Five Reasons Why Stroller Rage Is Actually A Thing

It’s strange. I was never one for road-rage. In fact if anything I was the slow-anxiety-ridden driver causing traffic and inducing fury in others. I heard my mom and sister dropping F-bombs and yelling obscenities in their respective driver seats, but I was just the innocent passenger calming them down. I swear. But put me behind a stroller and I feel rage like no other.

Here are five of the top reasons why my Bugaboo stroller makes me want to go all Destiny’s Child on someone’s a** because “You buggin me! And don’t you see it aint cool!” Don’t mess with someone who has a real life Bugaboo (bug a boo—per lyrics).

1). People have no stroller etiquette.

I live in Manhattan and we walk everywhere. As I mentioned above, I am not crazy about driving so walking is the best means of transportation for both of us. Plus, my thirteen-month-old and I get some fresh air and exercise. Trust me, it keeps us both sane! Well on these walks it’s not the easiest to get around. We try to maneuver around people, but they just don’t notice or care! I mean they mostly have headphones on their ears rocking out to music or are on their cell phones, chit chatting about such-and-such and how self-absorbed such-and-such is. Yep, really! Like, come on people we have a class to get to! Sometimes I start tailgating them, but still, people’s cognizance of the world around them seems bleak. We end up walking so slow behind a person for miles and wind up ten minutes late to wherever we are going. Thanks, slow-lady in front of me. I did admire your tall red heels though and was impressed with how you didn’t trip along the way!

I was actually in a cross walk today and this woman crosses the street and says to me excuse me, like I had anywhere to go with the stroller. We were surrounded in a snow mote on all sides! I wanted to say, “where do you want me to go?” but I held my tongue and tried to maneuver closer to the snowy left side. The woman squeezed around me, but like Stephanie Tanner used to say, how rude! Excuse yourself lady!

 2). When my daughter is fussing I have no etiquette.

When my daughter is crying or fussing and I am all “Oh no sweetie, what’s the matter?” and maneuvering to get a WubbaNub or a snack out of my diaper bag. My main focus becomes her and I may or may not run your feet over (warning!). Look it’s totally an accident. I will 100% feel bad and apologize at least five times, but shit happens. Oh, and when shit or throw up actually happens, then I need to get home ASAP (as soon as possible). This means, I am running past you, beating lights by mere seconds, and not caring at all about who or what is in my way. Sorry!

 

3). People don’t take weather into account.

My daughter and me are out let it be rain, sleet, hail or snow. Okay, maybe in a blizzard we stay in, but if we can get to class safely–we are going to give it a shot. I am a mother that needs to get out of the house or I will go insane—so we stroll in most elements. Well, in snow people are really for themselves—survival of the fittest to the extreme. This means, that they don’t let you by or help you when you are stuck. When stuck in snow, some people may gawk at you like you are a statue or exotic snowman. Observing, but not helping! I am not saying all people don’t, I have gotten a handful of kind citizens who helped us over snow piles, but most people just look at you like “lady you should have stayed inside.” Okay, and maybe I should have, I admit, but I was too far in my journey to turn back because of some snowy obstacles. Psh. Plus my daughter loves My Gym. We were stuck in one day from a blizzard already so we were going to get there. Dammit.

4). Because mommy’s don’t get enough sleep and work too hard.

Okay, it’s not right of me to play the mommy card, but I am going to do it. We work way too hard to not have some pent up aggression. Give a dirty look to a mommy who just wants to get her baby home to change her diaper and she will want to scratch your eyeballs out. That may be extreme, she may just threaten it and think about it–a lot. We work too hard, chasing our baby’s around all day, making sure they have everything—putting them first, and then you are messing with us mamas. Hell to the no!

5). Because we love our baby’s too much.

