Go ahead, crack my back

I received my very first chiropractic adjustment this evening. I'd been hearing good things about the chiropractor down the hall from my midwives' office, so when I started experiencing lower back and pelvic pain, I made an appointment for an evaluation with Dr. Manning. He specializes in prenatal chiropractic care, and while I've seen a couple of male patients there, most of the people I saw there obviously with child.

The evaluation was thorough and I liked Dr. Manning personally. He pointed out the scoliosis I'd been diagnosed with during an elementary school screening, showed Josh how one of my legs was slightly longer than the other and said my pelvis and sacrum were out of whack. (No surprise there: my yoga teacher's pointed out my back problems before.) He also took a bunch of measurements with a weird little scanner and told me to come back the following week for my results.

And that's where things got a little weird. The results one-on-one were preceeded by group orientation with two other new patients. He showed this terrible Maximize Your Potential PowerPoint presentation full of New Age mumbo-jumbo about the miracle of chiropractic care. It sounded so Scientology-esque I began to worry the guy was going to pull out a Tom Cruise-approved e-meter.

I made an appointment, but reached out to my primary care doctor to make sure I wasn't being taken in by a quack. She recommended I go forward with the treatments, and that's why I showed up today.

And you know what? I still don't buy all the hocus-pocus, but I feel great.

Lovely or just large?

Said one of the cute young things in my agency this morning, "Wow! You're getting really close, huh?" And one of the 20-something guys a few days earlier, "You're just about ready to pop!"

Um, no. I've got three months to go. Thanks anyway.

It seems that my pregnant belly is a popular conversation starter at the office. I don't mind, honestly. But I prefer that comments given with a little more grace and style.

Other women--particularly other moms--will ask how I'm feeling and dig for names (we're not sharing). They'll ask if Z knows there's a baby coming and is she excited? If I've got a particularly cute outfit on, someone will likely notice. And heck, I'll admit I dress for my girlfriends--my husband couldn't care less.

And then there's this tattooed creative director who's raising two kids on his own. He never fails to say I'm looking wonderful/great/amazing. He never complimented me before I sprouted a full-frontal basketball, but I wouldn't have expected him to. In fact, under normal circumstances it would probably be weird, but now that I'm in a family way, his kind words never fail to give me a lift--and a touch of that pregnancy glow.

Sadness touches close to home

This weekend one of my friends received word that her sister-in-law passed away in her sleep (they don't yet know why), leaving behind a husband and three small children. Then, in a unexplainable act, a gunman goes on a rampage today at Virginia Tech, my sister's alma mater. I forwarded her a news report early this morning when the death toll was one. By the time I'd checked CNN again, it was up to 22. Half an hour later and we're at 31. It's horrifying. I can only hope they don't raise the number again before the sun rises in Australia.

My heart goes out to the students, their families and alumni who surely never hoped to see their university garner this kind of international attention.

It's not twins

I was paying for my purchases at the West Suburban Mothers of Multiples rummage sale this morning when I overheard this exchange between one of the volunteer cashiers and the very, very large bellied woman next to me.

Cashier: Expecting twins?
Mom: No, I have a one year old and I'm due any day now.
Cashier: Did you sign up for our mailing list?
Mom: I'm not having twins!
Cashier: Oh not that. It's just to receive notice of our sales.
Mom: I found this one, didn't I?

It was somewhat insane, as all of these sales are, but pickings were really good. I didn't bother fighting over the most coveted baby gear (bouncy seats and swings), heading straight back to the clothing tables while Josh and Z test-drove the toys. Our best scores: a Talbot Baby layette set for #2, Merrell beach shoes for Z and a wooden tool box filled with toy tools.

Mommy angst

I was so excited to get my review copy of Even June Cleaver Would Forget the Juice Box in the mail yesterday. I'm only a few chapters in, but the book argues that mothers need to maintain their sanity--and themselves--by aiming a little less high. In this age of extreme parenting, internal and external expectations for moms are so elevated and unrealistic that we're setting ourselves up for failure. Society expects us to do everything right: Breastfeed exclusively. Practice babywearing. Make our own organic baby food. Put our families before our careers. Sign our children up for the right enrichment activities. Buy them the right toys. Send them to preschool, ensure they get into the right college. Keep them happy and entertained at all costs.

And most importantly, love every minute of it. Find utter fulfillment in being a mommy.

