Raising a Baby is like Picking Produce

When I was little, my mother would take me grocery shopping with her. I remember sitting in the cart as she pushed it through the store, and if she ever walked away a little too far for comfort because it was easier just to walk over and grab something than it was to push the whole cart over, I would start to get antsy. I still remember passing the bakery section of the supermarket, and if there were cookies out on the display case, she would get me one. I think subconsciously, I've had memories of that supermarket ingrained in my head because it has reappeared in my dreams and I can still remember the layout of the store almost to the tee. It's now a Home Depot. Bonus points to anyone who knows which supermarket I'm referring to. But now I digress.

I distinctly remember watching my mother pick produce at the grocery store. She'd pick up an apple, examine it, and either put it back down, or put it in the bag to purchase. I'd watch her do this for tomatoes, oranges, lettuce, and just about all the fruits and vegetables. In my mind, it was magical. My mother had the magical touch and knew exactly which ones to buy and which ones to put back. I wondered when I would develop this magical touch and be able to do the same.


Fast forward about 15 years to my junior/senior year of college. I was living in an apartment for the first time in my life, and I was doing my own grocery shopping. Sure, I'd driven to the grocery store before ever since I had gotten my driver's license, but that was to pick up the occasional teenage want: snacks, drinks, or one specific item. This was trying to meal prep for a week, shop on a budget, and be wise in my spending.

My roommate and I would go grocery shopping together since she didn't have a car and our schedules were similar enough that we could carve out this time on most Saturday mornings together. As I found myself pushing my own cart through the produce aisles of the grocery store, I ran through what I knew in my head: look at the produce, feel the produce, smell the produce, and make a decision. I carefully picked up and examined apples, oranges, broccoli, tomatoes, etc. Some I put in my bag to purchase. Some I placed back. But it felt different. I didn't feel the magical touch I saw in my mother as a young child. There was no magical touch. She simply looked at the produce, felt the produce, smelled the produce, and made a decision.

In my year living the apartment life in Austin, I bought some bad apples, I bought some vegetables with bugs in them, I threw out some rotten tomatoes, and life went on. I may not distinctly remember my mother throwing out any bad fruit or vegetables, but I can almost guarantee that she picked more than a few bad ones in her numerous grocery trips as well.

I feel the same way now about my daughter. Watching all my friends and other mothers who have children, they made it look so easy and effortless. Crying? Needs a diaper changed. Different cry? It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? 4 ounces. How long should she sleep? She'll be awake in about 3 hours. It always seemed like they knew exactly what to do and how to do it.

Me? I feel like a complete mess right now. Crying? I think it's the diaper. Or maybe not. She's still crying. Darn, it wasn't the diaper. It's time to eat. How much milk should I make the bottle for? Let's try 2 ounces. Oh she wants more. Give her another ounce. Wait this time she didn't finish her 2 ounces. Why didn't she finish? How long should she sleep? I think I have about 3 hours. Why is she waking up after 1.5? She's supposed to be sleeping still!

Is this a cry? Or a yawn? 

Of course, I never spent a complete 24 hours with any of my friends and their babies, and I'm positive that only the cute pictures and sweet moments make it on social media. (Okay, some of the unglamorous truth might make it onto social media as well, but only if it elicits a laugh.) And it's only been 3 weeks so I should really cut myself some slack.

If it's one thing I know for sure, raising a baby is like picking produce: there's no magical touch. You simply look at her facial expression, feel for body temperature (and then actually use a thermometer), smell the diaper, and make a decision. And of course, the only thing being tossed out are foul-smelling diapers.

The Blue Bathrobe

I grew up being told "no" to a lot of the things I wanted. I still remember the fiasco at Walmart over a pair of shoes when I was a child - I didn't get them in the end because I simply just wanted my parents to stop arguing in the store. I remember the numerous Barbie toys I never received because I was told I didn't need them - I really didn't. But the ones I received, I kept very well: no ripped stickers, all pieces intact, and let me tell you, there are some very small pieces to keep track of. They will be passed on to my daughter if she cares to play with them. I'll make sure she takes good care of them as well. But there was one thing I somehow managed to convince my mother to buy me - a blue bathrobe.

I don't remember how we got this catalog mailed to us advertising women's apparel. My mother didn't care to buy clothes at all and I had just entered the double digits. I loved flipping through magazines and advertisements to see the photographs and pictures though. I flipped through this one and a blue bathrobe caught my eye. It was the perfect shade of blue that spoke to me, a luscious, rich shade of baby blue. The robe was placed on a satin hanger of similar hue, which to an emerging teenager, sealed the deal of luxurious. Clearly their advertising was working perfectly on me.

I asked my mother for this bathrobe and showed her the item in the catalog. She didn't nix my request immediately, but she was extremely hesitant to purchase the item. I somehow managed to convince her that the robe would be ideal for me to have in the winter months because of how cold it was, and I could wear it around the house at night and stay warm until I went to sleep. The robe was $20. I'm assuming shipping was free with a minimum purchase. I can't imagine her buying it with added shipping charges.