It’s part of nature. Mothers protect their young. Mother bears protect their cubs. Geese protect their flock. So I will kung fu your a** if you give my daughter any bit of side eye. According to David Wolfe, female alligators even create nests of rotting organic material. Once the nest has been created, the mother alligator will guard her eggs from all sorts of threats before placing them in her mouth once they hatch and caring for them over the next year. Talk about helicopter parents! We all are protective, even scary alligators! So give me a break, I just love my little girl more than anything! Okay?! It’s in my birthing blood.

So the next time you see a mother or father pushing their young along, be aware and be kind! Trust me, it will be appreciated. If not, you put yourself at risk. I have warned you, stroller rage is real AF!

 

 

 

 

 

My Daughter The WWE Wrestler

When I was a little girl, I used to cuddle up with my dad on Sunday night like clockwork. My curly brown hair resting on his chest, legs sprawled out on the couch, eyes locked on the television in front of us. I would get ready all day, playing with my wrestling figurines, making them attack each other—you know, normal little girl behavior. I was getting ready for Hulk Hogan to come out to Eye of the Tiger and to get my Hulkamania on! While admiring those outfits–the speedos with emphasis on washboard abs and fake tans—man, those pre-Trumpian tans. We all should have known and waved our American flags in defeat then–God Bless America.

Hands down no one can fake beat-up a person better than Hulk Hogan and his pro-wrestler pose. That was my takeaway. I’d feign interest to hang with my dad, but it was good times!

Well my daughter has a future in wrestling. I can sense it. Just the other day I was hanging in her crib with her—again, totally normal mommy-daughter behavior. We were like Snoop Dog and his gang rapping with all of our WubbaNubs in her crib until we dropped them like they were hot. And those WubbaNubs get fire hot. Anyway, when we were done throwing Wubbas, I lay down and kablam she pounced on my face like a cheetah and screamed ahhh. Maniac.

“Wow, Viv, or I should call you, Viv The Destroyer. What do you think of your wrestling alter ego?” I said tickling her tummy, until she exploded into that adorable baby giggle that makes my heart melt like a Popsicle in hot weather. One day, she will suppress an eye roll at the mention of her wrestling name. Actually, her new alter ego will probably be a moody AF hormonal teen girl. With that thought, I should take full advantage of this moment with my Destroyer–another tickle to that roly-poly tummy.

Back to her rising career, she’s Viv The Destroyer, because she wreaks destruction on every–WubbaNub, Mama, Bah bah– in her path. Toys, beware! Viv is going to push you over and say “ahhh” or “bahh” or something to claim her victory.

She is a wrestler all about body positivity too. She stands proudly in her pampers diapers, all rolls exposed, and takes on her victims in all her sumo-wrestler glory. Smash, there goes victim number one a small basketball hoop. Boom, victim number two a little car. These are the moments when you hope Doc McStuffins and Toy Story are totally wrong or these toys are going to come back filled with revenge instead of batteries and stuffing in their insides.

I hope my daughter and husband can uphold the Sunday night ritual or at least a tradition of their own where her head will be on his chest, legs sprawled out on the couch, eyes locked on the television in front of her. Or hey, maybe we will be watching her kicking more than stuffed animal tush in the ring one day. In that case, just a word of warning, watch out Bella Twins and the WWE Diva Champions my little girl is coming for you. She learned to SmackDown in diapers.

ED Will Never Ever Be My Valentine’s Date Again

Gosh, relationships. Hard enough before you have a third party involved. If you watch Sister Wives, you know what I am talking about. If you are in a relationship while having an eating disorder it’s like having an ménage à trois, because the eating disorder voice is always there, looming, as the third party in the relationship. You can’t just focus on the two of you, because that third party is constantly pulling at your heartstrings, like a puppet master, causing complete havoc.

Since I have never been one for a three way–I guess I am just not that kinky, but power to you if you are—when I was struggling with ED (short for “eating disorder,” which was coined by author and eating disorder survivor, Jenni Schaefer, in Life Without ED) he was the only thing I had time for. We were exclusive to each other, a monogamous duo. We had the talk many times.

