Yesterday, I went to the doctor for sinus related symptoms. She looked me over and was about to send me on my way with a prescription when I asked her, “so I don’t have throat cancer?” I realized how bewildering this question may have come off, so I proceeded to explain myself. And when I say explain myself, I mean I unlocked the chamber of my deepest thoughts and fears.

I told her that I have anxiety and always have. I become fixated on a thought and, at times, I let it consume me. Since having Beau, I became so fearful that something bad was going to happen to me and he would be left without a mother. I imagined that after he was born, I would be worried about something happening to him, but it’s just quite the opposite. My life became so much more valuable since becoming a mom. I’ve never felt more important or needed in my life and that thought drives me to insanity at times.

I explained to her how badly I wanted kids. Despite, having no fertility issues, I held onto this fear that I would never be able to reproduce. It became so real, that I convinced myself that it would never happen. Now that I do have a child and I am a mom, I can’t help but to question what I did to deserve this? I feel so happy and fortunate, it scares me. It’s like, I’m not allowed to be this happy. So, I fabricate some tragedy in my mind and immerse myself in it. I told her that that’s why I think I have throat cancer, because I just can’t have it all. My anxiety tells me that.

I told her that at times, I feel robbed of these special moments with my son. I tell myself to stop being irrational because years from now, I will be so mad for wasting these precious years of Beau’s life and my life being worried.

I was reluctant to open up about this to anyone. I’ve called the doctor’s office with the intention of addressing this issue, and then hung up after two rings. I have a blog that I wrote a couple months ago saved in my drafts that I was just too afraid to publish. I was afraid that I would be judged or viewed as a failure or, even worse, an inadequate mother. There is such an emphasis on postpartum depression, but not nearly enough on postpartum anxiety. When I went to my six week follow up and was screened for PPD, I assumed everything was okay with me because I didn’t fall under that category. I thought that maybe this was how you were supposed to feel after having a baby. Maybe it was just hormones. But then I got realistic with myself. The thoughts I was having were obsessive and irrational, and frankly just not that healthy.

Becoming a mom, has made me a better person in so many ways. I value myself more and realize how important my well being is. So, in my quest to bettering myself, I decided it was time to finally talk about my mental health. I didn’t really plan on opening up to my doctor like I did, but I think maybe I just approached my breaking point. She was so open minded and understanding of my fears. She validated my thoughts and didn’t make me feel crazy. She assured me that motherhood is full of worries, but you have to find that middle ground. She told me to take more time for myself and to focus on the things that make me happy, like my son.

Before I left, I told my doctor that the 20 minutes she spent talking and listening to me, definitely helped more than the amoxicillin she prescribed for my sinus infection will.

I hope my story resonates with someone and possibly gives them the courage to seek the help they need. Don’t be ashamed of your demons, be better than them.

April is C-Section awareness month. About a third of babies are delivered via C-Section. During my labor, I resisted taking part in that statistic. The thought of major surgery on top of being responsible for a newborn, was a crippling thought to me. Not to mention, we had already spent over 24 hours in the hospital due to being induced and I did not want to have to be there any longer than I needed to be. A C-Section would require a couple more days of recovery. Also, I was committed to experiencing birth the “right way.” I wanted to deliver my son naturally with my mom, sister and husband by my side.

Labor is more exhausting than anyone could have ever prepared me for. Every push taxed my body beyond measure. I pushed for three hours and I could tell by the look in my nurse’s eyes that we were not making the progress we should be. Beau’s head just wouldn’t clear my pelvic bone. It was like trying to fit a ten foot truck under an 8 foot bridge. I was starting to see stars and my vision become blurry. I spiked a fever and Beau’s heart rate dropped. The baby was in distress and infection threatened. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. How was I not making this happen? Why was I failing at something I was trying so hard to accomplish? I asked my nurse, “can I just go home?” I knew that this was not an option, but delirium came over me and I just wanted to give up. I was completely defeated but I knew that I needed to make a decision that was best for my baby and I. I said, “let’s just do the c-section.” I could feel a sigh of relief come over the room. I wasn’t happy about this outcome, but I knew that it was what I needed to do.

From that point, everything happened so quickly. My doctor, who was just about out the door,canceled her next commitment and changed back into her scrubs so she could deliver my baby. I literally had 30 minutes to prepare myself for major surgery. They wheeled me away into a cold, sterile operating room. Brandon had to wait behind until they were ready for him to come in. It was at that moment that my fight or flight kicked in and I summoned a shade of strength and bravery that I’ve never experienced before.

