Best Dollar You'll Ever Spend (disclaimer: gross exaggeration)

My book is on Amazon!

Expect This: A pregnancy memoir

Once a formally anti-kids couple decides to chuck their birth control and go for it, this mom-to-be soon learns that pregnancy isn't all about playing Mozart to your stomach and glowing. Along with relentless nausea, unleashed emotions, and interfering bystanders, Heather learns to deal with her fear; fear of her body changing, of her shifting identity, and the fear of having to be responsible for another living being.

Author: Heather Slee

Price: $0.99

Buy it now!

FAQ

1. Why should I buy this? 

The book is all about my pregnancy, so it's new stuff to you. And it's kind of funny. And it's short-- only 60 pages or so. And it's cheap.

2. It's only available electronically. What if I don't have a Kindle?

You can download the Kindle Reader for PC for free. This way, you can pretend to be working on something important on the computer, when you're actually reading my book and taking a break from your chaos.

3. Why is it only a dollar? Does it suck?

Because it's short (60 pages or so) and only available electronically, which can be kind of a pain for some. Also, "suck" is a relative term. However, here are things that cost around one dollar that rule, and are more fleeting than a book:

• Dollar menu french fries at McDonald's
• Two tries at a skill crane game
• A Diet Coke from the fountain
• Paddle board from the Target dollar aisle 
• Two songs from a jukebox (suckiness may vary)

Bathing Ritual

"Noonie, is it bath time?"

"No. NO BATH."

"Splish splash?"

"NO SPISH PASH."

"Scrubba-dub-dub?"

"NO."

Sigh. "Do you want to get naked?"

"YES. Naked!"

She happily lets me take off her clothes and we go into the bathroom, where the tub is already filled with water, and her toys are all lined up on the edge of the tub. Then she pushes each one in the tub, laughing and screaming, "Whee!"

"I go in tub. Diaper off."

"Okay, honey... okay, count for me!"

"One, two, fwee, four!"

I lift her into the tub and she giggles. I start wetting her hair down with a wet washcloth.

"NO, MOMMY. Hold dis." She gives me a toy. Then her toy and my toy have a conversation (sort of) about taking turns jumping off the side of the tub into the water. Her toy wants to go first and won't let other toy have a turn. I try to make it a teachable moment, and she makes a sound that makes me dread the day she learns how to roll her eyes.

I try to wash her hair.

"NO, MOMMY. Hold dis." She gives me her ducky and takes her purple octopus, which is like a little cup with holes in it. She fills it up and lets the water come out like a tiny shower. Now I am to put Ducky under it.

"Rain, rain!" she screeches.

"Oh, no! I need an umbrella!"

She puts a little red cup over Ducky's head and laughs hysterically.

This little skit repeats for a minimum of ten times.

I try to wash her.

"NO, MOMMY. Hold dis." She hands me a seahorse and she holds a blue whale. Blue Whale squirts Seahorse.

"Oh, no! Blue Whale squirted me! You are so naughty, Blue Whale!"

She laughs hysterically and tries to fill up the whale with water, unsuccessfully.

"Mommy, you do it."

I fill up the whale and the little skit repeats about ten times or so.

Now it's time to rinse. At this point I have semi-successfully fit in washing hair and body. I stand up.

"NO, MOMMY!"

"It's time to rinse!"

I turn on the faucet and take down the shower head. Then I push the plunger and the shower head springs to life.

"Who's turn is it?" It makes her feel better to throw one of her toys under the bus first.

"Ducky!"

Ducky gets rinsed.

"Now who's turn?"

"Tuttle."

Turtle gets rinsed.

"Now it's Noonie's turn!"

The torture of hair-rinsing ensues, and I pull the tub plug. Norah starts desperately flinging her toys out of the tub, soaking me and the rug. I think she thinks they're going to get sucked down. After her "fwiends" are safe, she stands and says, "Noonie."

I lift her up and she shivers. I put the big towel around her and she turns to the drain, making sucking noises.

"Bye, bubbles!"

"Bye, bubbles."

This is a minimum of 30 minutes. If we add bath paint or bath crayons, it's easily 45, and somewhere in between we have to add more warm water.

But I love it!

Suck It

Nuks, that is. Pacifiers, binkies, whatever. These cute little plastic plugs seem to inspire some hostile attitudes in some people.

Daycare frowns upon nuks. I can sort of understand that policy, because toddlers don't seem to understand how germs are spread and that it's socially unacceptable to take something out of someone's mouth and put it in your own.

Family members make a sour face and yank it out of the kid's mouth, invariably saying, "You don't need that."

Strangers make passive-aggressive comments.

