The Working Mom Delimma...

You know it. You've heard it. You've probably even participated in a debate about it. The now common-place discourse surrounding women everywhere who have children: working mom v. stay-at-home mom.

I won't even pretend to be an expert on this subject, considering that I've not done either for very long. But...let's just say the preliminary verdict definitely lands on the side of the working mom. I was a stay-at-home mom for three months and I've now been a working mom for 2 months. Let me be the first (well probably not the first) to say that being a stay-at-home mom is difficult. It's tiring and emotionally draining. It can also be pretty isolating. However, for someone like myself who genuinely feels that the sun rises and falls from within my daughters beautiful baby bottom, it was a glorious time. I got to spend my entire day watching her learn, develop, and grow. Watching her personality blossom before my eyes.

Now, I spend 75% of my time (and I'm being modest) thinking about her and wishing I was the one with her, teaching her and nurturing her... rather than watching her on my computer screen (on a less than optimal video stream might I add). I wake up before dawn; get her up, dressed, fed, and out the door with her father. I squeeze in about a three mile run and get back just as the sun is making its appearance and the street lights are bidding adieu. I throw myself together (usually in thirty min) and get to work barely on time. There, I spend the rest of my day taking care of very special, delightfully high maintenance children whilst fighting the inner mom impulse to check on her via computer every 30 seconds (the gift and curse of having her at a daycare with a camera system). I'm dying to be with her every moment and hear every new sound, see every new developmental milestone...enjoy her.

But...instead, I work.

I work so that she can have ridiculously cute little pajamas and adorable dresses. I work so that one day she won't have to work quite as hard as I have.

And when I get home...I cook, clean, and scrub little bottles with a baby on my hip (or hanging from my boob). I rest for the first time all day after she's sound asleep in bed around 7:30...and shovel some dinner down before I pass out in the bed. Then, I do it all again the next day.

This is my life. I do the best I can to give every aspect-mommy, worker, and wife--100%...

But I'm beginning to realize there isn't quite 300% of me...

Is it just me...or is she perfect?

So, it's been 10 weeks, 5 days since I gave birth to the most phenomenal human being on the planet.

Layla Holiday Moye was born on May 3rd--6 pounds 14 ounces. {this is her at two days old...pretending like she likes pacifiers--she won't go near one now!}

It already seems like she's been here for years...at the same time I feel like it was just yesterday that I brought her into this world. To watch her little personality blossom everyday is a gift from God. She acts like she's been here before with her sideways glances and hilariously-timed babbling.

It's funny how naturally parenting came to us. I assumed I would be somewhat lost and freaking out for at least the first week...but, honestly, it really came quite easily (the hardest part was the anxiety of waiting for my milk to come in). It didn't hurt that she is basically an anomaly--been sleeping until 5am since she was a week old, and to at least 7:30am since she was 2 weeks old! Couldn't ask for more sleep. So, no, we haven't had to go through the terror of being sleep deprived. We trade duties as much as possible (I breastfeed, but I pump such that my husband can feed her twice a day). We give her everything. We play her constantly. We tell her she's beautiful and we love her every 60 seconds.

She. Is. Our. World.

I never thought I'd be here but I'm so glad I am.

Adventures in PreggoLand

So, here we are. About 8 months in and growing more and more impatient by the second. I'm ready for her to make her grand entrance! And, of course, I say this aloud and everybody pelts me with "nooo you want her in there as long as possible" comments/stink-eyes. So I'll clarify, obviously I want her fully developed. Sheesh. I'd just also really like to stop dreaming of her and obssessing over what she'll be like...and actually get to hold her, feel her, and get to know her.

I'll admit it. I'm in love. In love with a tiny bundle I've never even met (who packs a mean punch and a powerful roundhouse kick by the way).

Someone, a mother of two, told me the other day not to be surprised when she comes and I don't immediately love her and feel connected to her. WTF?! I nodded and smiled--as I've learned to do frequently as of late... when people drop their nonsensical ridiculousness on me--but are you serious??? I already love her more than life itself (even more than Louboutins or literature!) and feel inextricably linked to her! I can't even imagine the swell of emotion I'll feel when she actually gets here! It's amazing how strongly one can feel about something that still seems so abstract. I mean, sure, I feel her moving and acting crazy in there.. But she's almost like an appendage: a portion of my body that thrives and lives but is not independent of me. It's like loving a piece of myself that decided to develop a mind of it's own (Actually that's pretty much exactly what's happened.).

Which got me thinking: Who are these crazies that are allowed to produce spawn these days? You see them...slinging their kids around in Wal-Mart. Cursing their babies out in the line at Walgreens. Driving with their kids sitting on the damn dashboard. It seems any and every body can, and has, knocked out a kid or two. I figure we've got to at least be better than those douchebags...so we'll be fine....

Right?


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What's in a Name?

The decision to name our daughter Layla was actually made before she was even conceived.

It started with a love for music. All music really. And the casual introduction (by my father) to Eric Clapton when I was a child. I remember the first chords I heard Eric play...I was instantly enamored. He opened my eyes--well, ears--to other guitar-playing geniuses like Stevie Ray Vaughn.

So when I learned we were pregnant (after the initial shock and paralyzing fear wore off), I knew our child would bear the name of a great musician or one of their creations. My only dilemma was which legend's namesake would be carried on.

