Yesterday I made a call to a gentleman I had never met about a job.
I was using my best anchorwoman voice which usually comes out like a
hopped up Carol Brady. He sounded like a barely conscious Christian
Slater. "We had a baby last week," he said.

Elliot is now just north of 6 months old. He loves cauliflower, bouncing and boasts a one-word vocabulary. (He said “mama” on Father’s Day.)
The transitions in his life bring me more joy than a truckload of spinach dip. It’s the transitions in my own life that have me twitching.

A new sound is filling our household, and it makes the cats leave the room.

I heard something like it back in the early '90s immediately following, "Ladies and gentlemen, The Backstreet Boys."

That's right, Elliot has learned to scream.

The evening our son decided to unleash his new talent, his father had just pulled a yellow cake from the oven.

Elliot is nearing 5 months old, and as I type this, he's launched into his regular nap-time protest. Nothing makes you feel more crap-tastic than your child crying from behind his prison, I mean crib, bars. As his heartbreaking whimper climbs and falls, I remind myself, "You're doing alright."

I am becoming a problem solver. I recall a day early on when Elliot started getting a little discharge from one of his eyes. What was I thinking taking him out in the yard? He probably got a big chunk of dirt in there or something. No need to panic.

When you become a mom, the person you used to be flakes away like skin after a bad sunburn. I realized this the day I left the bathroom and flipped the light switch off with my right nostril.

Resist this molting process. Let this column be the loofah that helps you let go. Allow the demise of my former self to embolden your efforts and permit the new you to emerge even sooner.