Ever wonder how new mothers look so put-together all the time? Here are a few beauty secrets from an expert:

1.) The Smoky Eye: After a night of zero sleep, rub your eyes thoroughly to force them open. Any traces of eye make-up left on your face (even if it is from your nephew’s bar mitzvah two weeks ago) will create a beautiful, natural smoky eye.

2.) Clear Skin: Never underestimate the power of exfoliating.

3.) Rosy Cheeks: Is your baby running a fever? Does your toddler have a charming case of the flu? Hug them tightly and you too can have a rosy, healthy-looking complexion.

4.) Ruby-Red Lips: Who needs lipstick when you can stain your lips (and chin, and fingers) with your toddler’s rapidly-melting cherry ice pop? Slurp it up before it stains your carpet too.

5.) Full Figure: Skip a nursing session with your infant and you too can have a voluptuous (and somewhat lopsided) chest. Ooh la la!

6.) Styled Hair: You may not have noticed that your baby threw up in your hair, but you love how it holds a hairstyle in place. People will be saying, “There’s something about Mommy.”

1.) What I plan to do with my children:

Find lots of outdoor activities we can do together as a family.

What I will actually do with my children:

Find lots of indoor activities we can do together since it is 95 degrees and/or thunder-storming every…single…day.

2.) What I plan to read:

Several books that are Pulitzer-prize nominated or have “The [insert occupation]’s Wife” as a title.

What I will read:

The manual for the car seat my daughter has already been using for three months.

3.) What I plan to watch:

Finally check out those critically acclaimed shows like “Orange is the New Black.”

What I will watch:

“Blue’s Clues.”

4.) What I plan to accomplish:

Finally put together my daughter’s toddler bed. It’s been sitting in the box for three weeks. My daughter now takes her blanket and pillow out of her crib and puts it in front of the box and falls asleep while staring at it.

What I will accomplish:

Finally pay the hospital bills from the birth of my two-year old so the creditors stop threatening to hold her as collateral.

5.) What I plan to do:

Go to the gym and lose the last bit of baby weight.

What I will do:

Eat a sleeve of Reese’s Oreos while watching America’s Next Top Model

6.) How we plan to socialize:

Hire a babysitter and hit up as many rooftop bars, housewarmings, and waterfront restaurants as we can.

How we will actually socialize:

Realize our babysitter is at sleepaway camp for eight weeks. Be that couple who brings two kids under the age of three to a fancy cocktail soiree.

7.) Art I plan to create:

Draw several comics for my blog, and rediscover my love for en plein air oil painting.

Art I will create:

I will color in the smiling conehead sundae picture on the Friendly’s placemat.

8.) People I plan to visit:

Long-distance friends from college, out-of-state family I haven’t seen in a while.  Everyone who visited us in our cramped apartment (and ended up with their car getting towed).

People I will actually visit:

Anyone who has a shady backyard, pool, jungle gym, or better toys than we do.

9.) Fun summer activity we want to try:

Hiking in a beautiful park with our toddler and infant.

Fun summer activity we will actually try:

Watching the episode of Peppa Pig where they go hiking in a beautiful park.

10.) How I plan to catch up with people:

Will reach out via phone or email to old friends, former co-workers, and acquaintances I haven’t spoken to in ages.

How I will actually catch up with people:

I will “like” a picture of my second cousin’s baby on Facebook.

Are you ready for your first night out sans kids?  Take this quiz to find out.

1.) Who do you turn to most for babysitting?

A. Your parents. After they’ve taken the required CPR classes.

B. A responsible teenager who lives in your building.

C. Your neighbor’s friend’s elderly aunt, who said she’d stay with your kids for free as long as she can watch her “stories.”

2.) Which location do you choose for your first date night?

A. A Chinese take-out place across the street from your house.

B. A nice place up to a half hour away from home.

C. It’s been a while since you crossed the border.  Hey, you’re not paying the sitter by the hour.

3.) What numbers do you leave behind for the sitter?

A. Poison control, the pediatrician, the local ER, all family members within a 20 mile radius, and the SPCA.

B. Your cell.

C. The local pizza place.

4.) What is your exit strategy for leaving the house?

A. Accidentally say “goodbye” to your kids and spend the next half hour trying to pry their sobbing arms from your torso.

B. Slip out the front door while they are distracted by “Winnie the Pooh.”

C. Initiate a game of “Hide and Seek,” then sneak down the fire escape while they count to 100.

5.) During dinner, how often do you check in with the babysitter?

A. Every 10 minutes. Disaster can strike at any moment.

B. Once, after dinner, to make sure the house is still standing.

C. One of these days you’ll put the babysitter’s number in your phone.

6.) How do you manage alcohol consumption while nursing?

A. No, thanks. You don’t want to pump and dump that precious liquid gold.

B. One glass of wine early in the night.

C. Bottoms up. Those cups aren’t going to flip themselves.

7.) How often are you able to have a night out?

