Little girl’s been pretty drooly for the past couple of months. She’s also ferociously gumming anything she can stuff into her mouth. It seemed a bit early to me, but it’s hard to argue with such signals.

Then last weekend, at five months and one week, her first tooth broke through. Bottom right. The second one, right next to it, appeared a couple of days later. Do you think it’s a coincidence that on that very night, she finally and mercifully slept until 4 AM? 4 AM, you guys! She celebrated with a magnificent blowout, which necessitated a complete wipedown and outfit change, followed by over an hour of uninterrupted screeching, cooing and kicking. While I, personally, would prefer a celebration that involved MORE SLEEP, I’ll take it. It was actually pretty cute.

Which leads us to something that’s the opposite of cute. Our sweet, gentle little two-year-old has taken to frustrated explosions, wherein he’ll thrash and scratch and scream like a, well, like a two-year-old.

But sometimes, there is biting. He’ll be so obviously bursting with emotion, over a “no,” or a naptime, or a similar shift in his world that’s not to his liking, and he’ll clench his teeth and growl and come at you, clearly intent on chomping down. Hard.

At first Clint was his sole (and intermittent) target. Eventually, I was fair game, too. We dealt with each bite as it happened, depending on that moment’s state of mind, mostly trying to minimize our reactions, because we figured that negative attention is attention. Things escalated.

Finally, about a week ago, he bit me so incredibly hard that I lost it. Declared I’d had enough and that this was going to stop. Sure, I hated getting hurt. But even more frustrating was watching my little guy’s emotions continue to boil up and over, and not being able to help. Clearly we needed a new tactic. Or, more accurately, a tactic, period.

That night, after a flurry of Googling, I wrote on a piece of paper: “We don’t bite. Biting hurts.” I set it on the kitchen island, so Clint and I could commit it to memory. From there on out, whenever Roy bit (or tried to bite) one of us, we looked him in the eye and calmly and firmly said it: “We don’t bite. Biting hurts.” Then we plopped him on the nearest chair and told him he could get up when he was ready with an apology and a kiss.

I noticed a few things. 1) I was easily able to stay calm, because I knew exactly how to respond. 2) Roy almost always apologized immediately and genuinely. 3) Within just a day or two, the biting all but stopped. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to type “all but” in that sentence, but again, I’ll take it. Perfection doesn’t seem to have much of a place in parenting.

Too bad this tactic doesn’t work on infants, though. Those two jagged little whitecaps hurt!

And then I didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for another month and thought, What the hell? Let’s give it a shot.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have an eater:

Rice cereal went over well last weekend. She’s still deciding about banana, which we sampled this week. Avocado and sweet potato, purchased today, are next in line. It’s a new era.

Part of my hesitancy last time was that feeding a baby in a manner that did not involve simply attaching her to my boob sounded like so much work. Choosing the right foods, plus the right amounts, plus watching for allergies, plus using the correct BPA-free eating equipment, plus choosing a proper eating space, plus finding the time, plus cleaning up a new mess. And so on. The “eating thing” loomed, ready to topple what little hard-won confidence about kid-having we’d finally established those first few months.

Once we dove in, it was actually pretty fun. We made our own food. Roy and I would cruise the local farmers’ market for in-season possibilities, then drag the haul home, where Clint and I would cook and puree it, then freeze the leftovers in ice cube trays for future use. We’ll do the same for Vera.

Hopefully she’ll show her appreciation by sleeping through the damn night.

When did you introduce solids? Why?

Here are my key toilet-training takeaways thus far.

1) (Don’t) Push to Start. Too much, that is. I admit, I didn’t like the idea of having two in diapers. But more important than that, Roy had shown an interest in using the big potty for a very long time. In fact, he’d almost trained himself months earlier. My hunch was that making it an Official Fun Event would psych him up for making the plunge. It did. But it was still hard. I can’t imagine what it would be like with serious resistance.

2) Start Strong. We made getting him to the potty the focus of every waking moment over a long weekend. For three straight days, we pumped him full of liquids, made frequent potty trips, and enthusiastically cheered each success. We didn’t leave the house the first day, went on only a short walk the second and took a longer walk on the third. This tactic very clearly laid the groundwork for what was to come, while showing Roy that he was well equipped to handle it.

3) Go Naked. Roy spent those three days naked below the belt so he could easily potty on his own and quickly turn accidents around. We continued the nakedness at home for weeks after that. Now, months later, he wears shorts or underwear, but rarely both. We’re getting there.

