Guest Post: How I Learned to Love Boobin'

 By Ani Lipitz

Ani lives in Brooklyn with her awesome husband and adorable baby. She runs the (sadly neglected) Jewish mysticism blog, Light & Coffee. Ani will get her Lactation Counselor certification at the end of the summer.

Looking back, I don't know how I managed to soldier through those first few months, but I'm glad I did. There was no secret recipe for boobin' success, no expert tricks or tips. Just plain old persistence. 

How I Learned to Love Boobin'

by Ani Lipitz

As I sit here typing this, my seven-month old is laying on a pillow in my lap, happily enjoying what our little family has come to call “boobin'”. He nurses with a look of pure bliss on his face, stopping to smile at me as I gaze down at him. He reaches his sweet little hand up and strokes my hair. I melt a little.

Then, with demon-like speed, he grabs a handful and yanks a clump right out of my scalp. I screech in pain. He giggles.

Ah, the joys of breastfeeding.

Despite my bald patches (and the occasional bite mark, now that he's sprouted two razor-sharp chompers), I love nursing. And frankly, that's a miracle, given the way we kicked off our boobin' relationship.  

My baby was delivered via C-section after a labor filled with pretty much every intervention imaginable. After he was born, we were separated for more than three hours. When the nurses finally brought him to me, the very first thing I did was put him to the boob as I proudly checked off the “Exclusively Breastfed” box on his medical chart. After some coaxing, he sleepily opened his mouth and latched. I waited eagerly for the wave of maternal ecstasy I'd read so much about to wash gently over me.

Instead, I got thrashed by a tsunami of toe-curling pain.

I quickly went over the mental checklist I'd compiled from the breastfeeding research I did in the weeks before he was born. Mouth wide open and covering the bottom of the aureola? Check. Lips flanged out? Check. Head tilted slightly back? Check. “Well, WTF?” I thought. “We're doing everything right!”

The staff lactation consultant later confirmed this. “You've got a textbook latch!” she announced. “It just takes a little time for your nipples to toughen up.” I thanked her for her help, secretly doubting that this applied in a situation where a freak genetic accident caused a baby's tongue to be made out of sandpaper, as I suspected was the case with my kid.

Raw nipples aside, the next 24 hours seemed to go swimmingly. The baby had the right amount of poop diapers. He was nursing every two hours or so. He was chill and content between feedings.

And then he started crying. And he wouldn't stop. For hours.

Exhausted and frazzled, I finally summoned the nurse. She promptly diagnosed my baby with an empty tummy and stuck a bottle of formula in his mouth. He sucked it down in minutes and then fell asleep as I watched, crestfallen. “You get some sleep, too,” the nurse said, as she wheeled his bassinet to the nursery. Feeling like a horrible failure, I did.

The problems got worse after we went home. Sore nipples turned into bloody nipples, which I tried to remedy by stuffing frozen cabbage leafs into my bra. (Nobody told me I was supposed to use purple cabbage leafs. I used green and ended up smelling like halupkies for three days). My milk took extra long to come in because of the C-section. The baby cried for more nursing every time I thought he was done eating. I cried every time I supplemented with formula. Then the baby went two days without pooping, and the pediatrician wanted us to come in for a weight check. He had lost almost a pound in the ten days since he'd been born. That scared me. I wanted to give up nursing, but the pediatrician insisted that I visit her practice's lactation consultant to try and make things work. Not really believing it would work, I agreed.

The lactation consultant was amazing. She gave me exercises to do with my baby to strengthen his sucking ability. She put me on a pumping regimen and prescribed raspberry and nettle leaf tea to help boost my diminished milk supply. Within a week, my boobs were leaking, and my baby was gaining weight again!

But the whole ordeal left my confidence totally shot. I was constantly worried that he wasn't getting enough milk. Every weight check felt like Judgment Day, and every ounce he gained felt like a temporary stay of execution. The baby still wanted to nurse every hour during the day, and nursing sessions could last 45 minutes. Clusterfeeding was a way of life. All I wanted was to get off the couch and get my figure back, but all he wanted to do was boob.

Then, when he hit three months old – miracle of miracles! - he started going three hours between feedings. I could go out for a coffee! I could go grocery shopping! I could actually leave our 500 square-foot studio apartment! The possibilities were intoxicating!