Once the robe arrived, I was slightly disappointed. The color did not match the one from the catalog. It was more of an aqua or robin's egg blue - still a nice color, but not the one that spoke to me from the magazine image. And there was no satin hanger included. The luxury factor suddenly dropped immensely, and it was simply a bathrobe.

As I told my mother in my original reasoning, I did wear it around the house for a while in the winter during the evenings. It was nice and warm. However, the sleeves got in the way of everything I did because I was a tiny little pre-teen wearing a women's bathrobe. After a short-lived use, it was relegated to my closet on a regular plastic hanger.

When I got married, I moved the blue bathrobe with me to our apartment. I can't remember how many times I actually wore it, but it came with me. And when we moved into our house, it moved with me again as well. Nearly 15 years later, this bathrobe has come full circle again and served the most purpose it has ever in my years of ownership in the last 6 months. As last winter slowly came upon us, I realized none of my bath towels were big enough to dry off quickly during pregnancy to avoid the after-shower-chills. And of course, being bulky meant moving slower and more carefully.

Enter blue bathrobe. It was large enough to cover the majority of my body to stay warm (because I'm still a tiny grown person) and doubled up as a towel to dry off faster. Who knew an impulsive buy with somewhat silly reasoning approximately 15 years ago would be one of the best pregnancy must-haves in my opinion which I didn't even plan for?

I don't think I could have nearly justified those pair of shoes I never received or all the Barbie toys I missed out on growing up. But I'm glad this was one purchase my mother decided to buy for me.

My blue bathrobe. Still on a plastic hanger. 

"Beautiful Girl, You Can Do Amazing Things"

She likes to bend her legs. This 0-3 footie is
also too large for her. Oops.

Our little girl is a week old! I can't believe it. I also can't believe I'm not pregnant anymore. I haven't really had time to think about and process it because there's a lot more to postpartum recovery than I imagined. Of course, experiencing it first-hand now is quite the eye-opener.

We wanted a spring birthday baby because most of our special occasions are celebrated in the fall. Lump that with all the holidays that the fall and winter bring, it's a pretty loaded season of celebrating already. But her birthday is slightly bittersweet for me. She was born on the day my grandfather died. I didn't plan it to be that way, but that's kind of how everything lined up. Her actual due date was a Wednesday. I wanted to give her as much time as possible to come naturally without having to induce. However, my doctor's on-call day is Tuesday, so I figured I'd schedule for the Tuesday after her due date to induce if she wasn't ready on her own. It just happened to be April 3rd. My doctor didn't even end up delivering her because she got caught up in a C-section at a different hospital, but that's another story.

She's goofy like her daddy. She also has his appetite.

My grandfather spoiled me growing up. My mother didn't let him buy me the moon and the stars, but he spoiled me with his attention. It was kind of inevitable. I was his youngest daughter's daughter and his only granddaughter. But even more important than being spoiled, my grandfather saw something special in me.

On one occasion after school as an 11 or 12-year-old when I was eating a snack, he walked over and asked my grandmother, “Which do you think has more nutritional value, cooked carrots or raw carrots?”

My grandmother responded, “Well, of course raw carrots. What kind of a question is that? It’s common sense.” My grandfather looked over to me and posed the same question.

“What do you think?”



“Well, since you’re asking this question, I think it’s cooked carrots, otherwise you wouldn’t ask such a question if the answer was so obvious.” After hearing my response, my grandfather smiled and nodded.

“This girl is smart. She really knows something.”

I feel that way about my daughter, not simply because she is my daughter, but because she has already displayed so much strength and character. From the very beginning, she showed herself a fighter. We renovated our bathroom last fall and did the demolition ourselves. Once I found out I was pregnant, I did the math and realized she was about 3 weeks old when I was slashing away at our bathroom. At the time, I knew my energy levels were different and my body was sending me different signals than the first time we renovated a bathroom, but I didn't think much about it because I knew it was very labor intensive work and just took it slightly easier.

This was at 39 weeks. (We'll just say 40 for the record because
I didn't get much bigger after this photo was taken.)
I could still get away with larger non-maternity tops in my
existing wardrobe. Please excuse the mess.

Starting at my 28 week pregnancy visit, my doctor had me go in for extra ultrasounds because I always measured small. Okay, to be fair, I looked really small my entire pregnancy.

At my last few doctor's appointments, she kept telling me I was measuring small but that was normal for my size and I was just making a small baby. Well, she came out just ounces shy of 8 pounds. She was a week late...but she would have been perfectly sized still if she came on time. It's too bad my doctor wasn't the one who delivered her. I would have really wanted to see her reaction when the nurse read her birth weight off the scale after delivery.










We tried to stay as minimal as possible with her nursery decor and preparations, but as with all things "first," we still went above and beyond in small ways. I've never been one to buy wall art as decoration just to have, but her nursery wall is one where we actually did purchase a few pieces.

We purchased three pieces for her wall and I made the other two, not specifically
intending to put them on a nursery wall, but it just happened to work out that way.

The frame in the middle says "beautiful girl, you can do amazing things." I believe she will. She already has. I'm really blessed to be able to call her my daughter, and I can't wait to watch her grow up and do the amazing things she will.