4) Keep Rewards Simple. We started out with different amounts of fruit snacks for #1 and #2 as well as an elaborate sticker chart that earned him larger prizes. It was too much. Choose a reward that’s simple, quick and highly motivating for your kid. If it’s not something sugary to eat, even better. I’ve a friend whose daughter goes gaga over stickers, for example, so she used those. Maybe that reward chart would work for you. Roy was obsessed with fruit snacks, which he rarely got. We streamlined our reward system to one for #1 and two for #2, then slowly phased even those out.

5) Customize Accident Reaction. I read where you’re supposed to put on a serious, mad face over accidents. Roy’s sensitive and fairly hard on himself, so instinct told me that doing so would only stress the poor kid out. Instead, we assured him that accidents happen and pumped him up to make the next time a success. Another child may benefit from a stern talking to. Accident reaction—the entire potty-training process, for that matter—is not one-size-fits-all. Only you know what tactics will best help your kid.

6) Be Patient. Running to the toilet every five minutes to grunt magnificently over a drop or two of pee is super cute at first. At bedtime, however, a half-a-friggen-hour of that cuteness gets old quick. Remember, he’s mastering a brand new skill. Whether it’s frequent bathroom trips, camping out for eons on the potty or simply moving through the entire toileting process at a glacial pace, this will not go quickly. Stress will only make things worse for both of you. Build extra time into the schedule; devise fun, creative ways to speed things up (Set a timer! Woo-hoo!); and prepare to be infinitely patient. Deep breaths, my friend.

7) Go Public. Before the big day, we were out running errands and Roy kept asking where the bathroom was. After awhile, it dawned on us that with all this talk about using the big potty, little guy wanted to see how that might go down outside of our home. We started making a point of showing him public toilets when we were out and about. It was a disgusting truth at times, but a truth nonetheless.

8) Port a Potty. We regularly brought his little toilet with us on the road at first. No worries about whether or not there was a toilet nearby. Again, setting him up for success. Bonus: It helped avoid some of the aforementioned disgustingness.

9) Stay the Course. As I said up top there, it’s a long road—not three days, and you’re done. Good days will be followed by bad days. Roy’s gone weeks accident-free, only to pee on the carpet twice in one day. When that happens, part of me wants to buy a pack of diapers and call the whole thing off. Instead, we look at the big picture to see if we can’t pinpoint the problem (daycare difficulties, new sibling-induced neediness, etc.), address that as best we can, then attack toilet training with new vigor for a few days.

10) Plan for Positivity. Take a picture of his proud little big boy face and gaze at it. Give yourself a potty prize. Have a plan ready, to use during kick-off and when setbacks occur, for achieving positivity by any means necessary. Again, stress helps no one. I’ve found that a dirty martini after the kids are in bed, however, does.

Anything to add?

Four hours straight? That counts as a full night. Three two-hour increments? Yes, please. Even five consecutive hour-long naps is better than nothing. Which is only a little less than what I got the other night.

I overshot my caffeine intake. Then, on more than one occasion, Roy decided he needed my body (and only my body) next to him in his big boy bed. Vera threw extra nursing sessions and a 3 AM solo dance party into the mix. The next day, I was a drooling, zoned-out shell of a woman with the patience of a hummingbird. So pretty.

My friend Liz up the street has kids roughly the same age as mine. That night, she posted on Facebook: “Need a new bedtime routine for chubby buddy Frank, our current state of affairs is DRIVING ME FRIGGING BONKERS!”

Desperate, yes. But the fact that she possessed the energy to use all caps and an exclamation point told me she had yet to hit bottom.

Liz and I often have super interesting conversations. They go something like this:

Me: “Yeah, we didn’t get much, OK, hey, please stop that Roy. Let’s do something else, OK? Thanks, sweetie. Uh. What was I saying?”

Liz: “Sleep. I know. He cried for two hours straight last night. I don’t, um, Vivi, let’s go upstairs then. Here we go! Up!”

Me: “Yeah, I’m not sure if it’s teething or a growth, uh, whatever. Spurt. Growth spurt. Spurt’s a word, right? Spurt?” [Baby starts crying.] “Hey, little lady! What’s wrong?”

Liz: “Yeah, spurt. I know. Who knows? I’m thinking about letting him cry it out. Here you go, Viv.”

Me: “Shhh. It’s OK. Shhh. Hold on a sec?”

And then we solve world peace. The end.

With Clint it’s an unfair pairing. He’s more well rested, which is good for him. Yay, I’m happy for him, getting all that great rest. So happy.

Working against him: The fact that he’s my husband and therefore should know how to read my damn mind.