He was romantic at times. On Valentine’s Day he pulled out all the stops, triggering bulimia, a special peanut butter binge-he knew it was my favorite–followed by an epic purge. He was thoughtful like that, knowing this was what an ideal date night for me would consist of–no one knew me, the ins and outs of my mind, quite like my eating disorder.

At times I did try to date. I made a profile and joined the ranks of New York dating singles on JDate and Match.com. At the time those were the big ones. It was difficult for me to take any “blind” date situation seriously. I felt like a caricature of myself out on these dates. I could never take these meet-ups as more than a joke—that would mean I would have to face being rejected or, worse, let someone in and get my heart broken. My eating disorder kept me safe, so I stuck tightly by his side.

For four years during the peak of my self-destruction, he was my everything. He was the only one I had time for because he was extremely demanding. He was bossy, actually verbally and physically abusive. He told me to workout, that my butt was too flabby. Sometimes he would tell me to workout for three hours on the elliptical in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep. He told me not to eat anything all day except for a lean cuisine meal around dinnertime. He told me to wear baggy clothes to mask my shrinking frame. He told me how to order laxatives without people knowing (online—duh!). He taught me so many tricks, he taught me everything I knew. We were so co-dependent that I thought we merged into one. I forgot who I was.

Six months into recovery, was the first time I was able to let someone besides ED into my life. A year and a half later we were married. I finally started to peal away who Dani was without her eating disorder—what she really liked, didn’t like, and most importantly how she felt. I became the real me, not the me I felt pressure to be or who constantly believed I wasn’t good enough. Because you know what I am more than good enough, thank you very much!

My husband, he was not my cure-all, by any means. I am in no way saying that a ring and a wedding cured my eating disorder or made me well, because it didn’t. What I am saying is that because I was happy and healthy enough, mentally and physically, to let myself be vulnerable, the conditions for true connection were set.

So this Valentine’s Day I will be celebrating, four years eating disorder free, with my husband and my 11-month old daughter by my side. We will be at home, in our pajamas, eating takeout and speaking baby babble with food absolutely everywhere—and it will be perfect. I couldn’t even imagine this life years ago, but now I wouldn’t even want to take a peek back out of curiosity. Recovery has brought me this perfectly imperfect spaghetti-and-tomato-sauce-in-the-hair filled image of Valentine’s Day and as challenging and sometimes messy as it will be—I couldn’t picture it any other way. I will cheers to my recovery, with a spaghetti noodle from my hair, for giving me the guts to get rid of my abusive boyfriend—ED.

 

 

This Is Not A Choice

“Why can’t you just eat?” Such a simple question with such a complex answer.

Trust me, when I was at my lowest weight and struggling with anorexia, I knew I looked sickly. I just couldn’t get myself to eat. It wasn’t that easy. That is the biggest misconception about anorexia; that if you just eat, you will get better. Great, if it was just that easy! Eating is against everything you believe, especially when it is ingrained into your DNA not to.

Similarly when I was trying to recover through the Maudsley approach, family based treatment; I couldn’t help but slip with laxatives a couple of times. It was like a force was pulling me towards them like I was in some kind of magical trance. My parents didn’t understand. One time it got really bad. I didn’t respond well—we all didn’t respond well.

I was about halfway through my Maudsley refeeding at twenty-six—I know, it was rough-when my mom found natural laxatives I’d bought in one of the drawers in the computer room at my parents house. I was staying there for a couple of months to avoid inpatient treatment, while working with an eating disorder therapist, and other experts. I had compartmentalized the laxatives as not being a problem. I mean I was gaining weight, eating, doing everything else right. Can’t I be getting better but still abusing laxatives at the same time? I wondered. I know the answer to that now, but just humor me for a moment.

I had tried to justify them to myself when I sneakily bought them because they were “natural” laxatives. Natural meant they were acceptable in my mind—wrong! My mom called my dad when we were on the way home from work and angrily told him what she discovered. He yelled at me for being deceitful.