Brandon finally made it to my side as I was stretched across the table like a specimen. I grabbed Brandon’s hand and pleed, “we’re going to have to stay in the hospital a few more days because of this, who’s going to watch Max?” Brandon shot me this look that conveyed exactly what he was thinking. You are about to undergo major surgery and give birth to our first born son and you’re worried about the fucking dog? Maybe that was my defense mechanism, to worry about the small stuff rather than sharp objects slicing layers deep into my body. My doctor, god I love her, must have overheard our conversation because she chimed in, most likely in an attempt to make small talk, and asked me why all of the kids in my family have “B” names but the dog has a name that starts with an M.

The surgery took longer than I thought and I squeezed Brandon’s hand harder in those 30 minutes than I did throughout the entire 36 hours of contractions and active labor. Before I know it, Beau is outside of me. My doctor exclaimed that he looked just like me and a few of the nurses said, “oh what a beautiful boy,” in which my doctor said, that’s what his name means, Beau means beautiful boy in French.” If you ever read this, Dr. Hendsch, I adore you! You are my life line.

It felt like eternity before we finally heard Beau cry. That beautiful sound of life assured me that it didn’t matter how Beau got here, he was born. I would not change a thing about my labor and delivery. It did not go as I imagined or planned, but I will never not love everything about the day I met my son.

My boobs are starting to leak, they always know when

It’s been a few hours and it’s time to pump again

It doesn’t matter that I’m in the middle of doing my job

My boobs need to be emptied and they’re starting to throb

So I scurry to gather all of my pumping supplies

Membranes and breast shields and bottles oh my!

I make my way downstairs to my lactation suite

Where I’m surrounded by boxes of restaurant supplies and concrete

Expressing breast milk in a basement is a bit obscene

But it’s the only place with an outlet where I can remain unseen

There is a life size Santa downstairs that seems to stare

He sees me while I’m pumping, he knows when I’m bare

I fumble with the pump as I try to find something on YouTube

Trying not to focus on the amount of milk coming out of my boob

From above, I hear the sound of the door chiming and plates clattering

I allowed myself to get distracted and now my milk is splattering

I can’t clean myself up because I forgot to pack a cloth

And nothing stains a shirt worse than milk froth

Now I’m becoming frantic because this is taking too long

And I barely have 2 ounces from each side, what is wrong

So I tell myself that I’m finished, this has to be enough

At times, being a breastfeeding mom is rough

I pack up my things, I’m all done for now

Sometimes I really just feel like a cow.

I didn’t find out I was pregnant until April 18th, but I like to think that my journey began on March 30. During this time last year, I had been on antibiotics for a urinary tract infection. These are a common occurrence for me, so when I started having severe cramping I began to worry. I didn’t know if I was experiencing an adverse effect to the antibiotics or if these were just symptoms of a UTI that were uncharacteristic to me.

Anyways, I called my doctor and they advised that we do an ultrasound. I was anticipating the worst. I never had an ultrasound before, so as far as I knew, I could be missing an ovary or my uterus was falling out.

Despite my apprehension, everything looked great. The doctor even said that I had “a beautiful uterus.” This was reassuring to me because at this time, Brandon and I had been trying to conceive for about 6 months and I was starting to get discouraged and to question if there was something wrong with me. The doctor also showed me my ovaries and even pointed out some mature follicles. He said, it looks like a chocolate chip cookie doesn’t it? I laughed, but was distracted by my own thoughts. I looked at those little “chocolate chips” and told myself that this is the cycle that I’m going to get pregnant. I’m looking at my future child right now, I just know it.

A few weeks later and boom, I’m pregnant! Not just pregnant, but four weeks pregnant already! That concept took a lot of googling for me to wrap my head around. Pregnancy is measured by the life span of the egg, not just the embryo. This affirmed my conviction that I had been looking at my future child just weeks prior. I saw Beau before he was even Beau.

Most of us, don’t get to see our babies until about 8 weeks of gestation, but I got to see my little guy from the very beginning. I love our journey. Sometimes chocolate can be bitter, but if it’s mixed with a cookie it’s sweet and rewarding.