Me: “Please put that thing back in the, um, thing for me. Would you?”

Clint: [Pause.] “First: What thing?”

Me, gesturing: “The, uh. You know.”

Clint: “No. I really don’t.

Me: [Staring, with eye daggers.] “C’mon. Help me here.”

Clint: “I want to.”

Me: “Do you? The thing!”

And then he hands me a bottle of really good wine, which I drink, and then I “sleep” all night long. The end.

This second time around, I feel a little differently about milestones than I did the first. On the one hand, I want my little girl to develop and grow and explore the world around her with ever-increasing curiosity and independence. On the other hand, I want to bind her little limbs and keep her in a calm, dark room in the hopes that she’ll stay my cuddly chubby baby forever.

Mostly I want that first part.

Clint brought the Exersaucer out at my request. Vera strained her neck to check it out as soon as it entered the room. She watched intently as Clint cleaned it off for her, and when we lowered her into it, she beamed and gaped in excitement and disbelief. She struggled to hold her body erect, head wobbling unsteadily, testing new neck muscles. She willed her hands toward the nubby-eared giraffe, then the clear bead-filled tumbler, swatting, Zombie-like. She worked that thing like a bartender at happy hour, giving attention where attention was due, then promptly shifting it all to the next in line.

“The days of the bouncy seat on the kitchen counter are coming to an end,” Clint said.

Endings. They piggyback in on all these amazing beginnings.

I’m more acutely aware of it this time around, because I know how things unfold and I know she’s my last. I did feel the same way with Roy, whom I made pinky-swear on video, before he hit his first birthday, that he’d live with me forever and ever.

I know. There’s a chance it will not hold up in court due to his minor status, blah, blah, blah. A mama can try.

But I also wholeheartedly cheered the first rollover, the first Bumbo session, the first unassisted stand, without this undercurrent of loss.

Mostly, I live on the bright side. This new development buys me more hands-free time, gives her more exercise and mental stimulation and means we’ll soon be able to get rid of a few of the thousand or so cumbersome swings, seats and things we have propped around the house to contain her.

I can’t stand those damn swings and seats.

I miss them already.

One of my favorite pearls, from Anti-Jen: “You’re doing a good job. That job is to make sure those kids know you love them. That’s pretty much all there is to it.” A nice way to boil it down. Plus, it makes me feel semi-competent. I may not be able to find the magic solution that immediately cures Roy’s separation anxiety, or gets Vera to sleep through the night, but making sure they know I love them? That I can do.

We are moving in the right direction. The last two days at daycare drop-off, Roy’s clinginess and pleading disintegrated into nervous whimpers, rather than heartbreaking wails. And last night, at one point, Vera slept three whole hours in a row. That’s enough to shove me over the hump and into the “well rested” category.

I’m fine with copping to difficulty. I certainly don’t see much good in perpetuating the myth that parenthood, or life, for that matter, is a breeze. I’m not, however, one to wallow for too long, if I can help it. I feel uncomfortable if I’m not doing something to make things—at the very least, my mindset—better.

Here are a few things I do to get by:

1) Exercise. For me, it’s running. Always has been. On extremely stressful days, my husband will hand me my running shoes and force me out the door because he knows I’ll come back happier. I also appreciate yoga. These days, I’m doing baby yoga, so I can bring Vera with me. I like to multitask my bonding.

2) Drink. Coming off nine months basically alcohol-free, I’m still a lightweight. A little glass of wine or one quality microbrew after the kids are in bed slows my brain down to a better, more manageable speed.

3) Vent. I’m lucky to have some incredible friends. Ones kind enough to ask how things are and then be ready to listen to the honest answer. Sometimes it helps to have a sane second party help you sort through things. They know I’m always willing to reciprocate. As soon as I’m sane enough to do so, that is.

4) Appreciate. Especially when I’m feeling like everything’s too much, I make a point to focus on a few very specific things that make me feel incredibly lucky. An awesome writing assignment. A clear view of the moon. Vera’s roly-poly thighs. Roy’s nonstop hugs. Clint’s mean meat-smoking know-how and Manhattan-making skillz. I’ve no shortage of things to appreciate.

5) Blog. If you’ve been reading Love & Diapers long, you know that I kid. During times of stress, it’s crickets over here. I’d like to be showing up more regularly. I’m going to try. Apparently, it would help. Did you see the recent study that shows the blogging relieves stress in new mothers?

What helps you feel less overwhelmed?