“All you do is lie to me. I can’t trust you! How could you lie to me?” he roared, his lower teeth overtaking his upper lip like a shih tzu, which was intimidating as fuck—not like the cute little teacup shih tzus I was familiar with.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” I said biting my lip hard, tears forming in my shameful eyes.

“You mean, you didn’t mean to get caught! Your mother and I have been busting our assess trying to get you better, and this is how you repay us. You are so ungrateful.”

I swear he had such force in his voice that the car shook with its booming vibrato. He never knew how to handle his emotions, especially over things he couldn’t control. He wanted to scare the shit out of me, scare the anorexia and bulimia out of me, so I wouldn’t do it again. Though that wasn’t going to help. He didn’t understand how powerful this addiction was. He didn’t understand that the last thing I wanted to do was lie to him, to my mom. It wasn’t about trust. I had a problem. I was an addict.

I cried all the way home as he expressed his disappointment in me as a person, even more hurtful, as his daughter. We got home, and as we pulled in, I saw the outline of my mom at the door peering out: her long brown locks, medium-height lanky body, and long skinny arms. How would I get around her without talking to her? My dad’s screams were all blending together as the intensity seemed to decrease, and all I could hear were the same words over and over again “disappointment” and “unappreciative.”

I opened the car door and slithered out like a rattlesnake making its escape, slammed the door shut behind me, and ran past my mom up the back stairs and hid. Yes, you read that correctly, I hid. I didn’t want them to belittle me anymore. I couldn’t take it. Through the vents, I could hear them talking, but only in murmurs. Then they shouted for me: “Dani! Dani!” I stayed in my hiding spot, paralyzed. I felt like a little girl hiding from her spanking.

I hid in a closet in my room under hanging clothes, squishing old shoes with my butt and legs for what seemed like a long time. I whimpered but tried to stay as quiet as possible. It was hot and dark with a little light peeking through the bottom. I saw the backs of dresses from when I was younger. One was dark maroon. I recognized it as the dress I wore to my bat mitzvah. I placed my fingers on it and felt the texture; it felt hard, almost stale. I looked at a suitcase above me where I used to hide laxatives, now I was hiding for them. I was hiding because I was so addicted to them, to my habits, that I couldn’t stop myself from using them. I’d reached a new low. I was sitting in my childhood closet hiding from the world.

I heard my mom calling in echoes. “Dani, Dani! Is this a joke? Where are you?” I heard her faint footsteps far away.

My dad chiming in: “Did she leave the house?”

I heard the front door open and slam close.

Tucked quietly away, I let them panic for a bit. I let them squirm the way I had been squirming these past couple of months, tiptoeing around them, trying everything to please them, following their every order so I wouldn’t be hospitalized. Somehow, in this moment, this felt so much worse than the worst punishment I could think of. I wanted to get even with them in a way. I resented my dad’s reaction; I resented my mom for busting me the way she did. She could have just waited until we both got home, instead of making me get stuck in a car with someone who saw this as the ultimate betrayal.

“You are going to be in big trouble whenever you come out!” I heard my dad scream. Not exactly motivation for me to move. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing, hoping the walls from the closet would close in and suffocate me, end it all right now, right here . . .

“Dani, please, we are not mad at you,” my mom countered his lunacy. Her panicked voice made me feel a little bad.

About ten minutes in hiding, I opened the closet door from the inside, revealing myself. I picked myself up slowly, gaining balance on my two feet and feeling weak and defeated as I shouted, “I’m here, I’m here.” I realized that my voice was in a whisper and not the shout I intended it to be. “I’m here. I am coming!” I screamed again, and this time it was actually louder.

I walked down the front stairs and found them both in the kitchen.

When I saw their faces, I apologized through broken whimpers and tears. My parents both embraced me. I snuggled into my dad’s chest, hiding my face and tears in the warmth of his body. I cried for my parents. I cried for myself. I cried because I didn’t think I could do this anymore. I just cried.