But guess what? Motherhood isn't a primrose path. It's one of the best choices I've ever made, don't get me wrong. But while it's cool to bitch about being stressed out, it's not socially acceptable to admit that playing with Play-Doh is boring, that we miss staying out or sleeping in...that as much as we'll always love our children, sometimes we don't like them very much.

Enter True Mom Confessions, an anonymous website where mothers can unload their mommy guilt. Some of the posts are funny. More than a few are sad. But what's even sadder is knowing that women need a deep, dark corner of the Internet to share their insecurities.

More on the potty

Said Z last night...

"I need to go potty! I need my privacy. Mommy, you wanna watch?"

And no, she didn't really go. My kid should get an Oscar for Best Performance on a Potty. She sets up. She sits. She waits. She wipes. She flushes and washes her hands. She narrates her every move.

But it's all pretend. I'm picking up my library's copy of the 1974 classic Toilet Training in Less Than a Day this weekend. Maybe they'll have some tips for training a kid who shows every sign of readiness except for the ability to pee with her diaper off.

Best of Marketing Mommy

I feel a little narcissistic doing this, but my blog has grown a lot since I started over 330-odd posts ago. Friends and family are still checking in for Z anecdotes and book recommendations, but I've also found a few like-minded souls out there in the blogosphere. And apparently Marketing Mommy comes up in Google searches. Searches like "my toddler threw up milk," and "balance beam gymnastics boobs."

So for those of you who haven't been around since the very beginning, here are a few of my favorite posts.

What it's like to go on Oprah
The not-so-secret-society of parents of young children
If toddlers went to work
We're back! (a handy guide to traveling with small children)
Happy 2nd birthday
Dinner in the nude

Don Imus: Don't make us mamas mad

If, like me, you believe Don Imus deserves to have his mouth washed out with soap and worse for his offensive description of the Rutgers women's basketball team, join MomsRising and sign this petition to have him fired.

My cluttered bookshelf

I've just finished reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, which solidified my commitment to be more conscious about our food choices--particularly in the meat department. We joined a CSA with our next-door neighbors (vegetable deliveries are scheduled to begin in mid-May) and we're only purchasing naturally-raised meat and cage-free eggs. I still don't stress organic fruits and vegetables since Michael Pollan emphasizes that large-scale organic agriculture is still industrial monoculture with its own problems and sustainable, local agriculture is the model we should be supporting. There is a Wisconsin farm that sells pasture-raised beef, pork and chicken, and we're going to fill our basement freezer with an order from them soon.

To keep my marketing brain fresh, I plowed through Trillion Dollar Moms and Chocolates on the Pillow are Not Enough. The former dispels many widely-held myths about how to market to moms and the latter uses a hospitality industry model to illustrate innovative ways to connect with consumers and build lasting relationships. The most interesting take-away from Trillion Dollar Moms is the obvious-in-retrospect insight that moms connect with each other and with products based on their children's ages. Meaning that two mothers of 4-year-old boys will have plenty in common even if one mom is 28 and the other is 40. Mom demographics take a back seat to kid demographics. Which makes sense if you think about how the interests and concerns of a new mom differ from those of a mom with a preschooler or school-aged children.

On my boss Renee's recommendation, I skimmed through The Five Faces of Genius, a guide to creative thinking. I scored pretty well in the power to image, notice details, celebrate weakness and simplify, but I need to work on my Alchemist skills--the ability to make connections.

And since Josh is trying to read The Omnivore's Dilemma before it comes due at the library, I've stolen the book I gave him for his birthday: Alternadad. Funny stuff, and it really hits home (except for the excessive pot use).

Going all night with Huggies

Since Z turned one and her output changed from mustardy baby smears to compact, flushable toddler turds, our diaper dramas have been few and far between. The up-the-back blowouts are but a distant memory (one I'll be replaying in 14 weeks or so), but nighttime can stretch even our beloved Huggies Size 4s to the limit. Some overnight leaks were change-the-sheets and wash the jammies large and many more were just-a-slight-dampness small, but Z would wake up most mornings with a diaper inflated to the limit. Bulging with pee, it would have a yellowish cast and a powerful odor. I couldn't wait to get her out of bed and onto the changing pad--no cuddles in the big bed until the kid smelled less like gerbil cage.

I guess that's what you get for letting your toddler go to bed with a full sippy cup of water.

