswatter and slapped the mosquito right on the bed where he was sitting. Point for Mommy! I told Rain all about it, planning to recite the entire incident to Tim later. Rain was still nursing, so I checked to see if perhaps I could scoop up the bug carcass with a nearby wipe. No, it was too far away. After a few minutes, I turned to see if the ceiling fan had moved the dead mosquito at all, but it was still crumpled up on the bed sheet. When Rain was finished with lunch, I grabbed a wipe and tried to pick up the body.

It was gone. I was puzzled, especially after I searched the entire bed and found nothing. It had been killed in the middle of the bed and could not have blown away. Where or where was Mr. Bloodsucker? I searched the bed again, because I refused to accept the remaining possibility. A moment later, the truth flew by my face.

Aghhh! Zombie Mosquito, resurrected from the dead!! I felt like a putz: why hadn't I flushed him down the toilet when I had the chance? I spent that night beating Zombie Mosquito off while I pumped milk. Irritated and horrified is the only way to describe it.

The next morning while Tim made coffee, I complained bitterly about the incident. I went on and on about how much I couldn't stand--smack!

Tim had slapped his hands together and killed the demonic bug. He did it without a word of warning. I cheered. I don't care if Tim stole my thunder; so what if I didn't kill it myself? Now we can refer to the whole story as The Case of the Twice Dead Mosquito. Could almost be a Sherlock Holmes tale, no?

Blubbering Ninny

I'm not a crier. My closest friends have seen me cry maybe once. If you've read all the entries in this blog, however, you probably think I'm a tear sponge waiting to be squeezed. My her-mone level, escalated since pregnancy, has not completely resolved itself yet. I'm only mentioning this because, well, here comes another story where the mystery phrase of the day will be, "I don't know why, but I started to cry." But rather than whitewash the situation, I'm going to gird up my loins, and tell it like it was:

I was excited and nervous about my first day back at the gym. I put on my favorite gym pants (fashionably cut below the knee), packed up Rain's carrier (Bjorn, also very nice), and drove to the gym with my temporary membership card at the ready. Once in the gym, I headed straight to the track upstairs. I hoped with all my being that Rain would behave and not send me running to the bathroom every 5 minutes to feed, change, or soothe her. We walked a brisk pace once around the track (1/10 of a mile). We walked another lap. Rain seemed to be enjoying herself, and I started to relax. I passed by several signs on the track that said the same thing: "Joggers on the inside lane closest to the rail. All strollers and walkers on the outside." I thought this was a bit odd since the last gym I went to asked walkers to stay on the inside lane, but I thought, "New gym, new rules."

We went around the track two more times. People smiled at us and commented what a great thing for a new mom to be doing. I was thrilled. I could see now how this schedule would work. I could take her to the gym with me to walk most days, and on the days I wanted heavy exercise, I would get up early and let Tim watch Rain while I worked out. Perfect!

We went around the track again while I chatted with (mostly at) Rain. Then, a manager (did they have to call a manager?) walked up to me and said, "Ma'am, you're not allowed to have your baby on the track."

"I'm sorry, what?" I said.

"You can't have your baby on the track," she repeated.

"Oh, does she have to be in a stroller?"

"No, children under 12 aren't allowed up here," she said, shaking her head.

"But the sign says--" I stopped to read the sign again.

Joggers on the outside lane. All slower walkers on the inside lane closest to the rail.

WHAT? No, really, WHAT??

I felt like a total ninny.

"You can take her downstairs to Kid Zone, and they'll be happy to watch her," the manager said. I nodded and went to the stairs. I don't know why, but I started to cry. I made no sound, but I had to wipe my eyes. I went straight to the locker room, because my eyes were welling up again.

Was it that I had built up in my mind this perfect image of me & Rain doing something together every day that was good for me, too? Yes, I think. I wanted to leave with Rain right then and cancel my membership. But, no, I told myself, we're not wimps who can't take the rules as they are. I paced the locker room, mumbling, "Mommy just made a mistake, Rain. We're going to be OK." FYI, Rain seemed unaffected by my recent emotional blow. So, I took her to Kid Zone. I signed her in, handed her off, promised I'd be back in 20 minutes, and (*moan*) I don't know why, but I started to cry.

I raced back upstairs, with pager in hand, to finish my walk. How could I leave Rain with total strangers? What was a 10-week-old doing at a gym? WHY ARE WE HERE?!? These thoughts pummeled me as I returned to the track. After the first lap, I passed the same group of people who had commented earlier on how cute Rain was and how great it was for us to work out together.

I don't know why, but I started to cry.

I wiped my eyes, sucked it up, and finished. I picked up Rain, and went home. I tell you, I am not a crier. Something has happened to me, and I hope it's not permanent. I'll have you know, I've been to the gym both days since.

OK, so Rain stayed home with Tim, but I DID go.

Everybody Needs Some Body

When I was pregnant, I never let my mind contemplate how much my body would change after delivery. I comforted myself quickly, saying, "Sure, my body will be different for a while, but eventually, things will wander back to normal."

Hours after my labor, I was sore, bleeding, and exhausted. When I went home, I didn't get to hop into bed, be pampered, and heal at my leisure. A newborn baby, who I and my husband were completely responsible for, was crying to have her needs met. My days became filled with thirty-minute trips to the bathroom (sit down for a 20-minute Sitz bath, use witch hazel pads, spray anesthetic on or a steroid-enhanced foam, & apply ice pack), eating whatever food I could prepare in five minutes (though my mom & sister were kind enough to make my family dinner for the first week), and sleeping in spurts throughout the day. It didn't take long for me to feel and look awful.