Looking back, I don't know how I managed to soldier through those first few months, but I'm glad I did. There was no secret recipe for boobin' success, no expert tricks or tips. Just plain old persistence. Boobin' forces me to take a break from the craziness of my day to really connect with my baby. It's a mandatory time-out every few hours to make sure I relax and enjoy him. Cheesy as it is, it makes me feel natural and womanly. And on top of all that, my kid is really freakin' cute when he's nursing (hair-yanking and boob-biting aside).

But I still really, really, really hope it's easier next time around!

The Gift of Loss: Talking About My Miscarriage On Mother's Day

By Mimi Hecht 

I've had sonograms before and know what you're supposed to see. And it is not the 

black, empty space that me and my husband suddenly found ourselves peering into.

The Gift of Loss

Talking About My Miscarriage on Mother's Day

Even though statistics show that many women reading this right now have experienced the loss of a pregnancy, most of these women have not and likely never will publicly address or even mention in private the fact of their miscarriage.

Being that this kind of death is a fact of many women's lives, and that silence and shame only exaggerate the pain, I am opening up about my own miscarriage, which occurred a little over two months ago. 

I was almost three months pregnant and excitedly looking forward to telling more loved ones the news when I saw a trace of spotting. While it isn't entirely uncommon in early pregnancy, thinking you're growing a healthy baby and then seeing blood is very alarming. With my husband at my side, I called my midwives. They asked me questions, said it sounded usual and gave me two things to look out for that would signal something more serious: More blood. Cramping.

A day later, there was more blood. Then cramping. We knew what was happening. I became sad and worried and very anxious about what my body was about to go through. Getting pregnant and miscarrying is not something I ever prepared myself for. Even though experts estimate that one in every four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, I still thought it was something that only happened to, well, other people.

Although I was now showing all the signs of miscarrying, I wasn't cramping or bleeding enough to be rushed in to the emergency room. I was advised to schedule a sonogram.

A day before my scheduled sonogram, I had a very busy and demanding day representing an organization I direct at the anual Chabad Kinnus HaShluchos. I was supposed to be on my feet for hours, dealing with people and, of course, smiling. (When I asked my midwife if this would be okay, she responded, "As long as you feel okay and there's no cramping." I wish she would have forbade it, because I truly felt like I just wanted to rest and protect my pregnancy. But she made sure to add, "Mimi, if this is a miscarriage, it's already happened. You need to know that nothing you do or don't do now is going to hurt your baby." This was exactly what I needed to hear: that there is no reason to have guilt—now or later.)

Now let me tell you, greetings friends and customers and focusing on work is quite a feat when you're bleeding and emotionally coming to terms with what you might see—or rather, not see—on a sonogram the next day. This made me think a lot about all the demands on women these days: how we fulfill so many roles and rise to every occasion regardless of the myriad of female-specific issues we may be going through. And how the demands of life within and without the home are not as flexible and understanding as often our minds and bodies need them to be.

Twenty hours hours later, I was in a gown being jellied up—me and my husband readied ourselves for the sonogram results. I took huge sighs, thinking "Is this really happening to me?" I cried for the first time since the spotting five days earlier. Before she placed the sensor on my belly, I silently begged G-d that we see a healthy baby, with a vibrant, beating heart—that the bleeding and cramping be some unexplainable fluke. But alas, I've had sonograms before and know what you're supposed to see.

And it is not the black, empty space that me and my husband suddenly found ourselves peering into.

The woman taking the sonogram was not my doctor and was not allowed to tell me anything conclusive. Even though I was pretty confident with the image we saw, I was holding on to the possibility that I just wasn't reading it right. I pleaded with her to tell me, but she just replied, "I'm just here to measure and take images." I then endured an internal sonogram as well, feeling this cold stranger poke around and photograph what I thought was sacred inside me, but more than likely something dead. I cried more, my legs shaking, taking comfort in my husbands equally pained face. It was like we knew, but couldn't really know.

What seemed like hours later, my doctor gently told me the results of the sonogram. She was sensitive and explained what they saw—a six or seven week fetus (when it was "meant" to be 12). It was officially what's called a "Missed Miscarriage," meaning that the fetus stopped living a while ago, but the pregnancy went on. Thankfully, my husband and I had prepared for this news, so the emotional reaction was not so traumatic, but more of a relief at finally knowing.  On the ride home, we decided to stop somewhere, so we could sit face to face and process our feelings about what we just went through and were going to go through.