I wish all of us had responded differently. There were a lot of emotions. It was one of the hardest times in all of our lives. My dad didn’t know anything from eating disorders. He thought I chose not to eat. He never heard of anyone being addicted to something like laxatives. But now every year at the NEDA (National Eating Disorders Association) walk, my dad stands right by my side listening to the speakers; his unblinking eyes release tears that roll along the contour of his chin and down his neck. Now, he is my biggest advocate and understands how difficult this illness is. He is proud of me, of all the people that beat this. He knows this is not a choice.

If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder call the National Eating Disorders Association Helpline at 1-800-931-2237 or refer to the resources page

 

 

 

Get Low, Low, Low

It’s called getting low. At least that’s what my hubby and I call it. When you don’t want to do something in parenthood, but you do it because you absolutely have to—that would be the start of getting low’s Wikipedia definition. Then you duck, tuck and get as low as you can and slither out of the room, like what they tell you in Fire education–stop, drop without the roll. But for effect if you want to do the roll, go ahead by all means.

For instance, last night my daughter was wickedly teething. The amount she was teething made me want to be all tough and Bostonian, like a Ben Affleck movie, hence the wicked. Well, she woke up screaming at around 10 pm. After some Tylenol and a pity viewing of Little Einstein’s, her favorite show, which I like to think she enjoys because she is a baby genius, not because of the bright colors and catchy tunes. But I digress.

After twenty-minutes when she seemed a little better I went to put her back into her crib when she started screaming. And when I say screaming I mean-wah, wah wah, getting increasingly louder with each subsequent wah. It’s awful. One thing I can’t take is hearing my baby crying. My heart cramps together in pain and my blood starts boiling like a teapot— it hurts my first-time-mommy soul. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I got low, and slithered out of her nursery, pretending it didn’t happen. Five minutes later, she was back to sleep.

Another instance where this works is when you are putting your baby in the stroller after a class, when she does not want to be in there more than anything. And hell yes, she will let you know it. Oh and also the fifteen other mothers in the class. She screams incessantly and all of the other mothers are looking at you like girl, what’s wrong with your baby? You can’t get her to stop-try a bottle, a WubbaNub, nothing works. So you duck, tuck and get as low as possible and sneak out the door and start hauling ass down the street.

This can really work in any situation. Let’s say you are feeding your baby at a restaurant and she throws up—puke covering her head to toe. Then you take her to the bathroom and realize you forgot her change of clothes. Crap. Well, you put her in the diaper and winter jacket with the 7AM—pay the bill of course, we don’t promote dining and dashing– and then duck, tuck and slither out of the restaurant before anyone can even notice.

So the next time something happens where you want to avoid seeing your baby upset or the judgmental eyes of other mamas; or worse, the judgmental eyes of other people that don’t have babies and don’t understand–do whatever you got to do. But always remember in the back of your head as a rabbit in the hat magic trick of the trade, when all else fails with your baby, duck, tuck and get low low low low low low low low.

Wanted: Mamas For A Flu Season Exorcism

So we decided to perform a cyber exorcism. Yes, it actually exists.

We called the priest and everything. We needed to get rid of this horrible stomach demon wreaking havoc on my 11-month old baby girl. She had been throwing up for days. It was time.

We are Jewish so this was complete desperation. We needed some holy water ASAP. Okay, kidding, but give me a few more days and maybe I will. I actually looked it up in a moment of hysteria. Non-believers, search Google right now.

It all started on Sunday morning, the one day I can sleep-in when I heard my hubby screaming, “fuck,” so loud that it echoed, echoed, echoed. You get the point.