The perks of motherhood just keep unfolding. Yesterday, I got my very own mom car. I traded in my Honda Civic for a beautiful 2019 Honda Pilot. It has every safety feature I could imagine and can hold up to 8 passengers. That’s room for like a lot of kids.

Giving up my Civic feels like the end of an era. It was such a reliable little car that hosted countless memories. It was my first “adult” car. I remember being so excited about it because the headlights were much brighter than the ones on my old Pontiac Sunfire. Oh and the heat worked, I felt so spoiled.

The Civic served me well during my reckless partying years. There were many times my friends and I would be in that car chasing Barcardi Raspberry with a gas station soda in the Mohegan sun parking garage before a night out at the casino. I got my first and only speeding ticket in the civic, although I had been pulled over a couple of times for going too fast. There’s just something exhilarating about watching the numbers climb on a digital speedometer. That car was great for girl’s nights because it had the four doors which made it easy if someone needed an abrupt puke break. There were times people tried to race me on the highway, assuming because I had a Honda, maybe I thought I was a race car driver. There was only a stock steroid system in that car, but it still had some base to it, enough for me to be heard while sitting at a stoplight which is exactly what I wanted. The Civic was such a great car for the person I was in my early twenties.

It was Max’s first car. He loved having free range of the back seat and being able to pace from window to window. I remember a friend telling me once that the only reason my white Honda Civic was distinct from the rest is because of the dog slobber on both back windows. The beige seats were forgiving of Max’s yellow fur and of course the dashboard was always covered in his hair and mine. It’s all blonde, so I could see no difference. Max and I shared many ice cream cones in that car together on cold February afternoons when it’s just not quite warm enough to eat outside. Max and I took the Civic on many joy rides with the same song blasting on repeat, driving down some of my favorite open roads with no where to be.

I’m so thrilled to have a new car, but getting rid of my old car feels like I shed a layer of myself. Now that I’m a mom, the only times I get to blast my radio are when the baby isn’t in the car and the only joy rides we go on are the ones around the neighborhood to get the baby to sleep. The crevices of my mint leather interior will soon be filled with Puffs and and pacifiers and the seats smeared with foot prints and spit up. When there is a girl’s night, my friends will have to find room amongst Beau’s car seat and all of his other accessories. His stuff serving as reminder that even when he’s not in the car with me, I still have a responsibility as his mom. Max won’t have the free range of the backseat that he was once used to, as Beau now vacates one of the windows. We could put Max in the third row, but he would go crazy not being able to drool on my shoulder.

I was so excited about the thought of getting a mom car that I didn’t realize how upset I might be about letting go of my “pre-mom” car. The Honda Civic represents who I was before I settled down and started a family. It embodies a young woman with few responsibilities and not a care in the world. I’ll miss that girl, but I’m really starting to the love the new one. I can’t wait to create new memories and a lasting bond with my Honda Pilot. It’s not just a car.

No, this was not sponsored by Honda, but it really should be.

Initially, I was not going to breastfeed. My reluctance stemmed from the notion that formula feeding is much less work and I wasn’t savvy on the idea of sharing my body with the baby beyond pregnancy. My husband wanted me to breastfeed because, yes, it’s better for the baby, but also cheaper and less work for dad…haha! Brandon and I compromised and I agreed to try to breastfeed as long as he kept a realistic approach. I didn’t want to feel pressured or completely defeated if it didn’t work out and I needed Brandon to be as understanding and supportive as possible.

As soon as Beau was born and placed on my chest, he started sucking on my neck. I joked in front of the doctors and said, “oh, he’s trying to give me kisses,” when I knew that he was really just looking for a boobie. This made my first attempt at breastfeeding a much easier process. Beau latched on without any issues and apparently that’s a huge win in the breastfeeding world. From then on, it was really up to me to find a comfortable feeding position and to provide the goods. Beau and I connected very quickly and by the time I left the hospital we were successfully breastfeeding.

The first few nights were devoid of sleep, but at least Beau was eating well. That was until one of my breasts became so engorged he couldn’t get any milk out of it. I knew the best way to address this problem was to express the milk, but I was intimidated by my breast pump and hadn’t even washed the parts yet. It wasn’t until my boob began to throb in pain, that I woke Brandon up and asked him to assemble my pump, because god knows I had no idea how to do it. Brandon put the pump together and I sat there with the directions trying to properly insert boob. I turned the pump on and within moments milk started filling up the bottle. Brandon sat there holding Beau with the dog at his feet and we all stared in fascination. I think Max’s jaw was on the floor. None of us could believe that milk was actually coming out of my boob. We all thought it was a myth. Eventually, Brandon and Beau went back to bed as I sat there feeling like a cow. Max remained with his jaw still on the floor.

