Month: September 2014

Hipster Academy for Gifted Youths

September 30, 2014 / Tara / 0 Comments

E’s day care is OK. I mean, he’s well taken care of and our pocketbook isn’t being totally ravaged, so I really don’t have much to complain about. However, I just feel like there could be better. So, based on a recommendation, I went on a tour of The Academy* on Monday over lunch.

Whoa.

When I pulled up to what looked like an ultra hip shipping container, I knew I was in trouble. I sat in the car a few minutes to collect myself and also to observe a few of the toddlers in their natural habitat without the influence of a staff member giving me a tour. Of course, all of these observations were being texted to Peter in real time:

“Already I feel this is a hipster school for hipster kids. The building looks like a shipping container for Christ’s sake.”

“ 🙂 “

“All of these kids are white.”

“lol”

“I bet their names are dumb.”

“Have fun. Keep an open mind.”

I seriously don’t know what I’d do without this man.

When I walked in the door, I was greeted and then asked to fill out about a billion sign in sheets and forms. While I sat there trying to remember what day it was, I noticed a chalkboard full of welcomes and anniversaries. “Welcome Knoxley + Family” That’s right. A plus sign instead of the word “and”. Come on, Tara. Keep an open mind. You can do it.

My hair looks like Einstein, so obviously I'm smart.

My hair looks like Einstein’s, so obviously I’m smart. I don’t need Hipster Academy.

Soon, my tour guide arrived. I can’t remember her name because I was still mulling the name Knoxley over in my head when she said hello. It wasn’t two seconds after shaking my hand that I got the full on rejection speech. “You’re interested in the toddler program? Oh, you can’t get into that. Not unless you’ve been in the infant program, and it’s booked out until 2016. We have pregnant women on the waitlist.” Oh. Wow. Ok. Should I just turn around and walk out the door now? If Hipster Academy was so hard to get into, why didn’t you just tell me that on the phone instead of scheduling me for a tour? Whatever, lady. I’m here, so just walk me around the place.

Of course I didn’t say any of this, but that’s what I was thinking right after the words, “Uh, what?” came out of my mouth. I think my shock registered with her because she quickly tried to back pedal and then showed me the toddler room.

The toddler room. When we walked in, I felt like I had stepped into the pages of Dwell magazine for kids. Ultra modern furniture, white walls covered in unique and colorful artwork, storage containers in chic geometric shapes.

“Are you familiar with the Reggio method?” Excuse me, what? Perhaps your accent, which I think is German with a touch of pretension, is making it difficult for me to understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. Or not. Apparently, the Reggio method is a style of teaching where the children control the curriculum. So, as she put it, if a child wants to paint all day, we let them paint. Of course they still have some rules, like the kids have to wash their hands after using the bathroom (oh thank god), but other than that the children rule. Sounds like Lord of the Flies with paintbrushes. But do go on.

And we did. Through the glass doors covered in muddy hand prints that looked like they had been placed there by an interior designer to make the space feel more earthy. She must have read the expression on my face because she explained to me that another part of the Reggio method was to use as many natural elements as possible in the learning process. Mud, grass, leaves, balls of sticks that looked like something out of a West Elm catalog. But you won’t see the alphabet on the wall. There’s plenty of time for that when they get older.

Outside, I got the chance to see the pre-k group in action. They all looked like they were having a marvelous time doing what kids do — climbing, sliding, running, beating on stuff with sticks. It was nice to witness because after what I had just experienced inside, I was pretty speechless. My tour guide asked me if I had any questions. Of course, being the asshole that I am, the only question I could think of was, “Is one of the child-led activities to put their shoes on the wrong feet? Because that’s the third kid I’ve seen wearing their shoes backwards.” The answer? As long as they say they’re comfortable, we let them do what they want.

I had seen enough.

E, I hope you’re cool with the public school version of day care. Because as much as I condone playing in the mud, I can’t support you going to the Hipster Academy for Gifted Youths. We’ll save our nature filled free-for-alls for the weekend. During the week, you can play with regular toys and learn the alphabet.
*No, it’s not actually called The Academy, but that’s what I’m going to refer to it as for the sake of this post. No day cares shall be harmed in the making of this blog.

An open letter to my right boob

September 17, 2014 / Tara / 0 Comments

Dear Righty,

Get your shit together.

Every day is not some sort of all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving dinner buffet. You need to learn the subtle art of supply and demand. My almost three month old’s stomach is only the size of a chicken egg, so why do you insist on creating 5-7 ounces of milk by yourself? In case you didn’t know, 5-7 ounces in my what used to be A cup REALLY HURTS. You’ve got your lifelong friend Lefty to back you up if you wanted her to. She’s rocking 3.5-4 ounces on the regular herself, so together you guys are over-freakin’-whelming. Not to mention when I look in the mirror, I’m visibly lopsided. You’re going to turn me into a social pariah. “Oh, there goes Tara. Man, her boobs are SO uneven.” That’s what they’re going to be saying about us, Righty. Do you want that? I know I don’t.

