Ever since say, September, I've been obsessed with organizing our garage.

Call me crazy, but I believe a three-car garage should hold at least one car. And yet, ours houses zero. Not even a bike.

Over Thanksgiving, my dad was kind enough to help Brian install these gigantic, white cabinets and I love them. Seriously. Every time I look at them, my heart races just a tiny bit. They are sturdy, clean, and look really impressive. And best yet, our junk is carefully concealed behind the gigantic white doors. Why do I have 8 cans of various shades of green spray paint? I don't know. But I can tell you where exactly it is stored in our garage, lest the need arise for some basil or lime colored paint. (far left cabinet, third shelf, in the back.)

I even took down our Christmas decorations on the 26th of December (sorry, just not very sentimental) and waited with baited breath to store all of our ornaments, tinsel and bows with precision. Except the lovely white cabinets are now full, and we still have about 300 boxes on the floor. Hence the need for overhead storage.

I've been asking (read: nagging) Brian to put up the overhead storage since December 27th. It's going to mainly house what I like to call "Seasonal Decor" and while it's out of the way, at least it's still within reach. (Easter is coming up fast, people).

The only problem with the overhead storage? The only time Brian has to do it is on Sundays. And Brian said he would do it as soon as football season ended.  So while I cheered on Green Bay (from a distance, naturally), I felt torn. If they win, Brian is happy. If they lose, my seasonal decor continues to occupy a giant chunk of floor space and my car continues to get dirty since it sits outside, next to the sprinklers, every night.  Which is more important to me? Does it matter?

I think you know where this story is going, since the Packers play in the Superbowl this weekend.

I did manage to convince (read: harass) Brian into hanging the shelving this past weekend. Technically, the Packers were not playing. This was his one, shining moment to get into the garage, hang some wire rods, and call it a day.

So he did. Kind of.

I tried to set the stage as best as I could. I took Scotty far, far away (Target) and left Brian to work on his own, uninterrupted. I know I give him a bad rap for his handyman skills, but my dad (i.e. Bob Villa) was impressed with Brian's craftsmanship on the Gates of Hell (we all remember that one, right?) and I started to think maybe I should ease up on the poor guy.

And then Saturday happened.

Scotty and I had just gotten back from Target and were fixing lunch as Brian happily measured and drilled in the garage. All of a sudden I hear the sound of the drill followed by this very terse, "Help!" and then silence. It was so quick I thought I had imagined it.

So I started walking to the garage, but something inside of me said, "Run!" I rounded the corner, threw open the door (had he fallen off the ladder? Did a box fall and hit him? Are there wolves in the neighborhood?) and was greeted by literally a sheet of water pouring down from the ceiling.

What?!

Brian, poor guy, looked awful. He was wet and angry and totally freaked out. And oh yeah, there was a fountain of water pouring out of our ceiling through a hole in the ceiling.

Like any good married couple in a time of crisis, we immediately started yelling at each other.

"What did you do?" I hollered.

"I don't know what happened!" he screamed at me.

"Turn off the water!" I yelled back.

"I don't know how!" He was now jumping up and down in the water as it gushed over us. I'm sure the neighbors were getting a kick out of this one.

For whatever reason, back in November, my dad had randomly pointed out the water valve to me. It was in the spot where we were going to put the cabinets, and for some reason, like a dream, that whole conversation with him flashed through my brain in this very moment.

I ran to the wall, found the valve, and turned it. The water, blissfully, stopped gushing. And Brian stopped jumping around like a crazy person.

And then, as we stood facing each other, wet, confused, but mostly relieved, the door to the garage started shaking and I realized that in the heat of the moment, I had left Scotty inside to fend for himself. He was standing on the other side of the door, shaking the handle and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Poor kid.

The rest of the story, sadly, is pretty dull. We called a plumber (cheap, let me tell you, on a Saturday afternoon. On an emergency basis.) We sat around and looked at the dirty dishes piling up and discovered a new-found appreciation for the beauty of running water. Brian mopped, swept, and cleaned the garage while the plumber cut a giant hole in our ceiling and replaced the pipe Brian drilled into with another pipe. Brian wrote a check to the plumber, and just like that, the water was running again.

Honestly, I don't fault Brian. It was a one-in-a-million chance that he would drill into literally a 1/2" pipe in the ceiling (that technically was placed too close to the wall anyways.) And he cleaned up the garage, including Scotty's five thousand Cheerios and Craisins that were littered about, and now it looks better than it ever has.

