Life as We Know It.

Being a parent is no longer a novelty. I no longer feel like a kid playing house when I casually bring up my six-month-old at home. This is my life as I know it, and the shock has worn off. Drool on all my clothes, my hair, bite marks on my finger from one tiny tooth, stories of being pooped and peed on and waking up at four a.m.--part of me always owned these new things sort of ironically, like, deep down they even seemed like stories, not reality.

I love my new life. I'm saying this with sincerity, not the contemptuous, passive-aggressive proclamations of some new moms out there--myself formerly included, at times--who follow this thinking with a whole host of complaints. I found a great balance. For me, going back to work was a big part of it. I'm enjoying my new job so much and even more I'm unapologetically enjoying the time away from parenting for three days a week (the other two I work from home). It is this separation of self that has made me feel like Sarah again. For others, quitting a demanding job and staying at home is the key to that parenting zen.

For me it was finding the ability to redefine what my life's going to look like.

Today I got my haircut with a new person (I had a coupon; I couldn't resist), and I gave her the rundown on my life over the past few years after she asked. Graduated college. Worked for major broadcast station. Got pregnant. Got engaged. Had baby. Got married. Had several serious health scares. Continued battling severe chronic illness (those last two I left out). Found new, perfect-for-now job. Moved twice. Got hair cut.

"You look too young to have done all that!" she said.

Whatever. It's better than being told I look 13.

I probably am too young to have done all that already, but things are slowing down. I got most of my major, life-changing moves out of the way before 25. So now I'm going to take a breath.

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A Little Addy-tude

I'm laying on the couch, with Adelyn straddling my stomach. I hardly have to support her at all anymore, just a quick hand behind her back when she leans too far in one direction or the other. And this ability, being able to sit up all by herself, will be the defining triumph of Adelyn's babyhood.

The turning point came when she started sitting up with our help. Suddenly she was less fussy, more content, the smiles became frequent and the crying became few and far between. When she has her fits now they always, always revolve around not sitting. Naps, certain feedings, mom forcing a toy in her face because she has yet to truly discover them--none of these things inspire the spirit of the baby--the person--she truly is. But when she's sitting it's like she's herself, the person she will become, happy, curious, active, sassy. I'm eager for the day when she can sit by herself and I can sit across from her, engaging her, not holding her up but holding her attention.

Earlier today we stopped by my friend Candice's house. Adelyn needed a nap as soon as we got there, so I put her in Kennedy's crib and went through our usual nap-time routine--lights off, white noise, a few seconds of cuddling and then I put her in the crib, my hand on her stomach until her eyelids get heavy. It didn't work, probably because we weren't at home and because the nap was an hour too late. She finally fell asleep after fifteen minutes of agonizing cries--the girl can cry like nobody's business, as a newborn and as a burgeoning six-month-old. And it got to me, like most parenting things do. I'm hard on myself when it comes to being a mother. It still feels new to me; I still feel like an amateur. Not at taking care of my own baby, but at mothering in general, if that makes any sense. A few minutes after Adelyn woke up Kennedy took a nap with ease, without a peep, and of course it sent a what-am-I-doing-wrong shiver up my spine.

So many things have gotten easier and so much has not or has stayed the same. Stalled in its same frustrating place.

It takes a moment like the one we had later at home, with Adelyn sitting, smiling on my stomach, watching her dogs wrestle each other and choosing that this image is funny, to her, another addition to her cultivating self. She listens to her mom say "mama" over and over again in the hope she will say it back and decides that she finds this, too hilarious. She's balancing herself with her hand on my chest, her other hand in her mouth, drool dripping down and soaking the front of her shirt and mine. She's making her baby dinosaur sounds and surprising herself with the loudness of her own voice. I'm falling even more in love with her, and I didn't know there was any room for any more love for this little being that has already taken over every ounce of my self.

These are the sort of moments that make being a mother beyond worth it. I created a person who is already making decisions about what she likes, what she doesn't, what's funny and what's not worth a giggle.

My daughter is a crier. When she cries, she lets it all out. She's not always easygoing. Often she is quickly sent into a tizzy and is hard to bring back down. She doesn't like to finish her bottles all in one sitting. She doesn't like to open her mouth to eat solids. She doesn't like to eat on a schedule. She doesn't sleep through the night, and she was born to a mom who doesn't have the guts or the stamina to do any sort of actual sleep training.