You’re partied out, man. Again.

Just so you know, I’m having a hard time keeping up with the snacks to feed your ridiculous milk making habits. My jaw hurts from chewing what seems like thousands of granola bars, and it’s still not enough for you. I swear you’re going to consume me in some kind of black hole-esque vortex if you keep this up, so stop stealing so many pounds off my body. I’d like to not be a waif, for E’s sake. No one likes cuddling with the mommy version of Skeletor. (Although now that I think about it, Skeletor was pretty muscle-y. How about cuddling with Skeletor’s face. That part was bony and haggard, for sure.)

I don’t know, maybe you’ve got the boob version of Napoleon Complex. I know you used to be the smaller boob in our old life, but that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me now that you’ve discovered your power. You weren’t that much smaller. No one noticed, I promise. You can end this campaign of conquest, this neverending stream of pain and suffering. I respect you now.

You probably won’t listen to my pleading, but I felt I had to try. Otherwise this is going to be a long year of unnecessary cursing and painful grimaces. So, if you could, just save us both some time and energy and slow your roll. This letter may come off a little harsh, but you know I love you baby. I mean, you know that, right?

With respect,

Tara

Back to work

September 15, 2014 / Tara / 2 Comments

When I walked into the office this morning it was dark. I guess that’s what things look like around here at 7:30 a.m. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really gotten to work that early before except on a few special occasions. But 7:30 a.m. will be my new arrival time. 8 a.m. on a bad day. Whoa.

E and mommy before work.

Looking at my desk was like looking at some kind of ancient archaeological dig site. Everything was exactly how I left it except covered in dust. It was like a window into my old life, pre-E me preserved in a bottle. I booted up my computer, opened my inbox, and stared at the 3,500+ emails that were waiting for me. It seems my out of office message did A LOT of good. Sigh. I pushed the delete button hard. With one hand. Because I had to pump.

After putting my kid’s midmorning snack into the office fridge (weird), something came over me. I MUST CLEAN. All of a sudden I was recycling stack after stack of old papers and wiping down every surface with Clorox wipes. It was so frenzied I was practically foaming at the mouth. Cleaning is kind of a normal stress response for me, but this cleaning rampage was just a little different. I felt a strong need to erase all of it. I couldn’t stand looking at these artifacts of the way things were. I didn’t want any reminders — I’m a new person, so my office should be too.

As I tore through the paper stacks, people started to show up at work and I was greeted with tons of warm welcomes and “Whoa! It’s Tara!” I’m not going to lie, it was nice. I missed seeing all of these adult faces and having all of these varied grown up conversations. Yes, we talked about my boy, but we talked about other things too. I felt a little bit more well rounded already.

After I sifted through my emails, finished my cleaning binge and said hi to all my work friends, I had to sit down. My head was humming. Only 3 hours in, and I was totally exhausted. I hadn’t used my mind this much in so long it felt like it was melting. Not to worry though, because I had the perfect excuse to sit. It was time to pump again (ugh)! That’s going to get really old, really fast.

The afternoon was a blur. Catching up on projects, figuring out what I’ll need to work on in the coming weeks, answering more emails, pumping again, eating candy, doing whatever bits of work I actually felt comfortable doing (i.e. I know it well enough not to screw it up). More head spinning.

A little play time before work this morning.

So, to summarize, my first day back at work was… interesting. Yes, I had to pump and yes I was only running on about 5 hours of sleep, so I felt different, but work was the same. And I was happy about that. For once in 12 weeks something is delightfully just how I remember it. Of course it’s going to be hard, but I ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. That’s a feeling I haven’t had in forever. Plus, I can pee when I want and I finished my lunch on my own schedule. No matter how hard it is to leave E’s little face at daycare, I think in the end working is what’s right for me and my family at this moment. In the end, I’ll be a better mom because of it.

Daycare. Whoa.

September 10, 2014 / Tara / 2 Comments

If you had asked me a month ago if I was ready to go back to work and for E to start daycare I would have said, “Yes, God please, tomorrow. I can’t take one more second of this crazy boring routine.” But something happened over the last month. My kid got… cool. He’s not just a sleeping, crying, eating, pooping sack of potatoes. Instead, he’s a sleeping, crying, eating, pooping sack of potatoes that smiles. And coos. And plays with toys. And recognizes me and Peter. All of a sudden all of the work that we’ve put in is starting to pay off in adorableness, and it’s awesome.