Me (at a store): "Norah, can you say thank you?"

Norah: "Tank you."

Clerk: "Aww.. I heard her. ...Through her plug."

So why am I the only person who isn't disgusted by my two-year-old using a pacifier occasionally? Am I just a pathetic enabler?

For what it's worth, I've read plenty about the subject. I've read plenty about every subject involving babies and toddlers. Mostly because I freely admit that I'm an idiot and need a special amount of studying to just keep me from being harmful. I know that the American Association of Pediatrics recommends that you ditch the nuk at two. Nuk usage at two may mess us baby teeth. And nuk usage at three and above may mess up permanent teeth. I am concerned with this.

I also know the theoretical arguments, such as nuks impede speech development. Norah is a crazy talker, though, and I'm not very concerned about that.

So, what are the benefits of a nuk?

*crickets*

Um, okay. It's soothing. That's all I've got. Sucking is the first soothing strategy a human learns. Before nuks were invented, babies sucked their fingers and hands, and of course their food source. Sucking is a calming force. That's why nuks were invented.

I guess I'm a little hesitant to take it away because of this. Her soothing mechanism. When she's upset, she wants nuk. When she's sleepy, nuk. And I give it to her. I want to make her happy. I don't want to be the cause of her angst. I don't want to force her to face her nuk addiction. Maybe it's because I smoked for so many years, and I know what it's like to quit. I don't know.

Anyway, we're establishing a new rule: Nuks Are For Nigh-Nighs. Of course, if she's completely freaking out about something, like we only let her brush her teeth for 20 minutes, and she screaming and begging for the nuk, we'll probably give it to her. I don't want to be a total hardass about this. But for the majority of the time, Nuks Are For Nigh-Nighs.

But if you see a toddler with a nuk when you're out grocery shopping or whatever, and you feel the urge to spout off some judgmental bullshit, try to restrain yourself. Think about what the toddler is doing to the nuk. That's right. Suck it.

Norah's Favorite Things

Sometimes I forget that this place is not just for venting. I also want to preserve the good memories of this age, because I will clearly be repressing a lot of memories (sleepless nights, ear infections, explosive... well, you know), and who knows how repression really works. I don't want to lose something adorable. So here's a list of Norah's favorite things as of now, at two years and two months.

1. Bear Bear, blanket.
2. Books: Big Cat, Big Hat, Sharing Time, and Goodnight Farm.
3. TV: Dora the Explorer, Wonder Pets, and The Cat in the Hat.
4. Pretending Ryan and I are her cats, and we crawl around and meow and get into mischief she she can scold us ("No eat that, Kitty! That's yucky!").
5. Playing house/zoo animals.
6. Owls.
7. Songs: Sugarland's "Stuck Like Glue," Black Eyed Peas, "I Gotta Feelin," and "Where is Thumbkin?"
8. Food: fish sticks dipped in applesauce, noodles, and happy days (sweets).
9. Playing nest (we construct a nest out of a large blanket and pretend we're either birds or we catch birds flying around the living room).
10. The moon.
11. First swear: "Goddamn it." (Heh heh- it was Ryan, not me)
12. Jumping in her crib.
13. Washing hands and brushing teeth (specially with her new Scooby-Do brush).
14. Play-doh.
15. Art projects.
16. Hide-and-seek (her version of it, anyway).
17. Minta (her friend, Samantha).
18. Bath paints, bath crayons.
19. Catching snowflakes on her tongue.
20. Her family.

That's all for now! I'm sure there's much more. She loves life.

Signs You're Getting Old

• You watch Rent and think, "Get a job, you lazy bastards." 
• Your child goes to bed early and you're excited because you either get to A) finish washing that load of dishes B) watch a TV show in primetime, or C) also go to bed. 
• You hear Lady Gaga's newest release and think, "Madonna really shouldn't mess with her classic hits."
• You tsk-tsk your neighbor for rolling in at 10 pm with their car stereo blasting. And it probably woke you up.
• You see another grey hair and don't even bother yanking it out.
• You catch part of The Breakfast Club on TBS and now you kind of relate to the principal. Those entitled little brats don't know what it means to have a hard life. Except Judd Nelson's character.
• You are blasting "The Banana Song" in your Subaru Outback and you don't even think to be embarrassed. And you're singing along, too. 
• Your big weekend activity? Shopping at Target. And maybe stopping by Playland afterwards, if Target wasn't too draining.
• You can't sit on the floor with the kid for long periods of time. And then when you go to get up, you need to brace yourself against something and you audibly groan. 
• You buy shoes based on comfort and versatility.
• Same with bras.
• You have a night out and a sitter willing to stay late, but instead of dinner or a movie or cocktails, you really just want to hide somewhere and nap.
• You start thinking song lyrics are inappropriate and start questioning freedom of speech. 
• You wonder what the hell happened to My Little Ponies and Barbie and Strawberry Shortcake. They look weird as hell.
• You start regretting that tattoo on your foot. 
• You think, hey, my music collection is still pretty hip. The 90s weren't that long ago. 