So when Parent Bloggers Network gave me the opportunity to try out a month's worth of Huggies Overnites, I jumped at the chance. And the timing couldn't have been better. Just as the package arrived, Z started spending daycare afternoons in big-girl underpants (she's more into impressing Adriana than Mommy and Daddy). She was keeping Tinkerbell and the Princesses dry from 3:30 to 7:30pm, but she wasn't peeing in the potty. Translation: a tsunami warning was issued for the nighttime hours.

But thanks to the extra-absorbent nighttime Huggies, we survived without any flooding. Although the diapers I removed in the morning may have been the heaviest diapers ever filled by one small girl.

In many ways, Huggies Overnites resemble regular Huggies. Although they're ultra absorbent, they have the same stretchy, comfortable fit and are similarly emblazoned with characters from The Lion King, but the animals are snoozing and a moon is overhead. Z immediately made the connection and would ask me for "night-night diaper" at nap time as well as bedtime. Yeah, like I'm wasting the Hoover Dam on a backyard creek.

Net net, Huggies Overnites perform as promised, delivering maximum absorbency for the long haul at a slight cost premium. If you want to save the cash, buy your regular diapers one size up.

Find out what other parents had to say about Huggies Overnites and leave a comment for your chance to win a free package for your nighttime pee machine.

Oh no you didn't

Two young mothers boarded the El this morning with five children between them. The oldest kid was about 8, the youngest, 1. The boys were obviously excited and a little rambunctious, but I was completely unprepared for the way one mother reacted when her son stood up briefly. Her loud string of invectives was so vile, so profane and so shockingly hurtful, you could feel the whole train tense up. It involved four letter words up to and including the big F and promised a beating should the kid dare not obey.

The fifty-something woman in front of her turned around with a disapproving, "Now hush," which I think was more than appropriate, but I was left shaking. I suspected from the family members' ages and clothes--as well as the fact that they boarded the train on Chicago's West Side--that they were likely not well off, but living in poverty has got to pale in comparison to living with a hair-trigger temper like that. My heart goes out to those kids.

26 week belly

Flowers and plants aren't the only things growing at the Garfield Park Conservatory. Check out more photos from our Sunday morning adventure.

Can you hate a car seat?

Yesterday afternoon we unhooked our Evenflo Triumph convertible car seat for the last time. Read on to learn why I hated it so, and find out which car seat has replaced the bane of our existence--a car seat which, I may add, retails for $30 less.

First, I'll tell you why I bought it. It was one of Consumer Reports' top-rated convertible car seats at the time I was on the market--about two years ago. I knew Z wouldn't fit in her wonderful Graco SnugRide forever, and I wanted to shop around for a good price on a new car seat before she hit the SnugRide's height limit. I didn't want to blow $200+ on a Britax, but I felt my precious cargo was worth more than a bare-bones economy model. A few of my new mom friends (not experienced moms, I should point out) were also reading Consumer Reports, and one gal noticed that BabyAge was offering the Triumph on sale for $99 (it's regularly $119) and free shipping, we all pounced.

On paper, the Triumph seemed like a great choice. Good crash test ratings, plush fabric, lots of cushioning and various recline levels. What they didn't tell us was that every time the fabric got soiled, we'd have to get out the screwdriver and disassemble the car seat to clean it! That means sticky messes got babywiped clean and puke and poop explosions got Daddy pissed off. And since car sickness and road trips go together like gas stations and cherry deodorizers, we spent many a trip begging screw drivers off of hotel clerks.

With all of the mess that accompanies early childhood, that defect alone should be enough to condemn the Evenflo Triumph, but there's more: the straps are damn near impossible to adjust. And in shoulder seasons, when coats are on one day and off the next, I need to be able to make adjustments. I initially blamed my weak wrists, but Josh had the same problem.

And the straw that broke the camel's back? This car seat is a monster, weighing in at 19lbs. No biggie when it's strapped into the back seat, but huge pain to haul through airports, even when strapped to this.


But all that's history. Because we are now the very pleased owners of a brand-new $79 Graco ComfortSport. It's at least five pounds lighter, the straps are a breeze to adjust, and the cover slips right off for washing. It also seems like it took Josh a lot less time to configure. It's a tad narrower, so it takes up a little less room. And the cherry on top? It has a cup holder and snack tray, which Z thinks is tops.