Now we are letting the insulation and ceiling dry. A dry wall guy will have to come out to patch everything up, and then maybe, just maybe, my garage shelving will be hung. I'm just hoping it happens before December 26th, 2011.

Between the blue skies, blue shirt, and blue pants, Scotty practically blends in with the park equipment.

Good friend and frequent blog reader Tiffany sent me a few links to the recent controversy that is Amy Chua's life; perhaps you've heard of her? She was on the Today Show, wrote an article for the Wall Street Journal, and is currently fielding death threats as a result of her latest book, "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother."

Chua, a Yale law professor and mother of two, stirred the pot when she decided to explain why Chinese mothers are superior: they demand excellence from their children, regardless of the cost. Their extremely strict (from the Western world's perspective) style of parenting means no sleep overs, no play dates, nothing less than straight A's, no school plays, no TV, no computer, blah, blah. You get the idea. She also forces her children to practice the piano and violin (ONLY the piano and violin; no flutists welcome in this house) for three hours a day and once rejected a handmade birthday card from her daughter as she believed the little girl didn't put enough effort into it.

Ouch.

Ms. Chua feels as though Western parents coddle their children. I'm not a big fan of the Culture of Self-Esteem (i.e. "Everybody gets a trophy!") either, but calling your kid a fatty? To his face? To inspire weight loss? Well, that's just cruel.

Chua goes on to say that Western parents worry too much about their children's self-esteem. She also said that Chinese parents believe their kids owe them everything, and that they know what is best for their children, therefore overriding all of their children's own desires and preferences. They believe they operate from a model of strength, meaning they can criticize and shame their children because their children can handle it. It helps them find their true potential.

Uh...what?

Tiffany wanted to hear my thoughts on the article, and just as I was about to hit reply, it occurred to me that this is a great blog topic.

So my personal opinion on this lady:  she's crazy.

My professional opinion? She's still crazy.

I mean, I get it. I understand that she wants her children to be successful. And I'm guessing she is 100% effective: her children are going to be, and have already been, at the top of their fields. This is a classic example of "does the end justify the means?" kind of question.  But the lingering concern that I have is...to what end?

These little Tiger cubs, aka her daughters, are going to be grown one day. And if they attend college in the Western world and live on-campus, it's going to take them all of 12 minutes to figure out all the stuff they missed out on growing up, and an additional 4 minutes to rebel against their overly-critical, judgmental, cruel, and now-absent, mother. And in college, this translates to three things: boys, booze, and academic probation. Tiger Mom better be careful or she may end up as a Tiger Grandmother sooner than she would like. Beer bong for the lady?

Rebellion aside, my little Western brain also has to ask...just because they are successful, does that mean they are happy? And I can tell you: no. Not at all. I have yet to work with the extremely happy, unsuccessful client. No one ever came through my doors and said, "I am so eff-ing happy, but I just can't seem to get a promotion at work."  Yet while I was in practice, my schedule was full of extremely successful, extremely unhappy people. Yes, success does breed happiness, but they are not dependent on one another. Success at the expense of happiness is going to yield just that: success without happiness. And yes, you can be happy without being the most successful, the most wealthy, and the highest-achieving person you know. In fact, there's a good chance you won't be happy with that level of success, since it breeds bad feelings from others. Ever heard, "it's lonely at the top?"

And while Tiger Mom deliberately keeps her children out of sports, school plays, and any other activity that would foster positive relationships with others, the biggest complaint I heard as a therapist was, "I'm having trouble with my [inset name of spouse, co-worker, family member, neighbor]."  It's a fact that a person's  happiness is directly correlated to their relationships with others. Human beings - whether Chinese, American, Irish, Korean, or African - are social creatures. Our happiness comes through interactions - positive, meaningful interactions - with other humans beings. Wanna be happy? Seek out meaningful relationships with other people.

(that will be $125, please.)

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that the world is not built on achievement alone. Being successful at the piano or math is a great accomplishment, but success is just one type of "good feelings." What about the feeling that comes from helping another person? You can't coerce compassion into a child. You cannot force empathy. Emotional maturity, not just academic learning, is necessary for the well-rounded individual.

And if I had to pick, I would choose happiness over success any day of the week. Period. Because happy people are much more likely to be successful, but the opposite does not necessarily hold true.

