Child Proofing Makes You THIN

I have been exaggerating for months that my son can walk.

At almost 18-months old he crawls faster than most golf carts, but he

shows little to no interest in being a biped.

I wasn’t pushing him into it; I rather enjoy the killer biceps (on the left arm anyway) from lugging

around a 26-pounder.
Two nights ago however, Baby Boy got up and walked across the room

like he had never done

otherwise.

Darling Husband and I looked at each other not with gleaming pride

but the

exhausted horror in knowing that we finally

had to baby proof.
We dusted off the child proof kit we purchased when we heard moms brag that

"My Darling

started walking at 9 months! He didn't even crawl!"

Knowing Baby Boy was way more brilliant and physically advanced

than these crabs we

bought the kit that guaranteed he wouldn't open a cabinet or door until he was 10.

Yet, as the months ticked by and he stayed eye level with the dog,

we forgot about the kit and started coming up with white lies about all

the crazy things he

was getting into now that he was “officially” a walker.

“Yes, I’m right there with you Sara,” my eyes darting around the room for objects

that might hold appeal to a toddler.

“If I had a nickel for every time I have to pry the faux Ming Dynasty tureen

from his sticky little grasp.”

Now the lies were back to haunt us.

The first red flag should have been that we couldn't even open

the damn package.

I ended up slitting my wrist across the angry plastic covering as

Darling Husband stormed

off to get the box cutter.

Hours later we had baby proofed everything in the house.

Unfortunately, when all

we wanted

to do was celebrate with a margarita, we couldn't figure out how to

remove

the fancy lock from the liquor cabinet.

The next morning, I forgot the fridge and freezer doors

were locked together and

their combined force slammed into my forehead when I went in for milk.

My mother-in-law was locked out and the dog was locked in.

No one could unlatch the toilet lid locks resulting in some humiliated

dinner guests.

We had adult-proofed the damn house while my son could

easily still slip his small wrist

into the cabinet to crank the

volume on the stereo and slide underneath the gate blocking entry to the kitchen.

He held much glee in our panicked faces as he dumped the slimy dog water, yet again,

over his head.

After a few days of starving and peeing on the floors, we removed (with force)

all the baby proofing gizmos.

So we didn't feel too negligent, I grabbed a thick Sharpie and

wrote "WATER" over all the Vodka and Gin bottles.

At least now it's Grandpa-Proofed.

Giant Pile of Shirt

As mothers we wear lots of different hats--chef, cleaning lady, teacher, kiddie stylist, lady of the night...In doing so, we tend to neglect everything from the brow on down. Today's Sexy Naptime tip is to start gutting your closets and drawers. I finally dumped everything on the floor and forced myself to sift. I have shirts from college that I didn't wear then, so heaven knows what I am clinging to. My plan is to keep and toss in a 1 to 1 ratio. 

Those giant yellow Planet Aid bins everywhere makes it easier to part with stuff. I keep telling myself those cute African kids NEED my old Polo tees and LL Bean sweaters. A lot of the things I have are slutty frocks from my husband searching days. Even with all the nostalgia attached to my white spandex pants, they are heading to Kenya. Maybe it will inspire Madonna to adopt the 13-year old that gets them. 

I love XCVI's linen pants. They are sexy while being user friendly. I was wearing them the other day with a black tunic and my mother, who used to tell me I dressed like a French hooker (at least I was European), said, "It is so nice to finally see you dressing like a mother."

Whaaaaaat? Sorting through my mountain of clothes now, I see I have indeed started wearing things that don't even know what "Dry Clean Only" means. And I love, love fashion. I watch The Rachel Zoe Project like it is porn. But I can't be spending hundreds of dollars on clothes every season when we have college to pay for. I will say, when my brilliant Baby gets a full scholarship to Dartmouth, I am flying straight to Paris and Milan and blowing his American Funds account on Chanel and Stella McCartney. 

So as I part with bags of clothes, I am starting to feel cleansed. From my old life, I am keeping all my shoes and bags, a classic St. John LBD, crisp white shirt, some vintage cocktail dresses and my Hudson wide legs jeans--classics. Everything else doesn't fit in with finger painting, family hikes and bathing the dog. I am now 95% "off the rack" 

If all this means I am finally dressing like a mom, I hope it is one that can still channel her inner French prostitute so she can justify keeping her Christian Louboutin shoes--I don't think the Planet Aid people would quite know where to send those.