Despite a few minor obstacles, I have continued to breast feed successfully. Although, our outings always seem to be confined to two to three hours because I know I have to get home to feed Beau and I am not quite ready to nurse in public. That’s for the experts. It literally feels like we travel with a ticking time bomb. It wasn’t until I discovered a manual breast pump that I felt some relief about taking Beau out for longer spans of time. The manual breast pump is great because you don’t need an outlet. I can pump in the truck and on the toilet, both of which I have done, don’t judge me. So, now we can pack bottles for Beau and I can pump on the go and avoid having to feed my baby on the toilet because that’s worse! Pumping in public is a little awkward though. Because chances are you’re doing it in a bathroom stall and there’s a line of women waiting to use the toilet and you’re holding up one of the stalls and for some reason the sound of your milk being expressed into a plastic bottle sounds extra loud. I’d rather be pooping.

Although, I haven’t whipped a boob out in public quite yet, I have breast fed in front of family and friends. Depending on the audience, I will use a cover. I was with family the other day and I was nursing Beau with the cover on. After my grandfather asked my grandma where Beau was, he asked me with sincere concern in his voice whether the baby could breathe under there or not. I assured my grandfather that Beau was fine so then he asked, “well, how much milk does one of those things hold anyway?” You want to talk about normalizing breastfeeding? Try having a conversation about it with your grandfather!

Despite my reluctance, I have grown to love breast feeding. Instead of collecting leggings or lipstick, I like to stockpile breast milk. Lately, my self worth is measured by the ounces of milk I have stored. Sometimes I like to open the freezer just to admire the pouches of neatly organized and labeled breast milk I have accrued. I think I enjoy breast feeding so much because it is a challenge and at first it was something I feared. Now I feel that every day my boy gets breastfed is a victory. I am proud of myself for giving it a chance and I never thought that I would love it never mind be writing a lengthy blog about it.

It’s only been eight short weeks since I crossed the threshold into motherhood, but I’ve gathered a lot of insight along my journey so far. Everyone is different so my experiences may very from other’s, but there are a few pieces of advice and truth that I wish were presented to me in the beginning.

First of all everyone is going to tell you to sleep when the baby sleeps and you being a novice at this mom thing are going to think that that actually happens or works. Yes, when your baby sleeps at night you should absolutely sleep. But sleeping during the day while your baby is snoozing is just about impossible. My son only takes naps at about 20 minute intervals, so unless I am completely depleted, that brief period of time is going to do me more harm than good. And truthfully, the only time Beau does nap is in the car or the carrier. Try laying down with a baby carrier on, it’s not going to work mama. I haven’t tried to nap in the car, but that’s another level of mom life that I haven’t approached yet. When Beau is napping, that’s my time to get shit done. I’ve learned to make the bed, fold the laundry, do the dishes and tidy the house in 20 minutes! That’s what my next heads up entails; time management.

You have to try to get your baby into a routine and stick to it. I hate how ridiculous I sound when I remind my husband that Tummy time is at 8:30, but really it’s so important. Tummy time is imperative for baby’s growth and development, but it’s also mommy’s chance to brush her teeth and to do something about the bags under her eyes. Beau will normally play on his mat for a good 20 minutes, are you noticing a pattern here? This kid is like clock work too, he’s knows when he has surpassed that 20 minute limit. That being said, I know that most days, I have will a small time slot to get ready and I need to make the most of that allowance. So once again, I have learned to do my hair and makeup, brush my teeth and get dressed in 20 minutes. I feel like I’m in the military.

Everyone scared me into thinking I wasn’t going to have time to shower. Oh, you’ll find the time to shower, just know that all you will hear while you’re in there is the baby crying even if he isn’t crying at all and you’ll peek out from the curtain every 2 minutes and at some point you’re going to have to get out of the shower with soapy hair because your baby is actually crying this time and he’s having a stage five melt down. And then when you’re husband comes home from work, you hand the baby off to him, pour a glass of wine and go lay down in the shower for 20 minutes because you earned it.