Worse, when I was pregnant and chubby, at least I felt the weight was merited. I left the hospital smaller than when I had come in, but not by much (big downer, by the way). Now I'm chubby with no baby to account for the weight--ugh. It's been 10 weeks since Rain was born, and I was finally cleared by my doctor last week to begin exercising again. Because of the breastfeeding, twenty-two pounds have dropped off me since I gave birth without me lifting a finger. The rest, however, will have to be yanked off by pure exertion. Yeah, I think it will be as fun as it sounds.

So, today I went to the gym for the first time.

At one point, I was in tears ... and not for the reason you're thinkin'.

The Light Box: Reason #2

The other thing that's changed my relationship with TV is watching children on reality shows and specials. Of course, I expected shows like To Catch a Predator to, as a parent, make me nauseous. What I didn't expect is how personally I'm taking any hint of child abuse on television. Obviously, I've always felt child abuse is wrong, but had I ever taken personal, emotional offense to it? Perfect example: I was watching a talk show the other day where a young couple admitted to fighting relentlessly in front of their 10-month-old son. They would curse and hit while their son looked on. They showed a video clip (taken by the father) where the couple basically got in each other's faces yelling. At one point, the camera turned to the child. The boy seemed passive with a blank stare, as if not sure what to make of the sounds around him. His innocence, the fact that he could do nothing about the dangerous situation he was in, and the knowledge that he--through no fault of his own--would probably have to endure a terrible childhood at the hands of people he loved, made me sad. Sad! A year ago, after having seen the same thing, I might have said, "Oh, that's so sad," but what I really would've meant was, "That kid had bad luck in the parent lottery. Hope things work out for him... Did I remember to take that red T-shirt out of the pile of whites I dumped in the washer this morning? Because last time ..."

Another example: I was watching a news program about young girls who have decided to give their children up for adoption. These girls would hold their babies for days to a week or more before handing them to their new parents. As I watched them cuddle their babies like they were dolls, then give them up, I was appalled. Yeah, I said it, I was appalled. I was actually crying, saying, "Why are the babies taking the punishment for having irresponsible parents? Where are the boyfriends? Man up! Quit school, get a job, and take care of your kids instead of passing them off and continuing your lives like nothing happened!" Yep, I told those kids to QUIT SCHOOL. Go ahead, send the hate mail I deserve.

Over the hum of Tim saying, "Honey, calm down. It's OK. Just calm down ...," I was sobbing, "Those babies will know that the first thing in the world they knew was rejection. These girls and their pathetic boyfriends don't deserve the rest of their childhoods!" And on and on (and on) I went. If I had seen the same program a year ago, I would've said, "That's so irresponsible for these kids to be making babies. Oh well, at least there are parents willing to adopt them." Maybe it's hormones, maybe my perspective has changed forever; I don't know. The point is, I can't watch kids on TV anymore without emotionally detaching myself in a way that is necessary to, well, watch kids on TV.

Woe unto me the next time I happen to catch a "Feed the Children" program ...

The Light Box: Reason #1

My relationship with TV has changed since Rain was born. I was never a big TV watcher, but I've spent my fair late nights with the Discovery Channel like most Americans. TV & I never had an open-arms kind of relationship, but we were guarded friends. Lately, though, we've had a suspicious-neighbors-sort-of-thing going on. This happened for two reasons.

The American Academy of Pediatrics, who many parents regard as the final say in any matter, says that children should not be allowed to watch television until they are two years old. After, they should watch no more than 30 minutes a day, at least while they are preschool age.

I know. Parents with toddlers right now are laughing. How dare the AAP attempt to take Dora the Explorer, Diego (her unbelievably successful knockoff), The Wiggles, The Backyardigans, and--shall I whisper it?--Sesame Street from our children? Oh, yes, they dare. I understand the AAP has legitimate reasons for putting the smackdown on Sponge Bob. They don't want any more mini coach 'taters becoming tubby adults. Let's face it: slap a plate of chocolate chip cookies on top of it, and TV is basically a nanny.

That's what has me worried. If I start letting Rain watch TV, even if she only watched educational shows, will I start phoning it in? Honestly, the idea that Rain could be captivated for hours on end while I finally got some stuff done is more than tempting. Sure, I'd start with one 30-minute program here and there, but how long would it be before it became a daily thing, tacking on more shows as the weeks went on? Don't misunderstand: Rain is a full-time gig. She has been ON since the day she was born, and too much of the same scenery bores her, which leads to amped-up crying. That means we're constantly playing, singing, looking at books, taking trips to the store; I have to work it all day. But, do I want her keeping her spot warm on the couch?

What about a happy medium, you say? Moderation? That's what I'm trying to tell you: I'm not a moderate person. I'll dump her in front of a set for hours and hours if you let me! Sure, that gets me voted down for Mother of the Year, but it's probably the truth. So for now, Rain is TV-less. I keep the TV off most of the time, and when we do watch it, I turn her back towards it. Sometimes she starts to turn her head, and I tell her, "No Light Box for you!" before shutting it off. Will I eventually give in? Sure, but for now, when I see Light Box, I vote "no."