She smiles bigger than any baby I've ever seen. She's the most beautiful creature--adult or bite-sized--I've ever laid my eyes on. She's got an attitude. (Or as her Janu said, just a little "Addy-tude." It's the best part of her.

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The Dishes Can Wait.

At my bridal shower each guest was asked to write a piece of marriage advice on a card.

Jason's Aunt Sandra's was my favorite, and it's posted up on my fridge as a reminder.

"The dishes can wait for tomorrow."

When I was younger I prioritized cleaning at about the same level I did my chemistry class in school. Meaning I could care less. My mom and I fought about cleaning my room probably more than anything else, because she's a mom and I was a teenager and it was the law, but something shifted when I moved out on my own at 18.

I became a neat freak.

And that weird, un-Sarah like trait has remained, has become more ingrained in my self with each passing day, especially since I became a mother.

I think a lot of it is that cleaning offers a bit of control. When I moved to New York and into a dorm with a roommate I didn't know, the least I could do was keep my room insanely tidy. When I couldn't figure out what to do for a living, at least the bed was made. When I was pregnant and terrified and unsure about the direction my life was taking, at least Adelyn's future room was spotless. And when I came home from the hospital, suddenly responsible for something more vulnerable and helpless than I could have prepared for, at least the counters were shining and the laundry was done.

Yesterday wasn't the best. Adelyn's constipation issues showed up again, and she spent a lot of the day squirming and screaming. She wouldn't nap for more than five minutes and wouldn't eat more than an ounce at a time. Jason even came home from work a little early because I was at a loss, standing at her changing table, watching her strain and cry.

It was a tough day for her more so than it was for me, I'm sure. Around seven--about an hour before her usual bed time--she wouldn't keep her eyes open long enough to finish half her bottle, so we put her to bed early. And she immediately shut her eyes and started snoring.

The difficulty of the day meant that I hadn't been able to take back control and clean up. After we put her to bed, I looked around at the bottles, glasses, unfolded blankets, spilt formula powder and drenched burp rags that had taken over our apartment throughout the day, and my first impulse was to fix it.

We got a wedding gift in the mail yesterday from one of my dad's close friends--a set of beautiful, way-too-nice wine glasses. So to break them in Jason had brought home a bottle of wine.

Before I cleaned up, I decided, I'd sit outside with Jason and have a glass. It had been a long day. I'm not much of a wine-lover, I'm more of a beer girl. But those glasses deserved to be used.

We went outside to our back porch overlooking the still-flooded river and shut the door behind us. And then we talked, first about Adelyn, as were are accustomed to doing. Then we moved on to his job. Then my goals for my job. My writing, his music. Our families, our family, our wedding, my friends, his friends. Our first date, our first break up. Christianity, Judaism, religion in general. The flooding, the Gulf Shore Oil Spill, the Times Square bomber, terrorism, racism, nationalism. Everything. Before I knew it the sun had gone down and we were sitting in darkness. The bottle of wine was gone. We were missing Lost. Those drenched burp rags were still on the couch.

I went to bed feeling infinitely better about so much in my life, from going back to school to my intended career to our incredible, confusing baby girl. I didn't clean up until just a minute ago, when I got Adelyn down for her first nap. And the world didn't implode.

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The Good and the Bad.

Yesterday was a rough day, the kind that had me running to BabyCenter every free moment to find solace in other women going through the same thing. Also the kind that had me crying over stressful wedding plans like overpriced DJs and the seemingly endless task of gathering addresses. I thought the postpartum hormones would have run their course by now, right? Guess not.

After an uneventful morning, Adelyn spent the entire afternoon keeping me on my toes and making me question my ability as a mother. That's so easy to do, that last thing. Doubting your mothering instinct. And apparently I'm not alone--the forums on BabyCenter are filled with women claiming they aren't cut out for this.