Image: Red wine pouring into wine glass via Shutterstock

I mean that quite literally. Sometimes, it’s so overwhelming that I have to physically stop and breathe in and out. In and out. Slow my body down, and try to get my mind to do the same. I know. It’s exactly because I feel that I can’t stop that I must. Yes, I must slow down.

Yet one more thing I must do. Just what I need.

Do you know what I mean?

I can’t believe the last time I posted was Vera’s first day of daycare. Honestly? It went pretty awfully. She didn’t sleep and cried a lot. Her mornings usually consist of lots of sleeping and no crying whatsoever.

The bigger, more heartbreaking challenge, however, was Roy. We tried Vera on half days. That first one, Roy was so excited, until I can to pick her up—and not him. I’d told him that would happen, but he’s two. He had no idea how that would feel. Clearly, it felt awful. For both of us.

I thought he’d get used to it. He didn’t.

I ended up taking Vera out of that particular equation. My provider also has a new baby, and another provider is helping her in her home, so there’s a lot of new going on there. Vera’s back to sleeping and smiling. Roy, on the other hand, has decided he doesn’t want to go to daycare anymore.

We’ve never had this problem before. Usually, at drop-off, I can barely coax a good-bye kiss out of the kid, he’s so excited to hang with his friends. Now, it’s all sobs and clinging. Breaks my heart. I have no idea what to do.

And while it’s true that Vera is sleeping wonderfully during the day, she’s decided to quit doing so at night. Girlie came out of the womb sleeping for 4-hour stretches and became a regular 9PM-to-5AMer in no time flat. Then, for the first time in her life, she started waking up every couple of hours. Then she went ahead and switched her nursing style, and my nipples hurt like crazy.

So, to recap: I somehow gave my toddler a severe case of separation anxiety, my infant has decided to recapture the newborn state she never had, and I’m having a hard time finding a minute to chill the f out.

Not that I expected life to be easy right now. I didn’t. I really didn’t.

Not that life is without its beautiful moments. It isn’t. It certainly isn’t.

But it’s hard, too.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Suggestions welcome.

But I’m a freelance writer, and Corporation Me has no paid maternity leave. Before I had her, I’d determined that two months was what I could manage. It sounded like plenty.

When that two-month mark arrived, everything was in place. I’d cranked my workload back up to full speed. Roy was back in daycare full time, with a provider I love and trust, where Vera could join him.

But the reality of two months old snuggled in my arms; helpless, adorable little Vera Loraine with the easy smile and the chubby thighs and the excited screeches. If only someone would pay me to cuddle her full time. I’d be awesome at that job.

I brushed my tears off as typical. Reminded myself that some people don’t even get two months and that this was the trade-off for my incredible job flexibility, which allows me to work from home, come and go as I please, and take most Fridays off with the kiddos. “You won’t feel ready no matter when you do it,” my friend Konnie consoled. She was right.

I forged ahead. The night before her first day, as Clint put Roy to bed, Vera and I bustled about the house getting her packed—diapers, bottles, pacifiers, extra little onesies and sleepers. I laid out her first-day outfit, a cute little blue polka-dot swing shirt and stretchy pants with pink cherries embroidered on the chest. I nursed her to sleep, then sat down to write out her schedule and preferred soothing techniques, as my provider requested.

Again, tears. They wouldn’t stop. I just didn’t want to tell someone else how to comfort my two-month old. I wanted to comfort my two-month old.

When Clint came downstairs and saw me he said, “Don’t bring her in. We’ll figure it out.” He was right. The tears were excessive enough that I had to pay attention. We would figure it out.

With Roy, this would’ve been near impossible. The boy only napped twice a day for 45 minutes at a time, if that. Vera, on the other hand, is a champ napper (thank you, universe), sleeping four hours at a time with hour/hour-and-a-half periods of wakefulness in between. I managed to keep up with my full workload during these prolific naps, plus evenings and weekends, gobbling her up like a crazy woman during her brief awake times.

Flash forward a month and a half. The house is a complete and total wreck from top to bottom. Non-essential paperwork is accumulating, and likely becoming essential. We are making it work, but at the expense of things like these, which can only be ignored for so long. We are making it work, but just barely.

A month and a half is a long time to a baby. Vera still sleeps well, though less. She’s wonderfully alert and grows more interactive each day. She’s got cheeks that don’t stop, and at three and a half months old, she’s filling out six-month clothes quite nicely. She’s healthy, happy and strong, and an absolute pleasure to hang out with.

Last night, when I packed her bag, I didn’t cry. I didn’t when I typed up her schedule, either. I did when I dropped her off, of course. Who wouldn’t, handing over those tiny onesies, eensy diapers and wee yellow sunhat? The directions, the bottle of milk and then the little baby chubby cheekers, smiling that wide, toothless grin?