Back to parenting, though. Somehow I've managed to weave in that pesky Western ideal we call happiness into this argument, and if you are a true collectivist, like the Tiger Mom, that doesn't mean much.

For me, it comes down to this:  the ultimate sign of a good parent is the type of relationship do you, the parents, maintain with your ADULT child (or children). Not what the child reports while they are still in the house, but what they feel and remember when they are adults. And consequently, adult kids will treat their parents as such. The adult child no longer needs their parents for shelter, food, or those basic things. Now, the relationship is all about want; do I want you in my life? What do you bring to my life? Do you respect me as an adult - and by that, I mean do you respect the fact that I am my own person, and not a clone of you? I can make my own decisions, form my own opinions, and be who I am, whether you agree with that or not?  The successful parents are the ones who adapt to this and find ways to connect to their children even when their children don't need them. The unsuccessful ones are the ones who eventually become estranged.

Reading the article, I couldn't help but look at Scotty and think about his future. I will say, pre-kids, I had a very different mentality. Now with him here, I realize my biggest goal for him is to protect him from danger, and send him off into the world as emotionally and academically prepared as I can. And then - it's his life. If he wants to be a garbage man (which is looking like a distinct possibility at this point), he should - as long as it makes him happy. If he wants to hang out with his friends during high school - and they are not doing anything dangerous or illegal - you know what? He should. That's normal and developmentally appropriate. He's not "mine" is the possessive sense; he's himself. My whole job as a parent is help him be, well, him. And I want to do what I can to allow him to be as much of him as he can be.

So that's my battle hymn, as a Bear mother. Go off into the world. Be yourself, be happy, and most of all, be kind to other people.

(or is that Jerry Springer? Crap, I think I watched too much TV growing up. Thanks, Mom.)

The Bachelor: The Castration of Brad Womack

The Bachelor:  Therapy Helped Me A Lot, Y'all

The Bachelor: How Many More Ways Can The Producers Torture Emily?

(that last one is obviously a reference to next week's episode at the race track...I mean, really? Really? Who vetted this girl and then who set up Brad's "dream" dates? Did anyone think that perhaps she would not be a good person to take to on a motor speedway, considering the love of her life was a race car driver? What will the next date be - touring wreckage from a plane crash? Perhaps a romantic picnic in a cemetery?)

Anywho, back to this week's episode. It's almost impossible to stop coming up with tag lines for this season's Bachelor - could turn into a fun drinking game, too - since Brad just keeps plowing along, using the same tired phrases and psychobabble. "I'm a changed man," he said about 8 times. We know Brad, we know. "I'm not giving up on her [insert name of random Bachelorette]." What does that even mean? You know you can only pick one in the end, right? Or is this the polygamist version of the Bachelor?

(oh, I could only dream)

The first date kicked off with Chantal, Ye of the Face Slapping, and Brad going on an underwater date. While Chantal bemoaned her fears of deep water, she clearly was not afraid of dirty water. (eww...) They then got comfy on giant sofa-things on the beach and discussed Chantal's divorce. Again, I'm going to hand it to a Bachelorette who's gone through the big D and is still looking for love; marriage, for them, isn't going to be wine and roses. They already know that. And I was fairly impressed with Chantal's apparent ease in which she grasps that concept, yet still believes in the institution. Brad told her she keeps him on his toes, and they snuggled for awhile. They finally retreated into one of the the little cabanas for more kissy-face due to the rain while I sat and worried about the duponi silk throws that were getting wet. (they were very pretty, no?) Chantal got a rose and all was good in the hood.

On the group date, Brad dragged the ladies to a radio station so their group therapy session could be broadcast for all to hear. Since I'm not a listener of Sirius radio, I have no idea who Mike is, but I'm definitely familiar with Dr. Drew (and love him, since he usually remains on-topic and mostly professional.) Did anyone notice the girls were holding beverages prior to going on the air? Again, while I know understand the show is for entertainment and not real therapy, I still have to raise a little red flag and say that therapy and alcohol don't mix. Imbibing before a session is probably not going to be helpful. And when that session is meant for hundreds of thousands of people to listen to, I'd probably go light on the vodka Red Bulls. I think Stacey the Bartender must have done a beer bong or something before putting her headset on, since she was the only one who raised her hand when Dr. Drew asked if anyone had ever cheated. She blamed it on college, but you could tell Brad just mentally checked her off his list of potential wives. Poor Stacey.