Another thing about hygiene, if you don’t brush your teeth and put on deodorant first thing in the morning, you won’t at all. This is especially true for those first few weeks. I couldn’t even believe the degree of body odor I allowed myself to retain. It’s embarrassing how comfortable I become with smelling so terribly. And it seemed that a simple task such as putting deodorant on couldn’t be accomplished because my priorities just weren’t on me at that point in time and that’s one true testament of becoming a mother. Brandon used to ask me half way through the day if I remembered to put deodorant on. It does get better I promise.

And that’s brings me to my final piece of advice. Take care of yourself! Do at least one thing each day for you. My daily reward is usually a vanilla chai from Starbucks. On the days I don’t make it out of the house, I’ll take an extra long shower or do something special with my hair that’s not a mom bun and take some selfies like I would before a night out with the girls. And pretty soon, I’ll get to go out with the girls for real and maybe even have a date with my husband, but in the meantime there’s baby steps. Every day I learn a little more and it gets a little easier. Motherhood is a unique experience for all of us, but at the end of the day it is just as rewarding.

I was so excited to go back to work. After being cooped up in the house for 7 weeks with a dog and a baby, I was craving some adult interaction and social stimulation. I couldn’t wait to not have a baby hanging off my boob every twenty minutes. I couldn’t wait to feel like the person I was before Beau was born. I only planned on going back for a few days at a time, so the thought of just having a brief break from my new life was comforting.

Today, I went back to work. Beau granted me a five hour stretch of sleep last night that made me feel I could conquer the world. I feel like I’m 21 again; going into work hung over on few hours of sleep. Because being a new mom feels a lot like a hang over. You’re tired and have a headache, but it was worth it.

I bought a special backpack specifically for my breast pump in an attempt to make pumping at work go as smoothly as possible. It almost felt like the first day of school as I finished packing my bag with mother’s milk tea and breast pads while a knot thrived in my stomach. Maybe going back to work wasn’t going to be as seamless as I had anticipated.

Of course as I went to pick Beau up to say goodbye, he looked at me with his bright brown eyes and shot me one of his award winning smiles. Why couldn’t he just cry or fuss to make this easier for me? Why did he have to be so damn cute just moments before I was leaving to be a free woman? After a few tears later, mine, not his, I was out the door and on my way to work.

After I got to work, my husband texted me and told me that I forgot all the parts to my breast pump on the drying rack next to the sink. Part of me thinks I subconsciously forgot them, just so he and the baby would have to come visit me at work. I find it funny that my breast pump backpack was filled to the top with shit I didn’t need while I forgot the important stuff at home. Mom brain.

Pumping at work was weird. I did it in the basement. It’s the only place with an outlet that’s not in the kitchen. Ironically enough, I should be able to pump my milk in a kitchen as it is a food, but I just don’t think that’s good for business. So I sat downstairs in a dank basement anxiously listening to the footsteps of customers and the clatter of dishes while trying to efficiently empty my boobs. I hate how I had to take time away from work to pump, but I figured that there’s times I’ve spent more time pooping than pumping so what’s the big deal.

I was starting to feel like I was getting into a groove. My first at work pump session was a success, my muscle memory of work tasks was kicking in and as far as daddy was letting me know, Beau was doing great. I was at a table talking to a customer for a few minutes and all of a sudden I could feel something dripping down my stomach. Oh no, I thought to myself, it’s not, it can’t be. I stood there idly half listening to the customer, but mostly trying to figure out if my boob was actually leaking and trying to stealthily look down to see if that was apparent through my shirt. The bad news is that I was leaking milk the good news is that I had a black sweatshirt on. This is the nightmare all breast feeding moms warn you about. This is the one thing you try to avoid. Needless to say, I need to stay away from the tables with crying babies.

The day carried on and many people inquired about the baby and myself. But there were some customers who were clearly not regulars that didn’t even seem to know that I just had a baby. Which is an amazing indirect compliment to me, because I was seriously bracing myself for the first person to ask when the baby was due after he was in fact born. Luckily, for me and for them, I dropped all of my pregnancy weight quickly. I couldn’t help but to feel unfairly offended by the people who did not ask how my baby was. How did they not know that I just had a son? Did they miss the parade in town in his honor? I mean it was a big event. At least in my eyes it was. I thought I was eager to get my identity back and be who I was pre pregnancy, but I soon realized that I’ve been exactly who I want to be; Beau’s mom. That’s who I want to be known as now. Going back to work and visiting the old me, made me realize that I’ve never been a better version of myself. I’m not afraid to admit that being a mom is the best part of me.