My most ever present reaction was feeling like a fool. I had told my parents and sister about my pregnancy when there was nothing alive inside me! Of course, I had no way of knowing...but it still stung. Something so within me had...tricked me. Even that very day, I was still having pregnancy symptoms. My body had misled me. I went from experiencing the maternal instincts inherent in pregnancy to feeling robbed, empty and out of touch. Adding to this feeling of shattered maternal instincts was the knowledge that something had died within me. My womb, what had been a safe, nurturing haven for my two beautiful, healthy boys (thank God!) had told me I was growing a life and  then completely rejected it. It had just started beating it's tiny little heart (or did it?) when it became not a thing of life and growth but death and loss.

Consciously aware that it was futile, irrelevant and even wrong, I couldn't help but blame myself for losing the pregnancy. I should have been more strict about taking my prenatal vitamins! I shouldn't have had coffee! Maybe had I not felt so overwhelmed about this pregnancy in the first place, G-d wouldn't have taken it away! The latter tormented me the most.

I was told to expect my body to expel whatever was left of the pregnancy (placental matter, tissue, significant loss of blood). And if it didn't, I'd have to schedule a D&C to have it done manually. I am grateful that a few days after the sonogram, I was at home and experienced intense labor-like cramps that was the beginning of the end of my miscarriage. (I will spare the details here, but anyone who is curious or going through the same thing and wants to know, don't hesitate to e-mail me.) This episode lasted a few hours. It was painful and intense and semi-traumatic and I would not have gone through it unscathed had it not been for my mother, sister and amazing midwife Jesse.

When I updated Jesse (who had delivered my second child and whom my husband and I adore), she let me know that my body was doing the right thing, and what to expect. She spent time patiently with me on the phone and said the most compassionate and remarkable words: "You know, this is your body and the universe's kindness. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it's a good thing." Obviously, one doesn't naturally view miscarriage as any sort of kindness—especially for those women who experience them repeatedly and/or have yet to have healthy children. But what I took from what she was saying was something I needed to hear: The fetus was unhealthy. And instead of G-d willing it into the world to experience pain or even death and inflict me with an even greater physical and emotional agony, he retracted its existence—effectually gifting me with its loss.

When Jesse said this, I remember feeling the "power of women." It sounds like a cliche, but really we are an invincible, powerful species. Just think how the same midwife that encouraged me through a labor and birth was now comforting me through a loss—with the same sensitivity, strength and faith that, only a year before guided my contractions to birth a healthy child.

Though I wish I never had a miscarriage, I am thankful to G-d for the way it happened, for my good health and for surrounding me with a sound medical system, a loving family and a supportive husband. If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes quite a few sensitive yet strong and totally massive hearts to support a woman who is losing a pregnancy.

I chose to write about my miscarriage because I believe strongly that there should be no shame or guilt about the choices our bodies and G-d make for us. There is nothing wrong with you or your "womanliness" if you have a miscarriage. Perhaps if we spoke about these realities more, so many women wouldn't feel insecure, silenced, afraid and broken.

I live in a community where most women seem to always be either pregnant or with a newborn. Those suffering from infertility or who have experienced a miscarriage get lost in the shuffle, forced to deal with their pain in a silent way—whether they want to or not.

Should we not be able to band together in reasonable and healthy ways not only in our joys and triumphs, but in the reality of our pains and losses? We all have them. A woman who experiences a loss should feel allowed to discuss her miscarriage with equal freedom as her friend with a burgeoning belly.

She shouldn't fear being viewed as weak. We cannot allow her to fear being pitied.

Strong, healthy and fertile women all over the world have miscarriages. Some happily choose to keep their experiences to themselves. There is virtue in that, too. But a woman who feels she would find healing in discussing her experience openly should never feel the burden of potential shame that may come with "exposing" herself. Especially if the good that candor brings and the conversation it creates can only enlighten other women to be more sensitive, prepared and empowered.

This Mother's Day, may we all find the strength to love 

ourselves and each other wholeheartedly, without 

reservation, simply for being G-d's beautiful 

female creatures, endowed with the gift not 

only to birth but to give and grow in all 

the powerful ways only we know how. 

Mom Shot #17: Hands On

What is this picture, you ask? Well, it's proof of two things:

1) My two year old pushed me away today when I gently touched his hair while talking to him. Emotional OUCH!
2) I need to clean his hands and take him out of his high chair before he starts painting with his yogurt.

(What a perfect print, ah?)