During the next segment, the girls splashed around in the hot tub while Brad spoke to each one for 2.3 seconds. It appeared they were having a contest called "Who Can Interrupt the Alone Time Faster?" And the winner is...Ashley H!  And yes, I may or may not have tuned out during this part since the iPad was close by and my camera is currently broken (hence no recent Bear photos) and the Canon Rebel T1i is on sale at Best Buy...but based on my limited viewing, it appeared Ashley H is starting to lose it a little? Creepy, much? Ashley doesn't like cavities or other women kissing her man, so she broke up Britt and Brad's snog. Bummer. Britt still snagged a rose, and I now pronounce her this season's Dark Horse for the Final Rose. Seems like a long shot, but she's been slow and steady through this whole process.

Michelle, of course, sat at the mansion and lamented how all of these girls are wrong for Brad. Is that because you buy your warm-up hoodies at Costco? (anyone else catch that?) During their one-on-one date, Brad had the opportunity to push Michelle off of a very tall building but didn't, so instead they rappelled down the side as she toted the company line. "It's all for love!" "Love makes this possible!" "Our love is keeping us strong!" Okay, those may not be exact quotes, but re-watch it and tell me she's not the best salesperson you've ever met. Every syllable that came out of her mouth was strategic, and I'm willing to bet she doesn't even have a fear of heights (again, strategry.)  I also bet she does a terrible job cutting hair in Utah, yet walks out of the salon with the most in tips. There's something very terrifying about her pushiness. And Brad just keeps eating it up.

::sigh::

Finally, on to the rose ceremony. Are you bored yet? I kind of was. There are still several women who's names I don't even know, and yet they are still around. Ashley H still got a rose since Brad is afraid of her, and Emily not only got a rose but also a make-shift picnic. The other girls sat around and bitched about Brad not giving them "presents," while Emily just smiled her sad smile and accepted the glass of wine he offered her and talked about her daughter. I know her name is Ricky, but I keep calling her "Ricky-Bobby" in my head. So wrong.

In the end, it was Meghan of NY, Lindsay of Texas, and Stacey the Bartender sent home. Considering again that the three of them amounted to about 4 seconds of actual air time (with the majority going to Michelle, Chantal, Emily, and a little slice to Ashley H), was anyone surprised? And while I think that Emily may be a top-two contender, I don't think she ends up with Brad. I think she is going to be the hands-down favorite for the next Bachelorette. So who does Brad pick? Jaime Greene or Dr. Drew. Those are my bets.

Week 1 (win against Philadelphia):

Brian: We beat Philly! Mike McCarthy blah, blah [insert football commentary]...and Aaron Rodgers blah, blah [more football commentary]...

Kim: They look really good. I think they are going to go to the Superbowl.

Week 3 (loss to Chicago): 

Brian: They are terrible. They don't deserve to win any more games. Blah, blah [again, football speak.]

Kim: I don't know, they just made a few mistakes. Overall, they look really good. I think they might be going to the Superbowl.

Brian: (not listening. Already on the iPad reading the Green Bay Press Gazette.)  Hmph.

Week 9 (easy win against Dallas):

Brian: They looked great! They blah, blah [you get the drill at this point.]

Kim: Yes, I think they are going to the Superbowl.

Post-season, Game 2 against Atlanta:

Brian: [watching game and biting off nails]: Oh my God! You are kidding me! You have to catch that ball, [insert name of a Packer player]. [Yelling at TV]  Your mother's a goat!

Kim: Okay sweetie, I'm heading out for Girls' Night. Are you sure it's okay I leave?

Brian: [eyes glued to the TV]  Yes, yes, get out of here. [the score is 14-7, Packers are losing]. You're fine, have fun, tell the girls I said hi.

(Brian believes that anytime I watch any part of the Packer game, they mysteriously begin losing. I can't tell you how many times this has happened; essentially every game I've ever seen live, they have lost. And even when I watch the game for three seconds, the Packers do something like turn the ball over or the other team scores. It's uncanny, really. And so Brian has banned me from watching long stretches of Packer football. I am 100% okay with this since I don't really like football. I just really want the Packers to win so Brian is happy and not breaking stuff.)

Kim: [shrugging]: Okay. Love you. Bye.

**90 minutes later, with no TVs present**

Kim [catches glance of TV screen in the restaurant]: OMG! The Packers are up 35-14??? What? Oh, thank goodness.

**Game is over, Packers won**

Kim [to anyone who will listen]: I think they are going to the Superbowl.