I only plan on working part time right now, but I would say day one was a success. I mean I got the most embarrassing scenario out of the way already, so it can only get better from here. That and I learned that absence does make the heart grow fonder. I couldn’t wait to go home and be my favorite thing in this world; Beau’s mom.

Beau and I had our first outing today. Of course, we went to the official playground of moms, Target. A trip to Target can be a daunting task for any mom with the kids in tow, never mind a first time mom who has not yet left the house with her child alone.

I decided that I wasn’t going to fuss with the baby stroller and I put Beau’s car seat in the basket of a shopping cart. I’ve seen other mom’s do that, so it seemed like the right thing to do.

The first task of our mission was to achieve a venti hot vanilla chai from Starbucks. As we were standing in line, Beau fixated a piercing scowl on me. A face that I could imagine myself seeing ten years from now as I drag him through Target against his will for the millionth time. A few people peeked in his car seat and said, “oh how little!” And then I began to wonder, is he too little to be in public just yet? After a moment of self doubt, I realized that my sanity far outweighed my guilt and we were on our way.

Brandon and I have been to Target with Beau countless times, and not once has he cried. But what better way to initiate me into the mom’s of Target club than by having a mini meltdown. I mean he was red in the face inconsolably crying. At that point in time, I wish I could have bribed him with a cake pop or with a game on my phone. Damn, I can’t use those tricks yet. So I really impressed myself with what I did next. I looked up “white noise” on Apple Music on my phone. I then put the phone close to Beau’s ear and it slowly lulled him into a state of tranquility. #momhack! This is and will continue to be a life saver. Now I’m really wishing we just put an iPhone on the baby registry like we planned to.

Now that I’m a mom, I find myself checking out the other moms. I feel like a little kid, trying to copy and learn from the big kids. How do other mom’s carry their kids in the store or handle the melt downs? I noticed one mom with her three year old son in a carrier on her back. He was playing on her phone completely oblivious to the world and she was filling her shopping car, presumably numb to and also oblivious of the 30 pounds she was carrying around behind her. Another mom had one kid in her arm and one in the cart. Oh my god, yes. If I want more kids, I’ll have to bring them all into target. I can barely manage the diaper bag and Beau. How do all these moms make it look so easy? Am I making it look easy too or do I look like a beginner? This is when I decided I needed to leave the store before my 2 hour time frame was up and Beau needed to be fed again.

I would say our first solo Target trip was a success. I didn’t lock the baby in the car, I got to drink something hot for once and I didn’t spend any money because frankly, I couldn’t fit anything in the cart.

Small victories my friends.

Before there was Beau, there was Max. Max is the type of dog who doesn’t miss Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house and gets a homemade cake every year on his birthday. So, you can imagine my apprehension about presenting a threat such as a tiny human into Max’s perfect little world . All of the parenting books will advise you how to go about introducing a pet to your new bundle of joy, but none of them can accurately prepare you for the reality that is to unfold.

Whenever I use my breast pump, Max stands at my feet with his mouth agape in astonishment and confusion. He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes, as if I’m going to sneak him some breast milk under the table like it’s scrap food. It’s normally a race between him and I to see who will clean the remnants of milk off of Beau’s face after a feeding. Max always seems to find the breast pads that have fallen out of my bra and by the time I realize that I’ve lost one, he has already taken shelter in a corner where he can secretly devour it. I would be lying if I said that Max hasn’t licked my boob a time or two. This is probably why I often find dog hair on my nipple and in Beau’s poopy diapers.

Max delights in the fact that Beau’s socks are bite size. The baby’s hamper is like a candy jar as it’s full of burp clothes covered in spit up and onesies that just barely survived a blow out.

Despite having a tub overflowing with dog toys, I always find Max with a plush baby blue rattle hanging out of his mouth. Max also seems to think that Beau’s activity mat is his and he’ll normally rest his head in a puddle of drool as he naps on it. Beau’s pacifier always goes missing because Max is harboring it in his mouth just waiting for someone to notice so they’ll chase him around the house for it.

Max has made it just about impossible for Brandon and I to stand by our first time parent virtues of eliminating germs and maintaining sanitary conditions for our delicate little new born. I think in a way, he has helped us become better parents. Max reminds us that babies are resilient little creatures that are absolutely not as cute as him.