New moms--me, especially, included--spend so much time wondering if we're doing this right, if maybe we were mistakenly chosen for this whole parenting thing. When she eats a full meal and falls peacefully asleep or her mouth starts to creep into the first traces of a smile I feel content, momentarily successful. But never have I thought to myself, "Man, I am good at this." It's either, "I'm failing completely," or "maybe it'll be okay."

What is a good mother anyway? The ones who are gifted with non-crying babies? The ones who forsake a shower to clean more bottles? The ones who put their children first always, no matter the cost to them? I just don't know anymore. The line between good and bad becomes so blurred with lack of sleep and the blaring sound of crying in your ear.

I can't decide if the test of a good mother comes from instinct or the other mothers around us. Because we love to judge. The same women on BabyCenter who come to the rescue of those doubting themselves chastise those who question letting their babies cry-it-out or who switched to formula to make their lives easier.

Does anyone out there genuinely think they are good at this? Does it come with time, or does the guessing game never stop?

And, ah, finally. I hear (yes, hear) Adelyn pooping. Which must (I pray, I hope) have been the source of her inconsolable discomfort.

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Eat. Sleep. Poop.

I wish someone would have told me how little there actually is to this beginning phase. Not that it isn't ridiculously complicated, but there are really only three things I've had to work on mastering so far.

The eating phase, the sleeping phase, and the pooping phase.

My time now consists of trying to solve Adelyn's riddle of those three things, and it ebbs and flows with each passing day. Sometimes she wants to sleep for three hours after she eats. And then the next day, I go to put her down after a feeding, ready to have my three hours in the morning to get stuff done. But the second you think you're sensing some sort of pattern, she decides she now doesn't want to nap after that feeding. She wants to feed some more. And some more. And then she might poop. Then sleep for a while, but this time only thirty minutes, and then she wants to eat again. And then poop. Except this time that wasn't a poop, it just sounded like one. And now that you've changed her diaper--which she hates--there's no hope for sleep without at least twenty minutes of shushing and rocking. And the next day it's a brand new riddle. I spend every second trying to anticipate what's coming next.

I'm making it sound like Adelyn is a fussy baby--to be honest, I have it extremely lucky. For now. Knock on wood. I wish I hadn't written that sentence because now it will no longer be true, I know it. But I'm gonna take my chances and tell you all that I lucked out majorly so far.

Adelyn cries when she's hungry; she cries even harder when she's still hungry and you try to stop feeding her after an hour of nursing. She screams bloody murder when you change her diaper, but she doesn't even make a peep when she's sitting in a soiled one. In fact, if her bathroom habits weren't so audible I'd never have any idea when or if to change her diaper. Sometimes she gets sort of fussy when she needs to burp or fart. But most of the time--most of the time--she's content to stare at you and the world around her and look like the most adorable thing alive.

Being a mom is complicated. Because it's so simple--anticipating the very limited needs of this teeny, tiny person. And still it's a trickier equation than any math problem I've ever come across. Eat plus sleep plus poop equals one confused mother.

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Becoming a mother.

When you find yourself, suddenly, with child--with no preperation at all--it's easy to forget one major thing. After you get done worrying about pregnancy and the fact that your stomach is extending further and further and further without your permission, you still have to worry about being a mother.

My mind is just starting to catch up with my stomach. I've come to grips with the whole labor thing, with the whole expanding midsection thing. I've started to let myself realize that I will soon be responsible for a newborn. I've never even held a newborn. Mine will probably be the first. I've read up on colic and breastfeeding and the pros and cons of different sleeping arrangements. I think I freak Jason out sometimes when I start spouting off facts on co-sleeping or SIDS.

But beyond doing everything in my power to keep the newborn alive, I am going to be a mother. For the rest of my life. Like, someone will call me "mom," not Sarah, and probably be weirded out at some point in his/her life that my real name is, in fact, not "mom."

And once you start thinking about this it opens up an entirely new Pandora's Box of concerns and what-if's and labels and questions. I'm going to have a child. A teenager. An adult. And I never spent a second picturing myself as a mom, or wondering what kind of mother I'll be. I'm starting from scratch.

I feel a lot better about it with Jason as my partner. He--unlike me--is one of the people you just know will be a good parent. Sitting at his show in Memphis last weekend, his extraordinarily drunk friend looked at me, so sincerely, and said "I've always known Jason will be the best dad ever." Like, really? You gave that some thought? Between chugging 24-packs? He said this to me after shouting "Freebird!!!" at the top of his lungs each time a song ended. Jason just has that quality about him.