A. Only when your brother guilts you into attending his wedding.

B. Once a month, so you can reconnect as a couple.

C. Every Saturday night. And for Tequila Tuesdays. And Thirsty Thursdays.

Results:

Mostly A’s: Rookie Mistakes– You will spend most of your date night watching your kids on your Baby Monitor iPhone app. What a waste of perfectly good $15/hour free time.

Mostly B’s: Date Night Connoisseurs– You have a firm grasp on how to meet both yours and your children’s needs. However, people are fed up with your smug perfectionism and don’t want to baby-sit for you.

Mostly C’s: Kids? What kids?– While the kids are away, Mommy and Daddy are going to relive their college days.  You know what’s great for a hangover?  A screaming baby.

It’s been five days since my last shower.

I’ve been looking forward to this well-timed event for a while. I had to sacrifice a sleep slot to make this happen, and leave several bottles of milk with my husband, but it’s been a long time coming. The bathroom is one of the only places I can go without the baby: no baby strapped to me, or on my lap, or thrown over my shoulder. I can have baby-free thoughts!

Crap. I think I hear the baby crying.

Or it could be the hot water coming through the pipes.

I know, I should sing in the shower. Something fun from the 80s.

Why do I find myself belting out the theme song to ‘Sofia the First?’ I hate ‘Sofia the First.’

Damn, that song is catchy.

Ooh I can see my feet again. Hello, feet. Ugh, hello stomach. You have the texture of a deflated balloon, and have so many stretch marks you resemble a traffic map (with delays on the I-95).

Stomach, I will hide you with soap.

Ah, my citrus body wash! You made me want to vomit while I was pregnant, but now I use you liberally. You smell like Tropicana, and I suspect you have the cleaning power of it as well.

The baby sounds like she’s crying again.

Or it could also be a cat dying in the alleyway outside my bathroom window.

Please be a dying cat.

Oh look, I have purple marker on my arm.  When did I use purple marker?

I blame the baby.

Wait, it’s not marker; it’s a bruise.  When did I get bruised?

I blame the baby.

A shower is the perfect place to contemplate life’s enigmas. Like, what to eat for dinner. Or if iTunes has the soundtrack to ‘Sofia the First.’   Or when was the last time I cleaned this bathroom? I’m pretty sure I’m the cleanest thing in here, and I haven’t bathed in days.

That really does sound like a baby crying.

Or a firetruck. I hope it’s a firetruck.

I shall sing louder to drown out the firetruck.

Time to shampoo the baby body fluids out of my hair. And then wash the baby body fluids off my hands. And…

And…

And…

Huh, I seem to have fallen asleep standing up in the shower.

Okay, my skin is shriveling up. I suppose I must come out and face my responsibilities.

Is that baby still crying?

Whoops, I ‘accidentally’ got eyeliner all over my hand.

And feet.

Eyeliner EVERYWHERE.

Back in the shower for me!

As any synagogue-reared thirteen year old knows, becoming a bar or bat mitzvah comes with a set of expectations and rewards. In exchange for applying ourselves, studying Hebrew for several years, and chanting atonally for three hours in front of family and friends, we would be rewarded with a party and an increase in cash flow.

Some bat mitzvah gifts were exciting: checks in multiples of eighteen dollars, bonds in multiples of eighteen dollars, cash in multiples of eighteen dollars. Some gifts were not: the large number of attendees who had a tree planted in Israel in my name. That was the gift. My tweenage mind was blown. What would be next: adopting a stretch of highway in my honor? This was worth writing a thank-you card for? I was under the distinct impression that my efforts would be rewarded with enough money to buy that hair crimper I had my eye on. Instead, I was the reluctant recipient of an arboretum in a country I couldn’t find on a map. My friend Sara got a Sega Genesis for her bat mitzvah (and didn’t even need to write thank-you cards). My reward completely did not match my achievement.

I vowed never to have a bat mitzvah again.

Flash-forward a bunch of years, and I am now the mother of a toddler and a newborn. Like any good parents, my husband and I want our children to be on their best behavior, meet milestones, and avoid dangerous situations, for their own good (and not just because we’re tired of getting kicked out of Friendly’s). But how, how, how do we make them stay? And listen to all we say

We find ourselves in a constant state of bargaining with our toddler, and yes, even our newborn.  These are five types of negotiations that make up our daily life:

1.)   The Crock Exchange: Offering your toddler something unrelated to the task you are asking of them.

Examples: “If you stop eating chewing gum from the subway floor, I’ll let you wear your Minnie Mouse costume to school.”

“If you eat one more bite of dinner, I’ll recite every verse of ‘Chicken Soup With Rice’ instead of omitting the boring ones.”

2.)   The Idol Threat: Using your toddler’s role models as a means of manipulating their behavior.