I ran out of bed, pajamas hiked up to my stomach, hair-resembling Animal The Muppet, and came in to the living room to find throw up covering both of them–head to toe. NOOOO, I screamed in slow motion wishing I could use my mommy super powers to go back to five minutes ago, to cover them both with bibs and towels. But then I realized shit; mom’s don’t really have super powers–that’s a myth–and was left screwed with a messy baby in hand, while my husband went to change. What a pleasant way to be awoken. And before I even had a sip of coffee, how inconsiderate of them. Right?

“I think I had her at a weird angle and she choked on her formula.” He claimed from the other room mid-shirt swap.

“I hope so,” I screamed back as I disinfected my little girl, changing her into clean clothes, and washing her with a washcloth.

“Since, she’s okay, I am going to go back to sleep for like twenty minutes,” I said to him, handing off the clean nugget and yawning simultaneously.

Well ten minutes later–same situation happened–this time with a waffle, in the highchair, in the kitchen. How very Clue the Board Game of me. But, it was official. My baby girl had her first stomach bug.

And half a week later, I had never cleaned up more throw up, made more baths, and said oh shit so many times. Oh shit, because every time she would puke that was my instinctual reaction.

So finally, after days of throw up, days stuck inside, a doctor visit, and horrible poop diapers, not the royal Sir Patrick Stewart kind–I lost my own shit.

I swear her poop was even talking to me, but it had more of an evil chipmunk voice than a calm British one like it’s pooh counterpart.

“I will get myself all up your baby’s back mwahahaha so you will need to bathe her” the voice said high-pitched and evil AF. And it did.

“I will make your baby’s tushie nice, raw, and red so she can be extra upset.” And wala, it did.

I am telling you. Her poop was evil. It needed to be offed. If you had a thing like that hurting the love of your life, you would look into cyber exorcisms too.

Plus, my daughter who is the Queen Of Rolls, girl has rolls in all area codes (Thanks Ludacris for that one), was starting to actually look kind of slim. It freaked me out.

Moral of the story and in the name of my daughter’s adorable scrumptious rolls, who is with me on a flu season exorcism? I think we can all get rid of this demon. Bring it to The Upside Down, with the Demogorgon, where it truly belongs. I will not rest again, until I hear that the Demorgogon is throwing its guts up, with no chicken soup in sight. That’s my pledge. We got this mamas’.

Afternoon Naps Got Me Like AHHH

Ever wish the Doctor prescribed baby Xanax for sleep issues? I do every freakin day. Then I could give a big middle finger to sleep consultants and their crying out torture tactics. I. Can’t. Do. It. I mean, adult Xanax and a nice big glass of vino works nicely for this mama.

By the way, I am still feeding my ten-month old a 3 am bottle. I know. I. Am. So. Bad. The doctor told me not to give it to her on our last visit. “Let her cry” he said so blasé, like it was the easiest thing in the world, as I gave him every excuse on why it is impossible to make that happen. But she must have listened in because now she shrieks “mama bah bah,” which basically turns my heart into silly putty, and all I can do, is act like Alexa responding to a command–get the bottle and lightly rock her back to sleep. But I digress.

After I put her in the crib, I look into The Nest baby monitor and I swear I see her applying pink paint under her eyes probably to camouflage with her pink crib sheets. I mean my little baby girl is smart like that. Then she does a split. I am always impressed with how limber she is, as I see her stretch–left to right, repeat. Getting. Ready. For. Battle.

Here are some of the bizarre-o things my daughter does to go to war against her afternoon nap.

Phase 1: Murder of the WubbaNubs

I watch my ten-month old daughter through the baby monitor. She sits herself up in the crib and gives the camera a mischievous little smile. Was that intentional?

She has one WubbaNub (Wubba) in her mouth, but takes another one and holds it up in the air staring at it as if doing some strange yoga pose. Her little arm stretches out so wide—Stretch Armstrong long–taking a good look at it. Yes, mom before it dies. Sweet Vivie, did I hear that right?

