Urban Mama

Product of the Week: (Edible) LUSH Soap

Sometimes a crawling 11-month-old just can't be stopped. Yesterday while I was in the bathroom, I put baby J on the floor with some toys and left the door open, so he could still see me. Next thing I know, he's crawling into the bathroom to say hello. I chat with him a little bit and then watch him crawl up to the shower stall. Before I could say "Charmin," baby J had a mouthful of soap in his mouth.

LUSH's Porridge soap (left) has tiny little oats that fall off as you lather up, so my shower had a bunch of tiny pieces of soap lining it (I know, yuck, but I hadn't motivated myself to clean the shower and figured the pieces provided a nice little scrub for the soles of our feet). Realizing his little treat wasn't very tasty, baby J began to cry, creating a slobbery, sudsy mush around his mouth. By then, of course, I had washed my hands and was busy wiping his mouth. Thank goodness we use LUSH, which is made of natural ingredients, rather than some harsh, potentially toxic alternative. 

So, if you're like me and have a baby who loves to eat off of the floor, or if you're one of those old-school parents who employs the "Christmas Story" method of discipline, I recommend LUSH soap.

All of my LUSH soaps were paid for by yours truly, and my favorite kind is Honey I Washed the Kids

A Better Year

It should come of no surprise that 2008 was one of the worst years of my life. Starting in January, when Mami had her colostomy surgery that signaled the end, '08 will forever be The Year My Mother Died. Or The Year I Became An Orphan, take your pick. 

Mami's death will certainly overshadow almost everything else that happened last year -- almost, because in March of 2008 I gave birth to my third (and final! -- better give that an extra exclamation point: !) child. Despite the sorrow, I can't deny that Baby J a.k.a the Schmoopadoo is a little bundle of joy. I have many a time called him my personal anti-depressant. And he brought quite a few smiles to my mother's face in the final months of her life. That's a memory I shall treasure forever -- seeing her bony arms still able to embrace this baby boy of mine. 

Thank you, sweet baby, for being my constant companion, for cooing at your dying Abuela, for being such a joy.

Yesterday I sat next to a mother at the Schmoop's tae-kwan-do class. She had a gorgeous sapphire ring, and I complimented her on it. That simple compliment led to a 20-minute-long conversation about being motherless daughters. It was a profound connection, made amidst a sea of chirpy "Ai Yas!" and restless younger siblings wondering when the class would end. The new, instant friend told me I should feel blessed. Her mother died when she was 27, not even married yet, and Mami got to see get married and hold all my children.

What a beautiful perspective.

Thank you, Mami, for walking me down the aisle, for cradling and loving my three babies.

If my grieving heart allows, let me not focus on all that Mami will miss, but instead delight in everything she was present for, everything she experienced.

Thank you, new friend, for your wisdom, and for welcoming me into this awful club of motherless daughters.

Happy Half-Birthday!

As of September 13th, the Schmoopadoo is now six months old. Parenting, I've found, is full of clichés, so I'm not going to apologize for saying that I have no idea how the time passed so quickly. One moment he was a tiny, squirmy newborn with a shockingly full head of hair, and the next he's a chatty, drooly, grabby, smiley baby half way to his first birthday.

Oh, and yes, he still has a shockingly full head of hair. One friend told us he looks like a TV anchor, so one of our terms of endearment for him is "Ron Burgundy." You know, "Stay classy, San Diego."

The Schmoopadoo adores his siblings, even his overly loving, slightly smothering older sister.

No one makes him giggle as hard as his brother, the Schmoop.

His father's rendition of the "ABC" song brings him (and only him, I should add) more joy than almost anything else.

His teething ruins every outfit with a stream of drool, but he has no teeth yet

He's only fussy when he's hungry or sleepy... or in the car for too long. Truly. My firstborn cried more in his first week of life than the Schmoopadoo has in the past six months.

He's so quiet I've caught myself looking back at the infant mirror to make sure I actually put the baby in the carseat.

He's so easy-going I've taken him to nearly two dozen movie screenings since I started working again in July. He just sleeps or nurses or coos quietly. I know that won't keep up for much longer, but I haven't had to pump but four bottles for him since he was born.

He's the biggest surprise of my three surprise (on three different forms of birth control) pregnancies. When I found out I was pregnant, I never imagined saying this -- but I thank God every day that the IUD failed.

He's brought so much joy into our family of five that we finally feel complete.