The plan from the beginning was to take E to daycare a week before I started back so that we could get used to the new normal. Only all of a sudden, I didn’t want to take him. My heart was breaking and simultaneously full of anxiety just at the thought of packing his bag. His bag. Oh my. Who knew a three month old would need so much stuff? Extra clothes, blanket, pacifiers, diapers, labeled and dated bottles, labeled crib sheet, labeled labels… whoa. It took me days to figure it all out and get it together.

On Sunday night, I didn’t sleep. Shocking, I know. But I mean, who were these daycare women? Would E sleep there or just cry all day? What if there were unvaccinated Jenny McCarthy babies in the room? My head was spinning. When E woke up at 4:30 a.m., I was actually happy to have something to do besides be trapped in bed with my own thoughts. I fed him, Peter put him back to sleep, then I got to work on breakfast and showering, just like it was a new normal work day.

At 7 a.m., we were all out the door. E in his car seat, me with his ginormous bag of tiny baby stuff, and Peter with the car keys, working hard at keeping me from freaking out too bad. We pulled up to the daycare and I felt like it was my first day of school. Confused and scared, I walked into the Infant 1 room. Mrs. Istine (yup, first name) greeted us quickly and gave us the down and dirty on what to do, all while holding one baby and throwing quick glances over at the others to make sure they were doing alright. Checkinherebottlesherediapershere. Ok…ok…uh huh…ok. (Does it always smell like that in here? That Lola baby or whatever her name is sure seems upset. God, crib row over there totally makes this place look like an orphanage. How did I not notice any of these things when we picked this place?)

Then, the moment of truth. I took E out of the car seat and handed him over. At first, he threw a huge grin at Mrs. Istine. “Oh, what a happy baby,” she said. I felt a moment of relief. 0.25 seconds later, the happy baby became Mt. Vesuvius. Total meltdown. I knew I had to leave immediately or else I would grab E and never come back. I made it to the door before tears started streaming down my face. By the time I got to the car, I had lost it completely. I just folded over in a heap and cried the whole way home. And then I cried some more when I got in my house and saw all his toys and his room and his bouncy seat. Of course, after that huge cry fest I did what any normal girl would do. I called my mother. Then I did some retail therapy at Target, where I bought baby clothes and a box of Fruit Roll-Ups that I subsequently ate all in one sitting. Sigh.

5 minutes after getting home from our first day at daycare.

5 minutes after that.

I picked him up at 4 p.m. It’s as long as I could last. He smelled like Mrs. Laura’s perfume (ew) and only took one nap that day, so he was exhausted. When we got home, he ate for an obscene amount of time, gave me a few smiles, then passed out. We made it.

The next day, we did it again, but it was a little bit better. I left a happy baby and I only felt depressed. No tears this time. Today, I left my baby snoozing in his daycare crib, and I walked out the door feeling… well… fine. Not happy, not sad, just fine. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel anything better than fine about daycare, but I’ll take it. And in this particular motherhood trial, I’m not sure if things will necessarily get better, but they’ll get easier. I mean, I’ve already got a few life hacks lined up to make the bag packing better, so there’s that. Tomorrow we’ll wake up and do it again, and again, and again until this doesn’t feel like anything except the norm. And I’ll learn to take these eight hours a day as a mommy vacation, and appreciate the hours I have with my family each night and each weekend that much more.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Istine.

Insomnia sucks

September 5, 2014 / Tara / 8 Comments

I used to be that girl who fell asleep at parties at 10 p.m. if I was tired and then go home and get another 8 hours. I’m sure Peter found it pretty embarrassing, but his lame party habit is to find the nearest computer and start tinkering, so I guess it could be worse. And, wow, based on these descriptions I don’t know how we weren’t invited to EVERY PARTY IN DENVER. I digress.

Sadly, since I had a baby I’ve developed some kind of mommy insomnia. Yes, I can still fall asleep early, but I wake up at midnight. Every. Night. E has been kind of a killer sleeper lately, going down at around 9 p.m. and staying asleep until 2 a.m., and sometimes even 4:30 a.m. (whoa). It’s like a parent’s dream.

Sleeping baby gets the whole couch. And the remotes. Thankfully, he left it on the U.S. Open quarterfinal. So thoughtful.

But not for me, apparently. My night goes like this. Tiny sound? Wake up. Not a tiny sound? Wake up. Twinge of pain in my overly full boob? Wake up. Dream about E, Peter and I living in a post apocalyptic version of America and trying to find diapers in a zombie infested grocery store? Wake up. And then it’s over. I can’t fall asleep again until the baby wakes up and gets fed. Then, after that, it takes me at least an hour to doze off, if I do at all. And don’t even get me started on my ability to “sleep when the baby sleeps” during the day*. It’s a cruel reality I live in, y’all.