There will come a time when your cuddly little baby will actually physically push you away. It leaves a print, sure. But remember, it's nothing that can't get washed out. Think of it as a little yogurt smear and don't harp on it. Start anew tomorrow :)

CO-SLEEPING: Me 'n My Moms Say It All

By Rivki Silver
Rivki Silver blogs at Life in the Married Lane, where's she's intent on finding kedushah in the dishes.

"I still remember telling someone who I genuinely thought would be on-board with the 

concept, and the incredulousness she reacted with.  I might as well have told her that

 I was taking my baby bungee-jumping or something."

CO-SLEEPING

Me 'n My Moms Say It All

Co-sleeping.  Chances are, if you’re not doing it, you know someone who is.


Co-sleeping is associated with attachment parenting, made widely known by Dr. Sears.  Sometimes it is also referred to as bed-sharing.  Basically, it means that the baby is sleeping in bed, with you, all night.  Oftentimes the baby is nestled in the crook of mommy’s arm, and other times, just within arms’ reach.  It is more common among women who choose to breastfeed.  

Some of the main concerns I’ve heard (from non-co-sleepers) are safety, of what to do with the other kids during naptime, and of the baby not learning how to sleep on its own.  Oh, and our husbands.  What about them?  

I asked a wide variety of women their opinions and experiences with co-sleeping, and, as you might imagine, I got a wide variety of answers.  One thing stood out, though.  All the women felt they were making the best choice for their family.

But first, my experience with co-sleeping.  Full disclosure.

My Needy Baby

By Mimi Hecht

Mimi Hecht is a stark contrast to the by-the-books, food pureeing, self-sacrificing supermom that many women feel pressured to live up to. Her articles like “The 10 Untruths about Motherhood” and “My Mama Manual” offer women an honest and humorous take on both the joys and hardships in trying to stay sane, stylish and spiritual in Motherland. Through her candor in addressing things like infertility, the high price of groceries or her mind-battle over circumcising her son, Mimi strives to inspire confidence in women and teach new moms to march to the beat of their own drum. To share her thoughts and celebrate all kinds of mothers, she started LADYMAMA a growing online community of modern-day Jewish women. 

Follow LadyMama on Facebook at facebook.com/JewishWomen

"If I look at him wrong, I get a reaction that makes me feel like the World’s Worst Mom."

MY NEEDY BABY

When people used to tell me they had a “difficult” baby, I was full of judgments. I would think, “Oh, you must be uptight” and “I’m sure you're exaggerating.” After all, I had my own baby – so of course my opinions were warranted.

Little did I know that G-d would soon bless me with my own challenging bundle of joy and stress in the form of my second son.

When I delivered a boy the second time around, I experienced a funny sort of deja vu - like birthing the same baby all over again. The same gender, the same exact size, that same little pointy chin.

A million cries (both of ours) later, I have woken up to the fact that my second child is nothing like my first. I now am the proud mother of my very own “difficult baby.” Jokes on me.

Still Crying It Out [Chana Lew's Follow Up]

By Chana Lew 
Chana Lew is a mother to 5 sons, 2 daughters and 1 husband - and working on growing up herself. Loves: self-respect, all things birth, informed choice & fresh, clean food. More at www.chanalew.com

"None of us “have an hour” to put our babies to sleep, but putting a baby to 

sleep is part of being a parent and sometimes it takes longer than we like."

STILL CRYING IT OUT

While I agree that there is more than one way to put a baby to sleep, I don’t believe in not responding to a baby’s attempt to communicate.   


Ignoring your child is wrong. Period.
I have ‘successfully’ ferberized some of my own, and I feel terrible about it. It goes against the grain of parental instincts. Why didn't I listen to my inner voice that said "pick your baby up!" I convinced myself that it was "for his own good." I believed that someone else knew better. I fell victim to a decision made out of desperation. Those children did sleep through the night earlier, but I believe there are long term ramifications.

Stay with Mommy!

The Sucky Disciplinarian

By Mimi Hecht

"As a new mother, I excelled at all the nurturing. Nursing, cradling, bathing – I can do that. 

I can love. I can cuddle. I can give. Call me Mother Theresa. Just don't make me say 'no.'"

The Sucky Disciplinarian

The first time I told my son “no,” even I didn't take myself seriously. I'm pretty sure I even said it with a slight laugh in my voice. Something like “Nooooooo” with the “O” sound extending into a “Oooooh you're so frikkin cute, come here.”