Sunday, January 23:

Brian: So, where are you going to spend the next three hours?

Km: I'm going to the gym. I promise I won't watch the game. But I think they are going to win. If they go to the Superbowl, are you going?

Brian [shrugging]: Let's not talk about that. You're going to jinx it.

**2nd Quarter**

Kim [flips channel from Keeping up with the Kardashians to the game.  Aaron Rodgers throws an interception.] Oh crap. [immediately changes the channel back. Packers intercept the ball from Chicago, the game goes to halftime.]  Whew.

**Home from the gym, score is 14-7, Packers**

Kim: I'll go upstairs and get the baby [leaves room]

Brian [dances into living room]: TOUCHDOWN!

Kim [returns with baby. Chicago immediately marches down the field and scores. 21-14.]. Oh, crap.

Brian: Get out of here!

Kim [playing on the lawn with Scotty, fearful to return into the house, though straining to hear what is going on.] ::silence::

Brian [runs outside, almost spikes Scotty on the lawn out of celebration, picks him up again, twirls him around and begins dancing]: WE ARE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL!!!!!

Kim: Told you so.

                                        ***************************

Now, the only question that remains is...where am I going to go during the Superbowl??

Looks like I don't have to.

http://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/dd/kernicterus/materials.htm

Way to go, CDC!!

I cannot tell you how much the link above (that I don't know how to make clicky...sorry...) warms my heart. WAY TO GO, GOVERNMENT! Finally. Let's get the message out that JAUNDICE IS DANGEROUS and no baby, ever, should suffer brain damage as a result of jaundice.

I will tell you, every single one of my friends/relatives to have a baby born since Scotty, I have said a quiet prayer and asked, "Please don't let the baby become jaundiced. And if they do, please give the family a competent pediatrician." In some cases, I've personally contacted friends, reiterated to them what happened to us, and told them to stay on top of jaundice. I've been tempted to email a few mommy bloggers out there who are major breast-feeding proponents and tell them about the dangers of jaundice (hyperbilirubinemia is most commonly seen in exclusively-breast fed infants). During that Junior League political-action committee event, while the state senators were speaking, the only thing I could think about (other than investing in women) was how could I pass legislation that highlighted the tragic consequences of untreated jaundice. Even one case of kernicterus is too many.

Although we escaped the scary, scary fall-out of hyperbilirubinemia, I would be devastated if it affected anyone else, either. So please, pass the link on and tell your pregnant friends: JAUNDICE IS DANGEROUS.

Thanks.

Parenthood changes you. It changes your mindset, your beliefs, and your attitude. Here are a few opinions of mine that have been altered since pushing a baby into this world.

1.) Polygamy.

Great idea! Why can we not have sister wives? Think about it: there are multiple women in the home. One cares for the kids, another handles food prep, and the third does the cleaning. And we can all chit-chat and gossip while we go about our daily routine. This sounds like a little slice of utopia to me.  Sign me up. The only caveat is that they will also sleep with my husband? Um...I can handle that. Go ahead and head upstairs; I'm going to have a glass of wine and catch up on past episodes of Top Chef. Catch ya later, sister wives.

Which leads me to...

2.) Adultery.

There is a person is my life who expects nothing from me other than, well, that? Okay. I don't have to find special hair gel at Target, make dinner. or keep you in clean socks? AND there is a distinct possibility that you might look like Luke McCafferty (Matt Lauria) from Friday Night Lights? Uh, yeah. I could handle this.  Please.

3.) Nannies

I once foolishly believed that all my child ever needed was me. Ha! By the end of the day, Scotty's giving me the stink eye and thinking, "Your jokes are so lame, I don't wanna read another book, and please, please, lady, stop feeding me yet another NutriGrain bar." I really think Camille Grammar has the right idea: two nannies per kid.  Additional help in the form of Mary Poppins or Jo Frost would be much appreciated. And besides, that would leave more time for Top Chef or #2 on this list.

4.) Leashes for Children

Have you ever attempted to hold the hand of someone who is approximately 33 inches tall? If you are over 5 foot yourself, there's a good chance there will be a lot of stooping going on. Combine this with a 30 pound diaper bag weighing on the opposite shoulder, and you are a chiropractor's dream. Not mention, most 33 inch people do not want to hold your hand, regardless of the amount of begging/pleading/threatening that happens. I usually opt to guide Scotty by the head while yelling at him. This is a popular solution, let me tell you.  Add another child to the mix and it's harder than herding cats; you are officially herding turtles. Snap a leash on that kid and everybody wins. Done.