Examples: “Peppa Pig always says ‘thank you.’”

“If you draw on the wall, Winnie the Pooh will stop loving you.”

3.)   The Success of Excess: Desperately promising your child unlimited bounty in exchange for one simple behavioral modification.

Examples: “Tell Mommy where you hid her cell phone, and she will take off the security code to the iPad.”

“If you stop screaming during the wedding ceremony, I will let you eat every dessert on the Venetian table.”

4.)   The Empty Promise: Getting your child to do something in exchange for something you were going to do anyway.

Examples: “If you stop dropping my hairbrush in the toilet, I will let you wear your jacket, hat, AND your gloves outside!”

“Please put all the books you threw on the floor back on the shelf, and then we can go to nursery school!”

5.)   Penalty Shots: Taking an ordinary daily activity that your child hates and using it as a threat, regardless of whether the punishment fits the crime.

Examples: “Stop pouring bubbles on my computer keyboard, or I’m going to make you brush your teeth three times a day.”

“Put your diaper back on, or you’ll have to take a nice looooooong bath. That’s right- with water!”

And if all else fails: Tell your child that if their behavior doesn’t improve, Santa, Hanukkah Harry, Grandma, the Tooth Fairy, and everyone attending their birthday party will, in lieu of presents, plant a tree in Israel in their name.

Day One:

Wake baby every two hours to feed her. Log feedings and diaper changes in a notebook, keeping careful records of duration, side of feeding, type of diaper, etc. Baby latches perfectly, eats well. Successfully burp baby after each feeding. Am able to sleep when baby sleeps. Smugly tell everyone who calls me how well everything is going.

Day Two:

Baby is up all night. I’m a little bleary-eyed in the morning, but nothing some caffeine and a shower can’t fix. When filling out my baby feeding log, I fudge the numbers a bit. Try to feed baby, but baby falls asleep every time. Attempt to rouse baby via tickling feet, blowing gently on ear. When that fails, drip cold water on her head and sing show tunes in her ear.

Baby cries inconsolably for 45 minutes.

Baby poops up her back. I put her on the changing pad and ponder the best way to change her onesie without shampooing her hair in fecal matter. Decide best option is to cut her out of the onesie.

Once the sun goes down, baby finally decides she wants to eat. Nonstop. For the next three hours.

Burp baby, and she spits up on me. I immediately put baby down and go to change my clothes.

I put on a “Friends” marathon.

Fall asleep.

Wake up some time later, and “Friends” has become an infomercial for a product called “Dump Cakes.”  Switch off tv in horror before baby starts crying again.

Day Three:

I fall asleep while nursing baby. Wake up with a start, look down, and notice baby is gone. I panic; look on floor, in recycling bin, finally check bassinet- no baby.

Realize my husband is holding the baby. Feel silly having checked the recycling bin before the bassinet.

Try to eat a sandwich. Before I can take a bite, baby decides she wants to marathon-feed again. As I begin to get sore, I wonder how early I can start her on solid foods.

Baby spits up on me. I rub it into my shirt with my thumb, and keep rocking her.

Mom calls to ask how it’s going. I don’t mention misplacing the baby.

Realize there is no good tv on at 3 am. Watch the infomercial about “Dump Cakes” again. Think it sounds like a really good idea.

Day Four:

Find baby asleep on my husband, who is also asleep. Pick up baby and put in bassinet. Husband wakes up half hour later and panics over missing baby. He checks the floor, the recycling bin, and finally finds her in the bassinet.

We both nervously laugh at how we keep expecting to find the baby in the recycling bin.

Baby poops all over herself again. Too tired to give her a bath; instead, we clean her with half a package of wipes.

I pump some milk so my husband can feed baby later. Am so tired that my pump sounds like it’s cheering me on, a la Charlotte from “Charlotte’s Web.” It keeps saying “What a girl, what a girl, what a girl.” I love my pump.

Day Five:

Find sandwich I made two days ago. Eat it.

While emptying the recycling bin, a neighbor informs me that I have spit-up down the back of my shirt.

Go to pick up baby to nurse her. Get settled in chair, then realize instead of baby, I am holding a loaf of bread.

Phone rings. Don’t know anyone named “Wow.” After it goes to voicemail, I realize it was “Mom” and I was holding my phone upside down.

Showered for 1^st time in five days. So tired that I wear my glasses into shower. They immediately fog up, causing me to stumble out of the shower and trip over my husband, who is fast asleep next to the toilet.

Day Six:

I am cradling the loaf of bread while blearily watching an “America’s Next Top Model” marathon. My dad comes to help with baby. He watches two episodes with me, and allows me to explain the premise (he’s right: the photographers should really get most of the credit) then politely asks if he can put the Yankee game on.

Baby poops all over herself. I debate whether I can wait until the end of the “America’s Next Top Model” episode to change her.