Labels

Everyone labels people. You may think you're a good person, but if you see a 30-something male wearing skinny jeans, you think "Hipster." If you see an elderly person shopping for toys and candy, you think "Grandparent." If you see a kid stealing toys from other kids on the playground and pushing and hitting, you think "Bully." And you might even think "Assholes" about the kid's parents.

And you may even label your own kid. If you're like me, the labels for your kids are "Go-getter," "Brain," "Beauty," and "Perfect." So when someone labels your kid in a different manner, you stop.

I went to pick up Norah from school the other day, and as I picked up her daily report card, I noticed it again read that she'd not eaten her lunch.

"Norah, no lunch today?"

She didn't answer, and instead showed me the toy she had been playing with. I stooped down and inspected it with her.

The teach responded, "Yeah, she's kind of a... picky eater."

I just looked at her. My daughter? A picky eater? My brain fought to answer politely.

"She kind of goes through phases. We're working on it," I smiled tightly.

I gathered up the kid and her stuff and we headed out. But my mind kept replaying it over and over.

"She's kind of a... picky eater." (echo: eater... eater... eater...)

Now, I know full well that Norah is selective in what she eats. Der. I feed her occasionally. I am very aware of it, especially since she used to eat anything given to her: beans, broccoli, artichoke, squash, books, crayons, anything. Then she slowly began refusing food. First it was broccoli. I vividly remember her pinching a piece with her thumb and forefinger, removing it from her plate, and saying, "Blech." I was surprised.

"Honey. It's just broccoli."

"Blech."

Then other foods were rejected. Her menu options were getting slimmer and slimmer. I didn't want to foster this behavior and started reading websites and going through a couple of my go-to books, Toddler 411 and A Guide to the Toddler Years. They recommended to keep offering. I kept offering, while also including one item I knew (hoped) she still liked, but the rejected food remained untouched.

Now the only vegetables that I can get in her are canned peas (yes, canned) and sweet corn, if you can even count that as a vegetable. Meat? Fish sticks. (Not that I care about the meat aspect, but the protein is important.) Thankfully she still likes a few fruits, and of course she eats starches like rice and noodles, like every other toddler.

So why was I startled at the label "Picky Eater?"

"Picky Eater" conjures up images of a spoiled brat. A delicate little flower. A willful child. And parents who kowtow to every urge or whim of their child. This is not my child and this is not me. Norah is very happy and spirited. She tries new things all the time, without fear or even hesitancy. She's tough, not delicate. And, yes, I joke about my little perfect angel being a little perfect angel, but I'm not delusional. I joke about our house rules, but we're not permissive people who don't impose boundaries on our child. And I don't want people to think these negative generalizations about us based on one small aspect of our lives. The label "Picky Eater" grates at my nerves because it seems to attack our very essence.

Labels are tough. You can't help but label. I think it's in our DNA, to help us survive.

Caveperson: "Ug. That animal has pointy teeth and is looking at me. Must run away now."

But I think next time I see a kid push Norah out of the way so he can go down the slide first, instead of automatically thinking "Little Jerk," maybe I'll just take it at face value. The kid wants to slide really bad and at this particular moment, isn't thinking about taking turns. There's no other explanation for skinny jeans on men, though. Hipsters.

House Rules

We haven't really done any kind of disciplining yet. From all the books and websites I've read about the subject, it appears that the average recommended age for beginning discipline is 2. Norah's 2. But I honestly don't think she'd get the whole concept of a time out.

But it's not as if we have marshall law here. We have pretty strict house rules. Here they are. They are not in order and are subject to change.

1. We don't eat floor food.
2. No Michael Jackson music while Daddy's home.
3. Only food, nuks, and toothbrushes in the mouth.
4. No jumping on the couch while brushing teeth.
5. Three toothpaste refills, max.
6. Mittens must be worn if snow is handled.
7. Magic word usage enforced.
8. We do not play piano with our butts.
9. Bubbles are an outside activity.
10. No throwing toys. Except balls. And paper airplanes.
11. No hitting, kicking, biting, etc.
12. Clothes must be worn outside the house.
13. No Caillou.
14. Crayons, paint, ink, and other media belongs on paper.
15. Mommy is not allowed to cut hair.