5.) Over-scheduling Your 17-Month Old

Again, I was once of the very naive opinion that my witty and charming personality was enough to get my child through the day. Not so. By 8:15am, pancakes are being thrown, milk is on the floor, and Scotty isn't even up yet. I find myself clawing the walls and frantically trying to figure out if another trip to Target is in the family budget because we need something to do. But with paid, scheduled activities outside of the home, it makes the week feel very succinct. Mondays are library days. Tuesdays are music lessons. On Wednesdays, we go to algebra class and Thursdays are reserved for time with our Mandarin Chinese tutor. We go a little lighter on Fridays with a basic tumbling class, but Saturday and Sundays are all about ballet, tap, and jazz. See? Seven days, one over-stimulated child, and a happy, tired mom. Everyone wins. 

(Editor's note: I'm obviously joking about all five of these. Please do not send me nasty emails. Thanks.)

Scotty loves the garbage man.

I mean, we have a serious crush going on. He literally gets stars in his eyes when he hears the rumbling of the big truck. He races to the window, stands on his tippy-toes, and watches with his little mouth open as the garbage man hefts large loads of our trash into the back. (stinky, stinky bags of dirty diapers...blech.) Scotty claps his hands, rubs his belly (his go-to move when he doesn't know what else to do) and looks at me like, "Why did you marry a lawyer? These guys are the real stars!"

So today I decided to humor him and when we heard the truck, I opened the front door and let him stand outside. I thought the kid was going to spontaneously combust from excitement. He pumped his little knees up and down, clapped, and squealed as the truck got closer. He kept glancing up at me like, "Omigodomigodomigod!" And then, just as we were waving to the nice man as it passed our house, low and behold...the garbage man not only waved, but stopped the truck and got out. He crossed the lawn (laughing, and hopefully not thinking we were creepy voyeurs) and went to give Scotty a high five.

This was all too much for the Bear. Scotty promptly attempted to re-enter the uterus via my shoulder, and was so taken aback he couldn't even look at the garbage man. It look a few minutes and for the guy to take his sunglasses off for Scotty to warm up, and then there were fist bumps, high fives, and lots and lots of waving. (I thanked the nice man profusely. I was still in my jammies. It was that kind of morning.)

Scotty watched as the truck curved around the cul-de-sac and eventually we went back inside. He looked a little starstruck, but who could blame him? It's not like everyday you find yourself in the presence of a celebrity. Ah, toe a toddler.

Type Fast: The Beauty and Challenge of the One Nap Schedule.

I'm not lying, I really am typing fast.

Scotty turned 17 months yesterday (and was a stinker for most of the day...please, please tell me that 16 months wasn't our peak) and he's officially a one-nap kid. It took a little while to get to this point, and just like all things in Motherhood, you constantly question yourself about what you are doing and if it's the right thing. I mean, I know there is some statistic that says by 18 months, like 80% of kids are down to one nap. But what if my child was part of that 20%? And what if I'm essentially robbing him of precious sleep and in four years, he's going to be inaccurately diagnosed with ADHD as a result of his over-tiredness, not actually because he is hyperactive and I've officially screwed up his life?

Do all of you have these thoughts? Please tell me I'm not the only one.

::deep breath::

Anyway, I can tell you now that I feel fairly confident that Scotty is squarely in that 80% figure. After a 7am wake-up, his little eyes regularly droop by 11:15am. We eat a quick lunch and he's shuttled upstairs by 11:30. On a good day, he'll sleep until 2:00pm. On a GREAT day, he'll sleep until 2:30-3:00. On a I-want-to-kill-my-husband-because-he's-not-suffering-through-this-the-way-I-am day, he'll sleep until 1pm. (dagger to the heart). But really, the best part is Scotty is so tired that there is literally no fight over nap time anymore. Be still my heart! Oh, music to my ears. I cannot tell you how stressful that damn afternoon nap had become; keep him upstairs for an hour as he wails, but bring him downstairs only for him to fuss and grunt at me? What's worse? And there were so many times that I would listen in agony to the monitor for 45+ minutes, only to go upstairs to get him and be met by total silence. Since we were not thoughtful enough to purchase a video monitor (Jill, you're the smart one), I would stand outside the nursery door with my ear pressed to it. Is he asleep? Did he finally collapse from sheer exhaustion? Or did dingos break into my house and steal my baby? Either way, I wasn't about to open that door and find out.