The only real confidence-booster I have is the example of my mom. Because in my opinion, it literally doesn't get any better. Growing up, I was terrified of disappointing her, yet she was never strict or authoritative. She was my friend and my mother. She didn't kill me when she found beer under my bed, but I still never dreamed of doing it again. (Well, at least in my house. Underage.)

In high school, you meet those kids with the "fun" parents, the ones who throw the parties at their house or who, like one mother I met, brag about their pocket-pipe shaped like a tube of lipstick. That particular mom ended up having an affair with one of her son's high school friends later. Not someone I want to emulate.

My mom somehow struck a perfect balance of "cool" and "mom."

Last night, for example, she made me feel like the old one. I was in my pajamas, in bed. It was 7 at night, already past my 6 o'clock bed time (I wake up at 2am). I get a call from her on my cell, and I reluctantly answer because I was just drifting off to sleep. Giggling, she says, "Come outside in five minutes. And bring Louie." Then she hangs up.

Honestly, I have no idea at this point what's going on. But my mom has never called me out of the blue and asked me to come outside. So I throw on some sweatpants, grab my dog, and head out the door. I don't even put on shoes. Or a bra.

There's a stretch SVU limo parked in front of my apartment. The driver is holding the door open for me. So I cover my chest with my arms (white T-shirt, no bra), and climb into the limo. My mom, her friend Trey, and their younger friend (a few years older than me), all former co-workers of my mom when she was the Executive Director of a succesful Nashville non-profit are sitting inside (she's now the executive director of a homeless shelter. She also has a career I wish I could inherit).

They're dressed to the nines, champaigne in-hand. I'm wearing a see-through shirt. I did not expect to be sitting in a limo that night, or at all in the next decade.

It's the youngest of the three's birthday, and also a celebration that she just graduated with her Master's degree. My mom and Trey decided on a whim to rent a limo to take them to dinner.

So we take a drive around my neighborhood. We talk about the baby, about my burgeoning bump, about the fact that I was in bed at 7 o'clock and my mom is drinking champaigne in a limo. Right before they drop me off, rain starts falling in sheets. The driver doesn't have an umbrella, but I assure him that it's fine, that unlike these ladies I'm just going upstairs and getting back in bed. I say good-bye and make a run for my door, with Louie shivering in my arms.

When I walk back inside, Jason is sitting in the couch with an understandably confused look on his face. I'm soaking wet, so is Louie.

And then, still wet, I get back under the covers and fall asleep, while my mom parties it up with her friends.

That's the kind of mom, I guess, I want to be.

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On how life completely changed with one trip to the bathroom, and coming to grips with what it will mean to be a mother.

Something I've done millions of times, so much that I can, and have, done it in my sleep. Getting up to pee. Sitting down on the toilet. Relieving my bladder. Pushing the handle. Listening for the swoosh of water that means I won't have to get out the plunger. The minutae of life that is neither examined or celebrated, just something done every day without deliberation.

Except for the one tiny difference two weeks ago-- the $20 piece of technology, bought hastily at Walgreens, soaked with that minutae, blinking its tiny screen and its earth-shattering results in my face.

It shook me to my core. Took every thought, every ounce of my being, and rammed it into a different direction. Two weeks later, and I have a picture of the beginnings of a human life on my fridge. Two weeks later, and I'm not looking at clothes or news online, I'm reading about colic and C-sections and crowning and epidurals and incessantly googling every possible thing I could be doing to hurt this person I haven't met and whom I'm realizing more and more is going to consume every part of me.

All I know about mothers is that I love my own. I know that I gave up smoking in an instant, drinking in a heartbeat, and have let my allergies become so severe I've rubbed my nose raw all so I can avoid popping a pill that could do any harm. I'm already making sacrifices, already so much about my day-to-day life, and I didn't even know, or want, or expect this to happen any time soon. But the sacrifices just feel natural.

The impending journey is by far the scariest I will probably ever embark on.

And yet it is the most ancient one of all, and the reason I'm here to begin with.

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