Before we knew the sex, we tried to fit Marley on as a middle name to the first names we'd chosen. But soon we learned that we'd been blessed with a little girl...and it hit us: Holiday.

Layla Holiday.

It sounded perfect to us and held so much meaning: the first name taken from the first Eric Clapton song I fell in love with...the song that initiated a chain reaction leading to a love affair with great guitarists. I've also read (somewhere) that Layla means "dark beauty". The middle name combining both my mother's name (Hollie) and one of my absolute favorite singers...An icon. A legend. We were sold and didn't give it another moment's contemplation.

The fun part was telling our family and friends. However, we quickly learned that our taste was not shared by...well...anyone else! We got responses like, "Holiday huh?" and "...that's interesting" (which we all know is a nice way of saying "what the hell?!") or--my personal fav-- "You still have plenty of time to change your mind".

Initially, I was kind of crushed. How could people not love that beautiful homage?! Admittedly, we even tossed out the option of changing it and going with something totally safe, yet gorgeous, like Layla Marie... And yet, I was puzzled and torn between wanting people to embrace it and love it as we do (complete with the "oh my gosh that's beautiful" that I'd expected), and deciding not to give a crap what anybody thinks...

Currently, we're turning more towards the latter...but occassionally I still feel a tinge of wonder...

WHAT DO YOU THINK: change it to the safer Layla Marie...or keep the music to my ears that is Layla Holiday?






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The Start of the Baby Bloggage (better late than never...)

Sooo... 5 months and 1 week down...still wearing regular clothes. I have moved up to the more comfortable size 6...already in my closet of course.

Been eating trying to get on track with my weight gain... Still no substantial bump unless I just ate a ton (which is kind of rare).

Headaches and back-aches (mixed with the occassional upset stomach) are kicking butt these days but they're trumped by the amazing feeling her kicking (seemingly running) and rolling around. Sleeping comfortably is getting a little easier...as long as I use Captain as a body pillow. He loves to feel her when she's being acrobatic. It's cute.

Registeration complete at Target and have begun to build her wardrobe (she's got 4 outfits already!). Spoiler alert: she's going to be spoiled rotten.

Did I mention we're having a beautiful baby girl that, many say, already has my nose?! Merry Christmas, Layla!



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Chronic Dissatisfaction...

I grew up with psycho parents. Really. Psycho. No need to rehash all of the drama and trauma...suffice to say I've done my best to treat my childhood, as many do, like a salad bar: I pick over the crap and take only the golden nuggets that can be of use. But truthfully, many things have unfortunately and inadvertently followed--no, stalked--me into adulthood.

One of those things is this tendency to constantly, secretly, scrutinize myself in every way: body, intellect, accomplishments, and actions are all measured by a bar that can never be reached. It is never stagnant, and seems to raise each time I catch a glimpse of it.

And yet, I know I'm not the only one that struggles with this inability to be satisfied with one's self...which makes me wonder...were my parents, at least in this respect, simply falling in line with American culture? Because isn't it this insatiable drive for the best that serves as the cornerstone of our society? This constant feeling of inadequacy that leads you on wild goose chases for the latest shoes & clothes, highest position at the best job, next best get-rich-quick scheme, next adrenaline-pumping activity.......isn't this The American Dream?

We want to be fulfilled but is that really ever possible? Will there ever be a point where we are no longer burdened with that "I gotta" feeling? Or is this chronic dissatisfaction just an indication that the American dream--the ability to reach for ever-higher ground--has finally been attained?

Then again, there's a chance I've actually missed the mark here and am projecting my own damage on you poor, unsuspecting souls who are actually quite fulfilled and satisfied with life........if that's the case, my bad!--disregard the above. ;-)

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I've got what you need...

If you think about how much of your life is dictated by others, it might depress you...or excite you...depending on how your particular cookie crumbles.

Consider, for a moment, how often you think about how you'll need to dress for something; whether you said the right thing, if you'll meet so-and-so; how much Joe Blow pisses you off; if your co-worker has done their job so you can do yours; did the server get your order right--and if not, should you confront them or just suck it up and eat the medium-rare steak.............and so on and so forth.

I don't suppose we need to visit the topic of the necessity of human interaction in general. I do; however, think it's worth noting the immeasurable amount of trouble we go to in order to secure these essential connections.

...Which brings me to this question...
How much energy will we expend to meet that special someone?

...and this question...
How much hell will you go through to keep that someone around?

In my very (very) short time of being married (going on 2 years--yeah, I know...no time at all), I've found that the most difficult of quandaries are rarely life-altering issues of gargantuan proportions...but rather the tiniest of irritants are typically at the root. It's the small differences that find their way into the largest of recurrent disagreements....many, perhaps even most of which would be avoided if we spent even a quarter of the energy initially expended in the relationship, simply trying to make your significant other as happy as possible.

Ah, but isn't that the very dilemma? If we were really capable of being totally invested in someone else's happiness (well, someone not genetically linked to you), would there ever be a need to argue? Wouldn't the world spin just perfectly and harmoniously? We behave in ways that will yield the largest return. All that energy and effort we addressed earlier is really directed toward ourselves. In other words, it's the drive to satisfy ourselves--our own self-esteem, desires, etc.--that's really at the root of our actions....which is unfortunate considering how disadvantageous this is to a successful, long-term (or, best case scenario, lifetime) relationship with another human being.

So how do we rectify this in favor of maintaining a fulfilling partnership? Well, when I find out I'll let you know.