I'm so glad the dingo-fears are now behind us. The little Bear wearily climbs the stairs, heads to his room like a big boy, we have a brief diaper change, some snuggle, and then it's snoozy time. Easy as pie.

And another perk of the one nap schedule is I can actually do multiple things during the day, versus living my life two hours at a time. We can do morning play-dates, be home for lunch, and then work in an afternoon at the park. Glorious! Scotty is hitting the bath by 6:15 and is in a deep sleep by 7pm. This schedule just feels so darn...clean. It's organized, it's simple, it's beautiful.

I, however, am not. Because the challenge of the one nap schedule is while Scotty may benefit, it's making me run a little faster. See, before, I would hop in the shower when Scotty went down for the 9am nap, and then have plenty of time to blog as he slept. I had an afternoon nap to suffer through, but cleaning the house was a good distraction to what I was hearing through the baby monitor.

Now, I have literally about 2 hours to shower, eat, clean the kitchen, clean whatever part of the house he destroyed, dry my hair, put makeup on, and do anything else that needs to be done when a child is not present. Which is essentially how I've divided up my day: what things can I do with Scotty around (wash dishes, pick up toys, vacuum) and the things I cannot do when he's around (blog, check Facebook, talk on the phone, write out bills, etc.) Sadly, "use the restroom" falls in the "When Scotty's Around" category, but I'm hoping it's good modeling when our time comes to start potty-training. Although he's developed a a penchant for shredding toilet paper. (please file that under "Clean Up What's He's Destroyed.")

I think the hardest part for me is showering. I hate having to ask Brian (beg, actually) if I can hop in the shower before him on a weekday morning. Sometimes it works, but if he has court, I'm screwed. And I'm the type of person that just really isn't awake until I have a shower, regardless of the amount of coffee consumed.

(In fact, when we were playing Angry Birds one night, we had gotten to the part with the Boomerang Birds (the ones that you fling over the building and then touch the screen, which causes them to squawk loudly, do a 180, and then crash into something) when Brian exclaimed, "Oh, these are Kimmy-in-the-morning-birds!" Hahaha. Yeah, he's right though. Touch me pre-shower and I will promptly squawk at you and then dive right for your throat.)

Anyways, unless you too are showering during the day, it's easy to miss how much damn time one spends on basic hygiene...which isn't saying much, considering how I look most days. A shower is 10 minutes; drying/dressing is another 5. It takes me 12 minutes to dry my hair and another 17 to lotion up/put makeup on. That totals 44 minutes of time spent attempting to look mildly presentable to the rest of the world, and when you're working with maybe 120 minutes max, it feels like a giant waste. Of course, I could skip the blow-out and makeup, but all of the other mothers I hang out with manage to look really pulled together. It's like of like the Arms Race of Motherhood; if we'd all just put down our blow-dryers and mascara, we'd have so much time for other things. But I'll put mine down just as soon as you put yours down...

So this is my advice to those transitioning to a one nap schedule: find a mother who lives near you, who has children exactly the same age as your child, and is very similar to you in terms of lifestyle, personality, and sense of humor. That way, you can bemoan or celebrate every part of your day with a buddy regardless of if you are awake or not. For me, this person would be Deana. I realized the other day, she's not just a friend, she's my co-worker. She's the person that you share a cubicle with at work, and within six months, you realize you've shared every detail of your life up to that point, and when something extremely small (yet hilarious) happens, you don't call your husband (because they actually are working), but you call your co-worker. Your co-worker must also be up for multiple play dates during the same day (since her kids sleep when yours do), trips to Costco, trips to the park, and best of all, trips to your house "after hours" when your husband has to work late so you don't have to eat dinner by your.

This Motherhood stuff is tough, and it's so much better with a buddy. So thank you, Deana, and I hope you managed to get a shower in today.

(Editor's note: Perhaps you have noticed the lack of recent posts? It is because of a little thing I like to call "the one nap schedule." It's forcing me to choose between blogging and showering these days, and I will admit, my desire for good hygiene is winning. I apologize, but short of waking up at some ungodly hour of the day, I can only squeeze so much in. I'm working on it, though. Please tune in tomorrow for a very special entry called, "Type Fast: The Beauty and Challenge of the One Nap Schedule." Thanks. I now return to this review.)