The black tie (tuxedoed) penguin is the Wubba-in-hand. That means he is getting tossed first. At least he is dressed well for the occasion, I think. I then see him spin backwards from her hand and boom, or more like kablam, hit her nursery floor. I’d give him a seven out of ten on his nosedive form. Let’s face it, I have seen better in my time as a mama to Viv.

She looks in the camera. Her big brown eyes happily glittering with that sparkle that makes strangers on the street smile, also like she knows she has an audience. Does she? Then, she gives herself applause. Proof. Like, awesome dive Mr. Wubba penguin. Or, I am a sociopath baby and all Wubbas must diiiiie. That’s her mama’s sick-o humor, but yes, I think she feels the Big Brother vibe of the green light above her crib.

Then it is Ms. Pink Teddy bear Wubba. I swear I see the poor Wubba say a little prayer before she is launched into the air through the crib bars and hits the floor. Bye bye wubba number two. This goes on six more times. She sleeps with eight Wubbas. Yes. Take. That. In. Because on top of her sleep issues, Vivienne is a Wubba addict or more like a cuddling addict who is not allowed to sleep with stuffed animals yet. Also, come on, we all do much worse than Wubbas and cuddling as we get older to judge. Well at least I can speak for myself.

This goes on until all Wubbas are on the floor and Viv is left alone, looking down at them like job well done. Or, how do I get them back here? I actually may need to sleep, I mean, eventually.

 Phase 2: The bar-crawl

This is where Viv looks out of the crib and hits the crib bars like she is playing a prison game. Then she lunges herself against them and crawls to the left, then right, hitting the bars as if she is planning her escape. She stares off at times into the dark, like a ninja deep in thought. Then she starts hitting the top of the crib again and again. Pulls herself up and pensively stares. Then the whole routine is performed again. I go in and get her Wubbas for her.

Phase 3: Group chat with the Wubbas

Sometimes, when I go in to replenish the Wubbas I take her out thinking maybe I put her in too early. Plus, she’s cute and I want to play with her. Wrong! She is so cranky and rubs her eyes, climbing me like an overly attached puppy, rubbing her eyes against my chest. Not her finest moment. So I do what any sane mama, prison-guard, would do–put her back in sleep-jail. Then her and the Wubbas huddle up, in a close mass, having covert discussions.

I hear her “dada ahhh ma dahhhhh.”

All the Wubbas nod in agreement.

“Mama yaya dadada.”

Meeting over.

Then they all break and the plan is put into action.

 Phase 4: Screaming my lungs out to make mommy get me.

This is why afternoon naps got me like AHHHH.

Phase 5: The I-just-got-shot-in-the-leg-and-I-am-exhausted-but-must-keep-going-on phase.

She army crawls, taking her last awake breaths while hysterically crying, along the mattress of the crib. This is her last ditch effort. Maybe mommy will get me. But. I. Am. So. Sleepy.

I tap my fingers against the couch while thinking. Trying to distract myself and not go into her room. Then she will win and she’s tired!

I look down at the monitor. Sound is now off as I can’t listen anymore to her and her manipulative Wubba gangs’ screams. She is wrestling a Wubba fighting to keep herself up, begging with her little hands. I wonder whose struggle is greater right now, hers or mine. Is her battle kind of my battle because I want to save her? That’s irrelevant at this moment. Mine.

I get up off the couch to save her from the sleep monster or whatever she is experiencing and then I hear the buzzing of my phone. It’s a text from my husband at work spying on the cameras like the undercover Russian spy he thinks he is. Clearly, he’s been watching too much of The Americans.

“She’s going to fall asleep. Wait two minutes.”

Then low and behold, my little angel is sleeping. And gosh she is beautiful when she sleeps. Life. Is. Good. Her little butt goes up in the air and I even think for a second about having four more just like her. And we all win. Even those damn Wubbas. Only to be snapped back to reality that we will need to do this again tomorrow afternoon. (Insert see-no-evil monkey emoji). With that realization, maybe one baby is fine for now. Because, did I just see her move: NOOOOOO.