Grocery shopping on a weekend is never a wise venture. But food was needed, and so off I went to pick up our necessities this afternoon. It’s been raining all day, and I wanted to get groceries before it changed into snow, when Ohio drivers lose all ability to control their cars,

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. First, the parking lot was packed. There were people waiting to take handicapped spaces. I should have turned back at this point, but for once a spot opened up for me very close to the entrance, so not wanting to turn down a parking gift from the gods, I took it.

Inside, it was chaos. Check-out lines stretching back into the aisles, aisles packed with people, screaming children, yelling adults. All of the carts available were soaking wet. I cut my list down to just the necessities, and tried to navigate upstream as best I could.

Once in the checkout line, I mentioned to the cashier, “Wow, this place is crazy today!”

“Well, yeah. Everyone is trying to get food for their parties.”

“Parties? I didn’t realize this was a big party weekend.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s Superbowl weekend. They’re getting food for Superbowl parties.”

“Ooooohhhhh.”

I may be the only idiot in the United States who didn’t realize it was Superbowl weekend. I felt like the biggest loser nerd walking out of the grocery. I wondered if there was a big neon sign over my head proclaiming “Geek! Likes science and literature, not sports!”

See, I guess I’m not your normal red-blooded American. I don’t care about football. I really don’t care about the Superbowl, either. Sure, if it’s on and nothing else is on, I’ll watch the commercials, but that’s about it.

It didn’t occur to me that people throw huge Superbowl parties. Most Americans go to big Superbowl and college bowl bashes, bet on the games and discuss the reputations of each team and its players.

Aaron and I, on the other hand, throw Oscar and Tony parties where we all bet on who will win each category and critique the fashion disasters on the red carpet.

Sometimes I feel like I belong somewhere else other than Midwestern America. I just don’t know where.

As each day goes by, I find I’m losing my sweet baby to an inquisitive, determined, strong-willed toddler. Cordelia now sees herself as her own being and, in her mind, she is ready to set out on new adventures. Well, at least for a few minutes, until mommy is out of view, and then she’s suddenly not so bold as she comes crying back to me.

Along with this new independence comes power struggles. I know many other mommy and daddy bloggers out there have gone through this, some many times over. So I apologize if this sounds silly, since most of you can tell me it’s going to get far worse.

I knew these power struggles were coming, and I have read all the books on what to do. But sometimes she does things that mystify me. Things that make me wonder just what is going on in that little head of hers, as she figures out the world around her. Let me give you one small example of what I’m going through:

The sippy cup. Yeah, the sippy cup. Who knew a struggle over a cup with a lid and a spout could be so strong?

Our first battle with the sippy cup involved simply getting her to try using one. Around a year old, she remained a hard-core bottle baby. I started with the Avent cups, since we were already using the Avent bottles. No go – she wasn’t even interested in trying it. So I tried a Gerber cup. Nope. The Nuby cup that everyone recommended as the perfect first cup? Not so much.

Soon I had a beautiful selection of nearly every brand of sippy cup offered by Babies R Us, all of which showed no sign of wear. At this point, Aaron was getting angry that we were wasting so much money on cups she would never use.

But then I found the holy grail of sippy cups: the cheap disposable sippy cups. I should have known she’d forgo the fancy valves and smooth ergonomic handles of the other cups for the plain Wal-Mart brand cups that come in a 4-pack for $3.99. She took to the cup right away, and we breathed a sigh of relief that our child would not be entering pre-school someday with a backpack full of bottles.

Best of all, that sippy cup was really just a gateway cup. After it, she was willing to use any other sippy cup we offered her, aside from straw cups. We still can’t get her to drink from straw cups yet. I was able to redeem myself with Aaron over all of the money spent on sippy cups.

However, the struggle doesn’t end there. Oh no, it gets far more ridiculous.

While she’s now been drinking from a sippy cup for about 4 months, she has one small quirk: she won’t hold the cup. We must hold the cup for her as she drinks. I’ve never felt more like a servant to her than when I’m holding her cup so she can sip as much as she likes. Yes, your highness, allow me to hold your cup for you to keep your dainty hands free from the rough plastic.

I’ve seen other moms complain that their tots will refuse milk from a sippy, or refuse to drink cold milk from a sippy. I find myself wishing for their problems. I know she understands the basic mechanics of the cup. She knows where to put her mouth, she knows how to suck out the liquid, and she knows that she must tilt the cup up. So why can’t she do this?

There are several solutions given in all of the advice books. I’ve tried not making a big deal about it. I’ve moved away from the cup, hoping that she would pick it up and drink it if I wasn’t near her. But no, she only picks the cup up and brings it to me so I can give her a drink!