The Bachelor: Episode of the Ugly Criers (sponsored by Kleenex, natch)

The Bachelor: Watching Brad Womack Play Therapist with 17 Women

and

The Bachelor: Daddy Issues Abound

I got several texts last night from a friend who commented on the unprecedented number of girls bemoaning late fathers, absentee fathers, and just men in general. She was convinced the producers had stacked the deck this time around and dealt Brad a whole bunch of troubled women. I can't help but agree. I don't remember another season where there was this much talk of troubled family life (and I would remember. I have a memory for that kind of stuff.) So yeah, they must have amended The Bachelor application as soon as they knew Brad was their guy, and added a section called "Paternal Problems." Sample questions? Was your father ever homeless? Is he currently living? Did he enjoy Seal as much as you do?

(on a personal note, I'd like to add that I don't think I have many father issues. My dad is a pretty chill guy who was my softball coach and taught me to nail stuff together. Thanks, Dad.)

I will admit, I was a little irritated throughout the entire episode. It was the third episode, which meant this is the one where the girls freak out over Brad kissing everyone, bemoan how hard the "process" is (what did you expect, ladies?) and begin to eye the door with serious contemplation. I will hand it to Madison, who did a full 180 from Episode 1, and really did leave. After hearing Emily's tale of love lost, she had this epiphany that maybe her intentions were not in the right place (she is also listed as an aspiring actress, fyi) and stated that if she were to take a rose from another girl who really wanted one, she wouldn't feel right with herself. Whether that is true or not remains to be seen, but it was an honorable way to exit, in my opinion.

The episode jumped the shark right around the women had to act in an action/adventure movie. What the what? Are you kidding? Blah. I mean, we're already taking an extremely cheesy show about fake love and now we're adding fake acting to it? And it's directed by Steven Ho? What, was John Wu busy that day? Either way, I could barely stomach the scenes and may or may not have taken a small nap on my couch at that point. (please don't get angry; I had to stay up to see the whole damn episode since I wouldn't have time to watch and blog about it with the one nap schedule. So a small snoozie was in order. Curse you, one nap schedule!)

But I managed to open my eyes again when Brad committed perhaps the most bumbling of all first date blunders; pushing Emily on a small plane despite her fear/trauma of planes. Great job, Brad. He didn't know, obviously, and I found myself liking Emily less and less as she played coy about her background. I mean, really? I get it that her story has scared guys off in the past, but this isn't exactly one's normal situation. Your date is also seeing 16 other women and it's being filmed. So...start spilling, girlfriend.

My only (hazy) thoughts during their dinner in the barn (aside from thinking Emily has never seen an episode of The Bachelor, based on her surprised reaction to the dinner) was, "I don't think candles and hay mix." Ditto for later on during the rose ceremony when they kept showing that angle of Madison, and there was a candle right next to a giant, flammable drape. Was Fire Prevention off that week or something? C'mon crew, we have enough people who've lost loved ones on this show. We don't need to add to it by having a fire ravage the Bachelor/ette Mansion.

And in the end, it was Sarah P and Kimberly from North Carolina who were let go. I wish I could say something nice about them, but most of the episode was dominated by commentary by Michelle. We hardly knew Sarah P and Kimberly. And we barely know any of the other girls - Lisa? Marissa? She was practically mute this time around. Lindsay? Britt? These ladies need some face time, too.

Michelle can stuff it, for all I care. I feel like she's that manipulative, bitchy girl that hooks up with your very sweet, very naive guy friend, and then you watch her just play with him for the next three years, while he defends her to the group.  She knows Brad is vulnerable - hell, Jaime Green, therapist, told him to be! - and is attacking him right in the soft spot. Argh. I refuse to use any more of the entry to talk about her since she's just so offensive to me.

Thankfully, the previews next week look like they are going to reel Brad in a little bit. No more Hollywood shrink who makes house calls; no, we've got the real deal coming in: Dr. Drew Pinsky. And despite the fact he's an addiction specialist, he's talking with Brad and the ladies on a radio show about their relationships. I feel like The Bachelor just redeemed itself. And I am also willing to bet that my sweet, dear friend Kris E practically rolled off her couch, some 1700 miles away in a suburb of Chicago, when Dr. Drew appeared on screen. She's a huge Bachelor fan and a self-professed Dr. Drew fanatic. So maybe she'll guest blog for next week's ep? :-)