Since those first ineffective “no”s my sixteen-month old's habits have turned from unpreventable no-worthies like putting dangerous things in his mouth to more deliberate actions like throwing food off his high-chair and even scratching. I am slowly coming to the realization that I am failing as an authority figure to my little two-foot human.

You see, I'm just not cut out for this discipline stuff. Which isn't exactly surprising, considering my inability to consistently reprimand and administer warranted punishments always made me the best camp counselor and babysitter when I was younger. As a new mother, I excelled at all the nurturing. Nursing, cradling, bathing – I can do that. I can love. I can cuddle. I can give. Call me Mother Theresa. Just don't make me say “no.”

Why I Wear My Baby

By Rivki Silver


Rivki Silver is a mama with many hats.  When she's not spending time with her two boys and husband, she can be found writing, arranging and performing music; teaching piano lessons; blogging at lifeinthemarriedlane.com and mainly trying to keep it all together.  She can currently be found in Cleveland, OH.

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Why I Wear My Baby

Most mommies I know joke about how they could use an extra set of arms. You know, one set to hold the baby and the other to do everything else.  Well, wearing your baby is one way to effectively get that other set of arms!

There are those among the baby-wearing camp who will claim that if you wear your baby, they will grow better, nurse better, sleep better and cry less.  I’d take that with a grain of salt, but most babies are happier when in their mommy’s arms, and wearing your baby will allow to you hold your baby while still being able to accomplish the zillion things you need to do around your house.

Why Motherhood can be a Pain (Herald Sun)

Here's some validation for the struggling new mom!

Why Motherhood Can Be A Pain

Becky's Bottom Line: The Boy Chapter of the Terrible Twos

He does still need me, but his defiance is showing me that he wants to do it on his own. His very dangerous, not-so-thought-through, wild and crazy way of doing it on his own.

The Boy Chapter of the Terrible Twos

By Becky Brownstein

I recently went on a trip with my almost-two-year-old son to California. Superman – I mean my husband – took care of all the others. Granted, I did make to-do lists and schedules for him, but he's a natural. Even though he was a little hesitant at first, he pulled it off without a hitch. Or at least I hope so. He's smart enough not to tell me.

The reason for my trip was that my sister had a baby a few weeks ago and my internal family connection was pulling at my soul; it hurt so badly that I couldn't be with her. My husband saw my anguish and we made a joint decision that I should go to be with my family. That's when the superman cape came out and my husband said "Bring it on!"

A Baby's Response

Watch this beautiful video of a hard-of-hearing baby responding to his mother's voice after activation of his cochlear implants. The power of the mother-baby bond!

Mimi's Column: Bigger Brain is Bogus, "Baby Brain" is Real

Bigger Brain is Bogus, "Baby Brain" is Real

By Mimi Hecht

Research Shmesearch. 

I mean, usually I'm all for it. I respond pronto when the "baby people" research children's medicines and make necessary recalls. Or when bored mothers spend hours researching, on my behalf, the best new baby gadgets. I enthusiastically concurred when research studies concluded that redheads are more fun (yes, I have a redhead). In all these cases, and hundreds more, research is a mother's best friend. In fact, we love to pull out our affinity for research when a fellow mother makes a claim about a philosophy or product. 

We're like, "Hmm, I dunno, I have to research that." 

Have a baby, and a smarter brain!

Have a baby, and a smarter brain! | TopNews United Kingdom

Quote of the Day: Ignoring a baby's cry

What do YOU think of today's quote? 

“Ignoring a baby's cry is like using earplugs to stop the distressing noise of a smoke detector. The sound of a smoke detector is meant to alert us to a serious matter that requires a response - and so is the cry of a baby.” - Jan Hunt

The Tipping Point

By Mimi Hecht

"I felt deeply that G-d was looking out for my son's reproductive organ."

THE TIPPING POINT 

I was recovering in the hospital after the birth of my son when I
learned that the American Academy of Pediatrics no longer endorsed
routine neonatal circumcision. While my family buzzed excitedly with
plans for the Bris, a hospital pamphlet encouraged me to make “an
educated decision,” presenting me with reasons to opt out of the
pending procedure (on my unknowing son’s behalf, of course).