I cried all the way to the gym, where I logged my first 5K since she was born. Running always helps me.

We’re starting with a half day. I’m focusing on how lucky I am that my job’s flexible enough that I can ease us both in like this.

I’ll probably look at that photo above, taken over last week’s trip up north, a hundred times before I pick her up at noon. It makes me smile.

So how did the first drop-off day go for you?

It’s a paradox that, to me, illuminates the compulsion many of us feel to read the experiences of other mothers and to get our own experiences down.

If you’re in the latter camp, do I have the book for you. Use Your Words: A Writing Guide for Mothers just came out last week. It’s by Kate Hopper, a writer and writing teacher with an MFA in creative writing, who specializes in helping moms write about motherhood. The book addresses various parts of the writing process (chapters include Getting Started, Using Humor as a Tool and Publishing: From Books to Blogs), with exercises and example essays from seasoned writers including Anne Lamott and Catherine Newman. It’s meant to be explored at your own pace; to be dipped in and out of as inspired. Smart, no?

Full disclosure: I agreed to feature Use Your Words because I love the topic and often get asked about it. After doing so, I happened to run into Kate at an event here in the Twin Cities. Turns out our families are rooted to the same small Minnesota town. We gabbed like long-lost cousins, but I have a feeling that’s just how it happens with Kate. Her writing knowledge and accessible nature mingle comfortably in the book.

Check out this realistic pep talk (excerpted):

“My hope is that you will get started on a number of pieces as you work your way through this book, and that when you finish it, you will have enough momentum to keep going. It’s wonderful if you can write a little bit each week, but I don’t believe you need to write every day to be a writer, and as a mother, I know that writing can be difficult to fit into your day. But as you begin this journey as a mother writer, think about when and where you can squeeze writing into your life. Maybe you have one hour every Friday morning. Maybe you have 20 minutes three times a week as you wait to pick up your children from preschool or soccer practice. If you work outside the home, maybe you can go somewhere quiet on your lunch break and write twice a week. Be realistic about planning your writing time and be flexible. If you miss a day or a week, don’t worry; there’s always tomorrow.”

In other words, you can do it. And Kate can help.

If you’ve ever wanted to write about the mothering experience, or if you already do and crave a little fresh insight to your craft, I highly recommend checking Use Your Words out. Also: I fully intend to post about a writing contest where you can win the book, and possibly a consult with Kate and publication at Literary Mama, but have to get a few things ironed out. Check back if that piques your interest.

Happy Friday, all!

First off, Time sure knows how to get our attention. I get glances while discreetly nursing my tiny three-month-old under a blanket in public. Throwing a hot young mama up there openly attached to not young child? Yes. People are gonna talk. More than even I expected. All this press, and from what I can tell, the issue hasn’t even hit newsstands yet.

That said, I’m not going to comment on attachment parenting, which is what the cover is actually addressing. (I do have Beyond the Sling, by Mayim Bialik, aka TV’s Blossom, waiting in the reading pile at the moment, so we’ll resurrect that thread when I finish it, hopefully sometime before my kids leave for college, dammit.)

But I can comment on breastfeeding past a certain age. Before I had a child, I’d decided nursing was for babies. Meaning small children with no teeth or verbal skills. It was a knee-jerk opinion based solely on the feeling I got when I saw grown children actually ask for the boob, then climb onto mom’s lap on their own to get at it. If the kid can ask for it, I thought, they shouldn’t be getting it anymore.

I’ve said this before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again: And then I had kids.

I’ve written about my own nursing experience on this blog before, most notably on my post about weaning, but to recap: Before I had my first, I didn’t even want to breastfeed. I told myself I’d give it three weeks, for the health of the baby and whatnot. I ended up nursing Roy until he was a year and a half old. By that time, it was limited to before and after bedtime, but still. You better believe he was able to ask for it.

He wasn’t as old as the kid pictured. But he was a lot older than I ever figured he’d be while still nursing. The experience pushed me into the “To Each Her Own,” breastfeeding camp. I know that’s often the theme of this blog, but it can’t be helped because it’s what I believe. We are different people, raising different kids, and no one has the one-size-fits-all magic formula. We need to quit judging and concentrate on trying to figure out what’s truly best for ourselves and our kids.

Meaning that at this point in my life, when I’ll nurse my child while getting my hair washed at a salon without batting an eye, this cover doesn’t bother me one little bit. You? If it does bother you, especially, I’d love to hear exactly why.