Before I was Marketing Mommy

Well, I've been in marketing and promotions for much longer than I've been a mother, but I held down a whole lot of unrelated jobs before getting my current gig. In chronological order, here's my CV.

Babysitter (12 - 18 years old)
Cash money! The best gig of all was getting paid to keep an eye on the younger kids as I worked on my tan and ordered pizzas at the American Embassy pool in Pakistan.
Bus girl (13)
I cleared tables and made peanut buster parfaits at the No Name Cafe in Islamabad.
Sales girl (15)
I lasted one week at a creepy, bug-infested candy stand at the dilapidated 7 Corners Mall in Falls Church, VA. Turned me off of chocolate covered peanuts for a year.
Sales girl (16-17)
I sold pricey baby clothes and personalized kiddie furniture at boutique called Hoohobbers in the Pentagon City Mall. It seemed like every kid born in 1992 was named Ashley.
Cashier (17)
Nothing turns you off of deli sandwiches like working the register at Stuffin' Turkey, a food court favorite of the Army recruits who frequented Pentagon City. Every day some guy would answer my "Can I get you anything else?" with a "Yeah, your phone number." I was the only white employee aside from the manager, and I was also the only employee who never rotated onto sandwich making or refrigerator cleaning duty. I only worked the register. Coincidence?
Sales girl (17-18)
Back up to the second floor of the mall! I sold humorous tee shirts and jeans at Aussie & Co. and ended up dating one of my co-workers. My manager was a petite curly-haired 20-something from the Boston area, and I was completely in awe of her.
Office Assistant (18)
I learned to file under the patient tutelage of a woman with hair down to her butt in a freezing cold office squirreled away in the SSA building at the University of Chicago.
Camp Counselor (19)
I gained 25 pounds in 10 weeks and got yelled at by really rich New York parents at a terribly-run private Jewish camp in Maine. For a measly $900. My favorite memory: Being told by one mother that her fourth grader wouldn't be doing bathroom chore rotation because she didn't know what kind of sexually transmitted diseases "you counselors brought in from who knows where." And the mosquitoes were fierce.
Office Temp (20)
I worked in a bunch of different downtown offices, answering phones and doing data entry. This was before every office had internet, so I was usually bored out of my mind. And sometimes I had to wear hose.
Public Relations Intern (20)
I don't have many memories of my time with Performance Chicago. I just remember really primitive copy machines and computers and a fax machine that still used that horrible roll paper. I got to see some cool shows for free, though.
Bank Teller (20-21)
I was a special services teller at the very old-school Hyde Park Bank, which means someone trusted me to hang onto the $15,000 in my drawer. I wired money, issued money orders and took large cash deposits from local drug dealers. I also remember processing a deposit from dinosaur expert Paul Serrano. Both of my co-workers--single moms in their 30s-- had been with the bank for seven or eight years, and they seemed to spend a large portion of their $9/hour wage on elaborate manicures. They lived with their mothers.
Assistant to the Publishers/Marketing Coordinator (21-24)
This is where my career really began. I had way more responsibility than any 21 year old should as I did a little bit of everything at a local alt newsweekly. I did accounts payable, helped figure out where to put the ads, recruited, trained and covered for receptionists, and planned parties, movie screenings and other promotions for the paper. I even got to plan an author roundtable for the Printers Row Book Fair.

I decided I liked the creative side of promotions and marketing better than the schmoozing/financial side, so I decided to become a copywriter. I put together my portfolio and two weeks later I was hired at my current agency. That was almost seven years ago.

What random/horrible/unusual jobs have you held?

Zima wants to Mom my Ride

The alco-pop of my youth wants to reconnect with me. Pretty funny viral video, actually. And sent to me by a recovering minivan mom. Thanks Nancy!

Exploring Maya's Mom

So I'd heard some good things about the Maya's Mom online community, and I joined a couple of days ago. With work and Z being sick, I haven't had to much time to explore my new surroundings, but it looks like a great site--kind of a MySpace for moms that brings together the best of message boards (way less overwhelming that those on BabyCenter) and blogging (you can browse new journal entries). Plus, you can make friends and join interest groups. And just like MySpace, there seem to be a few friend-collectors out there--I got a friend request before I'd even finished setting up my profile!

If you're a member of Maya's Mom, let me know or look me up and link me up. There, like here, I'm Marketing Mommy.