The Biology of Love: Bonding with your Baby

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/36691058/vp/36960027#36960027

Mother-infant bond: A look at the biology of love

Wed May 5, 2010 10:08 AM EDT

TODAYMoms

Guru Deepak Chopra and author Alexander Tsiaras explore the science behind the extraordinary relationship mothers and babies share, from conception through the first year of life.

Related stories:
Discuss: When did you feel the bond begin with your baby?

LadyMama Column: My Blackberry Baby

http://www.algemeiner.com/generic.asp?ID=6280

How many parents can say they successfully captured their child’s very first smile on camera? How many mothers wish they would have had their camera within reach when their child looked them in their eyes and revealed that first toothless grin?

I never had to make that wish or feel such regret. Thanks to an inseparable relationship with my Blackberry – a multimedia amusement park also known as a smartphone - I will forever have a picture of my son’s very first shining smile. As with every other attempt to capture the perfect shot, I was holding up my Blackberry camera and making funny sounds to get his attention when he broke out in his first charming smile. I went mad with joy and immediately sent the photo to my husband.

That first smile was exactly the cliché I was told it would be – a slice of heaven. It was big and bright, with a twinkle in his eye, and gave me warm-fuzzies all over.

I have only one regret. I saw it through a screen.

I fell victim to the Blackberry craze just one month after I gave birth (a labor present of sorts). I immediately felt the joy in having a gadget that would allow me to capture pictures, videos and voice notes and instantly share them. My parents live on the West Coast and I wouldn’t tolerate them missing even one moment of their first grandchild’s life.

Month’s later and a tour through my Blackberry photo and video library showcases a unique collection of original works. “Morning Poop Kisses,” “Nakey Hug” “Sleeping with One Eye Open,” and “Sneeze Cough Smile” are actual titles of just a few of the hundreds of snapshots and clips to forever remember my baby’s many moments. With his every move (poops, laughs and even sneezes) recorded on my little device, there’s practically nothing left to witness! But thankfully, he is ever-changing and always entering unknown territory, leaving endless opportunities to record more original masterpieces. And when I do, it takes two seconds to – directly from my phone – e-mail the family, upload to Facebook, Twitter and my blog.

There’s no other way to put it. Thanks to my Blackberry, I have become my child’s own paparazzi. My right hand is always ready – like a cowboy and his holster – to record every share-worthy baby minute (Did you know that the stroller cup-holder fits a Blackberry perfectly?). But while many people complain of “Blackberry Thumb” – a sprain-like sensation from typing too much on their handheld – my problem is worse. And if things don’t change soon, I threaten the wellbeing of my family.

Admittedly, I often feel like I am observing my son through a screen - my Blackberry Baby. And the moments don’t seem to be as valuable as they once were. When I flip through my mobile photos to show a friend, it’s like nothing is precious. Oh, that picture? Eh, I have better. Ya, he’s smiling in that one…but look at this one! I wonder, if I accidentally pressed something and deleted all the files that are slowing down my phone…what would I have left? Do all my child’s adorable moments exist as strongly in my mind as they do on my Blackberry?

The benefit of having a media-miracle to aid in sharing my son’s life is obvious. Thanks to my Blackberry, my parents feel like they’re with me every step of the way. Recently, when I sent my mother a picture of the baby finally attempting to crawl, I got an immediate reply text: “Put socks on him! It’s cold!”

But with the advantages of being able to share every second comes the risk of watching my son’s life hurriedly pass on a screen. What would have happened had I not viewed my son’s first smile through a screen and quickly e-mailed it to every one? I probably would have saturated in the magical moment, let it linger just a little longer. It would have always been a distinctive event in both our lives. But instead, it’s only a picture. Yes, only a picture. It may be worth a thousand words, but it can never take the place of the indispensable mother and child moment I missed.

The other day, about fifteen minutes after putting my exhausted son down for a nap, I was typing on my computer when I heard him giggling uncontrollably. Before I went to his room, I quickly tried to locate my Blackberry so I could video him laughing. I then realized that the adorable giggling was, in fact, my ringtone. I forgot that, earlier in the day, I had recorded his giggles and set it as my default ringer. Wow, I thought to myself, I am completely hopeless.

As hard as it will be to reverse six months of constantly stalking my child with my Blackberry, I am ready to change. I have missed too many moments trying not to miss them. I can’t record my toddler’s every move if it carries the risk of distancing me from the involvement so necessary to his development, and our vital bond. To every mother who feels she might be raising a Blackberry Baby, my advice is simple: Put down your Blackberry. You don’t want to miss a thing.