Shouldn’t have waited. I get the scissors.

Husband makes dinner, which consists of a block of cheese and a package of Funyuns. I fall asleep while chewing.

Tonight, I think my electric pump is saying “Redrum” over and over again. It is starting to creep me out. After pumping, I hide it in the linen closet.

Mom calls. I excitedly tell her about my talking breast pump and ask if she’s ever tried Dump Cakes. She says she’s on the other line and has to go.

Day Seven:

Wake up and see it is 4 o’clock, and I’m not sure if it’s am or pm.

Put on tv. “Law and Order” is on. Does not clear up time confusion.

Husband wants to know if we run the electric pump backwards, will it say “Paul McCartney is dead.” I tell him that makes no sense. You can’t run a pump backwards.

Also, I have no idea where it is.

I pull the baby out of the recycling bin and feed her while watching a John Wayne movie marathon. I learn a lot about how I’m glad I don’t live in the Old West.  And don’t like John Wayne movies.

Attempt to get off couch and realize my hair is glued to the cushion with baby spit up.

Baby poops all over my feeding log.  I nickname the baby “Dump Cake” and throw out the log.

Now I’ll never know if I’m doing this right.

I knew from the very moment my first pregnancy was confirmed that I would have to have a c-section.  I had a sneaky suspicion I was pregnant, and wanted confirmation right away. My current doctor was booked for the next three months, and in my zealousness to be in the know immediately, I found a new doctor on the Internet.  There were warning signs that this doctor (whose name I couldn’t pronounce) would not work out: A) I asked when I could come in, and she said all time slots were available, B) her office was located above a King Kullen, C) she said if I didn’t have insurance, we could “work something out.” Shady, but still, I was excited.

Despite the empty waiting room, I had to wait for 20 minutes, until I was ushered in by a receptionist named Oksana, who appeared both overwhelmed and barely 20 years old. The doctor looked at the ultrasound. And looked some more. And made a grunting sound while rolling the camera across my belly. Then she called Oksana in, and they had a heated argument in Russian, while looking some more. Finally, the doctor turned to me and yelled “Why you no tell me you have fibroids?!”

Fibroids. I thought it sounded like the name of a curiously strong mint that also regulates digestion. My husband said it reminded him of a 1980s video game. While I was picturing my ovaries quaintly shooting at pixilated sperm, the doctor informed me that fibroids are tumors. She neglected to use the word “benign,” but she did use the words “miscarriage,” “intolerable pain,” and “pre-term labor,” all of which made me freak the heck out. She mentioned nothing about the baby. This was not how I pictured our first doctor visit going.

The doctor continued to accuse me. How did I not know I had fibroids? Why hadn’t I had a sonogram before I got pregnant? I thought to myself: Who has sonograms before they’re pregnant? Is that a thing? Apparently the symptoms of fibroids are awfully similar to the side effects of Mexican food. Naturally, I had no idea.

The doctor poked her head into the waiting room. She asked my husband if he knew where the receptionist was. “You see where she went?” the doctor bellowed at him.

“Um. No. I don’t work here.” My husband was starting to get a bad feeling about this.

“OKSANA!!!!!” The doctor screeched from the other room. Oksana skittered in (she was stocking the storage room) and was asked to draw some blood, since she was also the staff phlebotomist. Six band-aids later, with bruises up and down my arms, Oksana sighed that this was my fault because my veins were “difficult.” If these people couldn’t extract blood from my veins, there was no way I trusted them to remove a baby from my minefield of a uterus. On my way out, I asked the receptionist (Oksana again) for our paperwork.

“Why? You go elsewhere?” she said in a way that was more a portentous suggestion than a question.

I cried the whole way home.   I cried the whole way to our second opinion doctor, an older German fellow with a polka dot bowtie and a much kinder bedside manner. Yes, I had fibroids. Yes, they were pretty common. The symptoms my other doctor had described could very well happen, but probably wouldn’t. And then he giddily congratulated me on having two heartbeats.

“@$&*%!” I yelled. “Twins?!!!!!”

I was informed that one of the heartbeats was my own. And that I probably shouldn’t kiss my baby with that mouth.

The only side effect of fibroids that proved to be true was the necessity of a c-section. I was told that I had a fibroid the size of a grapefruit right near my cervix, so there was no way I could deliver naturally. I was not particularly attached to a mode of childbirth, since all of them sounded awful, but I was dismayed to learn that I would be awake for the c-section. No being put to sleep. No nitrous oxide. No shots of whiskey or horse tranquilizers. I would remember every moment of this.

And that was okay. It’s not the method I would have chosen for delivery (that method would be “concussed with a hammer and woken when the baby is three months old and sleeps for six hours a pop”). But since I had no choice, it became part of my story.

So…you want to hear my childbirth story? You DON’T?

Fine, whatever.