I don’t know, maybe my body has just conditioned itself to live off of 5 hours of sleep and has decided I don’t need anymore than that because it’s greedy or something. Or maybe I’m turning into my mother, who for years has only been able to sleep 3 or 4 hours a night. Please say it isn’t so.

I guess the point of this sleep deprived ramble is to ask a question. How do you out there get yourself to fall asleep? Count sheep? Enya? I need to know your secrets.

Love,
Tara (mommy insomnia) Hubner

*I could write a whole separate blog post on how much I hate when people say, “oh, just sleep when the baby sleeps.” It was one of the horrible things I’d repeat in my head during the first month that kept me awake, filled with anxiety. That and the Trace Adkins jam, “You’re Going to Miss This.” What an asshole.

But, it seriously doesn’t work like that. At least for me. I applaud those for whom it does work. Good on ya.

CrossFit after baby

September 4, 2014 / Tara / 0 Comments

I like to be active. Tennis, snowboarding, running, hiking, walking the dog, you name it. Just keep me moving.

About two years B.E. (Before Elliott), I discovered CrossFit. It was like we were made for each other. A workout that always changes, challenges me everyday, and I get to do it with new friends? Sold. I remember when I came home after the free Saturday class at CrossFit Verve, exhausted and excited, telling Peter about what I had just done at about a million words per minute. I was sore for the next week, but I didn’t care. CrossFit was awesome.

Fast forward about a year and a half, having bagged PR after PR, lifting more than I ever thought my chicken arms and legs could ever lift, fully addicted to the endorphins and community that CrossFit provides. Then I got pregnant. I kept it a secret from the folks at the gym well into my second trimester. It wasn’t until bench press showed up on the board that I let the cat out of the bag. I had read something on the Internet about laying on your back and weights in the second tri being bad for baby, blah. The interwebz are full of so many crazy things, but I was concerned, so I ran over to one of the trainers and told them my situation. They were respectful and handed me a modification — the first of MANY modifications I would learn to use. Over the next months I carried on, doing WOD after WOD highly modified, until about four days before E was born. All of the trainers were fantastic the whole time, making sure kept my heart rate where it should be and only doing movements that were safe and comfortable. I fully credit CrossFit for keeping me calm during my pregnancy.

That’s what a push up looks like when you’re very pregnant.

I know this sounds crazy, but I was ready to be back in the gym about two weeks after giving birth. Having a baby was SO much sitting and staring and repetition. All things I’m not very good at doing. I didn’t make it back for six weeks, waiting to be cleared by my doctor. My first WOD back had a barbell movement. Keep in mind, I hadn’t used a barbell in MONTHS since the giant belly makes it kind of hard to do. I casually walked over to the rack, picked up the 35 lb bar, and almost dropped it. It felt like I had just picked up 100 lbs. What was happening? I did way more weight than that when I was pregnant. Turns out, working out after baby is HARD. You’re constantly tired, your back hurts, weird things pop, you have no core muscles to speak of. Your mind remembers what you used to be able to do, but your body just won’t do it. Frustrating is kind of an understatement.

However, it’s hard to be frustrated for too long when you have such amazing people around you. Every time I step foot into Verve, I have friends who say hello. Who ask me how I’m doing and how E is doing. They congratulate me for working out, and they respect my limitations, helping me find ways to get stronger that make sense for me. It’s a support system that I missed terribly and am so thankful to have back.

So, as my friend Britta so wisely put it, those things that I built for myself that I had started to take for granted, well, they feel just that much sweeter as I start to reclaim them. I mean, I’m able to go to the gym now! The other day, I did a modified handstand pushup, and I hadn’t even done a handstand in over six months! As far as all my old PRs go, I’ve pretty much wiped the slate clean. Because for me these days, a personal record is simply making it there, and the joy that I feel at being able to slowly get back all the things from my old life that I had lost.

Adorable photo of my baby just because.

That hair

September 1, 2014 / Tara / 0 Comments

Walking around with an infant in public is kind of like walking around with a celebrity. Everyone wants to stop and look, smile, maybe say a few words. When it comes to my baby, the first words are always the same*.

That hair.

Yes, it’s true, little E has an AMAZING coif. Like I’ve mentioned before, his hair has been notable since before birth. It showed up on an ultrasound for crying out loud. When he came out with a full head of dark brown locks we thought for sure it would fall out. Well, it hasn’t. In fact, it’s simply gotten about 4 times longer and more unwieldy. Everyday it does something new and ridiculous. This post is simply an ode to Elliott’s hair.