Bye-bye rotavirus

From my phone conversation with Josh around 5:15pm yesterday, I was pretty sure I'd be home taking care of a sick kid today. She was crying for Mama nonstop and refusing all food and drink, and it was clear my husband was at the end of his rope. But from the moment they met me at the train station, Z was her happy-go-lucky regular self.

We got home and she decided she'd like some orange juice, which she sipped as we played Cariboo, her very first game. After playtime, she willingly undressed herself and hopped into the bath. She even let me give her a shampoo, so I was able to finally remove the lingering scent of barf from her hair.

We returned to our night-night routine, putting on clean jammies, brushing teeth, reading library books on the rocking chair and cuddling for a few minutes in the dark. When I brought her to her bed, she asked for song, which is also pretty typical. But in a new twist, I am no longer allowed to sing any familiar tunes. I have to make up a song based on her request. "Sing a song about Z and sippy cups," was last night's demand. So, to the tune of "Puff the Magic Dragon," I sang the tale of Z and her Magic Sippy Cup.

The girl slept all night and woke up with a plain old wet diaper, a healthy appetite and a very strong desire to go to Adriana's house (day care). I can't tell you how relieved I am to see her back to normal, and I've got my fingers crossed that she stays that way.

A sick way to start your day

Z collapsed into bed around 6:30 last night and we didn't hear a peep all night. That was the good news. The bad news came at 5am when she began shouting, "Mama! Mama!" I went into her room and the smell of vomit hit me full in the face. Eyes watering, I turned on the light to see that my little angel had been sleeping in a puddle of puke. And she had a diaper full of diarrhea.

Am I scaring away my readership yet? If you've got a weak stomach, come back in a couple of days. I swear I'll start writing about something else soon.

I cleaned her up, wet combed her sick-smelling hair and deposited her in our bed so that I could tend to the bed linens and pajamas and start yet another load laundry.

I believe Z's first words to Josh were, "Don't touch my hair, Daddy. It has throw-up in it."

Recovery in progress

Last night was rough. Z had a temperature above 103 degrees, and she was so miserable she was reduced to a pitiful little whimper-cry. At least I was able to provide her with some comfort. About every hour or so. All night long.

Josh took the morning shift of watching DVDs on the couch with our little hot potato, and I made it home around 2pm to take over. By late afternoon, Z was able to hold her head up and keep liquids and a few bites of food down. She still has pretty loud, frequent and frightening diarrhea, but I think we're over the hump. Her fever is way down and she's taking an interest in the world outside. We even ventured onto the back porch to watch the neighbor kids run around.

I'm sad we missed out on having a Passover seder with our friends Julie and Steve and their kids, but we had a nice traditional meal while Z watched Alice in Wonderland for the second or third time today.

Tonight I'm going to go to bed early to make up for last night's fitful rest. I guess women who space their children really closely are pregnant before their first is sleeping through the night, but I'm not cut out for it.

Things fall apart

Yeah, it looks like the rotavirus has made itself at home in our house.

Z woke up feverish, listless and thirsty, and she threw up the apple juice-Pedialyte cocktail I prepared for her shortly after we made it downstairs. But in a big improvement over yesterday, she barfed in the plastic basin I'd given her and not all over the couch.

As the morning went on and Cinderella turned into Calliou, vomit made way for diarrhea, which has been plaguing her all morning, but she has been able to keep down successive doses of the Pedialyte cocktail as well as some Infant Tylenol lemonade I mixed up. That and two bites of a bagel and maybe six squares of Life cereal. The kid is pitiful. She can barely stand up, and if I put her down for a moment, she sinks down on the floor. She whimpered through my 10 minute shower in spite of Josh's efforts to soothe her. I guess when you're that sick, only Mama will do. Mama and a stack familiar DVDs.

Unpleasant but manageable, right? Wrong. While I was tending to the nasty liquids spewing forth from our daughter, Josh was stuck dealing with our vomiting kitchen sink. I don't know exactly what's wrong, but it's involved lots of plunging, a little cursing and virtually all of the pipes removed from under the sink. Hopefully the friendly folks at Ace Hardware--together with some advice from our friend Eric--will keep us from having to call a plumber tomorrow.

If we're out a functioning sink, we may need to downgrade our Passover seder plans yet again. I already backed out of my friend Julie's seder on account of this virus, but if the sink isn't working, I'm not sure we'll be able to cook anything!

At least our washing machine is still going strong...