All day long I’m smacked in the arm or leg with her sippy cup, as she then pushes it into my hands to offer her a drink. She can’t even be polite about it. We repeat “cup” every single time, but she always thrusts the cup at us with a loud, harsh “uuuunnggghhh!” Dr. Karp was right – I am living with a mini-caveman.

I’ve tried to move her hands onto the cup while she’s drinking, which results in her forcefully pulling her arms away and giving a squeal mid-drink, spraying me with juice.

So now, I turn to all of my readers (yes, all 8 of you). Am I doing something wrong? Is my child just lazy? Is this a normal phase of toddlerhood? How can I get her to hold her own damn cup?

And most importantly: if I can’t get over this hurdle, how in the world am I going to handle the more serious power struggles?

I’m really surprised just how many people out there are searching for tips on giving their toddlers Benadryl for travel. Let’s just say of all of the different Google searches that lead people here, that’s the #1 search, hands down.

I guess there are a lot of parents scared that their toddlers will be screaming monsters on vacation. It always makes me nervous to think others are taking advice from me. I feel an urge to end any bit of advice with: Remember, this is my crazy kid. Your mileage may vary.

So, to those searching, I give you this: the dose is usually 1 teaspoon, but always double-check. Also, please consider this as a last resort. It does work for many kids, making them drowsy and easier to deal with.

But, remember that a small percentage of kids go bouncing-off-the-walls-head-spinning-peasoup-spitting-Exorcist-hyperactive on Benadryl. Mine was one of them. Do you really want to play that parenting Russian roulette game and risk making it even worse?

In other news, Aaron had an interview today. Cross your fingers, folks. If he gets this job, he could be forced to go on a cruise each year for work, and his family are welcome to come along.

Oh, darn.

I’ve seen several blog posts about depression lately, and after reading this article, I found myself lost in thought about my own trials with depression. (Pardon me while I go off on a “me, me, me!” story.)

During the second trimester of my pregnancy, I started taking antidepressants. A few years before that I had one serious bout with depression, and took medication for about 6 months before weaning off and feeling back to normal. I thought I was cured, but while pregnant, the depression started to slowly creep back in.

The worst part was that I felt horribly guilty about it. I was pregnant! More importantly, I wanted to be pregnant! I was supposed to be glowing, to feel wonderful, to be as happier than a cat in a catnip field! Yet each day I found myself dwelling more and more on dark topics. What if I couldn’t care for this baby? What if the baby was horribly malformed? What if it died? What if I died? What if Aaron didn’t think I was pretty after the baby was born? Some days I barely got off the couch, and often I’d stay in my PJs all day, eating ice cream and watching Special Delivery on Discovery Health.

Having already forced up the courage to ask about depression once before, I went to my OB and shared my concerns. It was at that point she let me in on a little secret: pregnant women often get depressed. Of course, I really didn’t believe her – I thought she was just saying it to be nice to the crazy person in the room. She told me to talk to my family doc about it.

I made an appt. with my family doctor, and when I started to open up about how I was feeling, I found myself crying in the exam room. I didn’t want to feel so down, but I didn’t want to risk hurting my unborn child with drugs, either. She also told me that depression was common in pregnancy (the doctors must be conspiring against me!), and suggested a mild antidepressant.

I balked at the idea, but she assured me that this was a well-established drug, and there was plenty of research showing it to be safe for pregnancy. She then told me that other research had confirmed that moms-to-be who are stressed or depressed pass the hormones released as a result of that stress on to the baby. So not only was I feeling down, but my poor child was also feeling the results of my depression.

While that should have helped my decision, I felt stuck in a damned-if-I-do, damned-if-I-don’t situation. Either expose my child to damaging cortisol, or expose her to mood-altering drugs.

In the end, I chose the antidepressant. I read some of the research, and was disturbed by what high cortisol levels could do to a baby: preterm labor, low birthweight, reduced blood-flow to the placenta, etc. While there were also risks with the antidepressant, this particular drug had very few and rare risks. It was also safe for breastfeeding, so I could stay on it after birth to prevent post-partum depression (apparently those who have suffered from depression at any point in their lives are far, far more likely to develop post-partum depression).

I was happy, then, to see that article yesterday. Depression during pregnancy really isn’t talked about enough, and it’s clear that a pregnant woman should monitor how she’s feeling and not be afraid to bring up her feelings to her doctor.

And just to be clear, I’m not saying that anyone who feels a little depressed should ring up the doc for some drugs ASAP. Don’t think of me as a drug pusher, because I’m really not. I think it’s a very serious choice, and requires a lot of thought and discussion with your doctor. But I would urge anyone who is pregnant and feeling depressed or anxious, more than they think they should be, to bring it up at your next doctor’s visit.

For me, a low-dose antidepressant was the best course of action. It made the remainder of my pregnancy so much better. And once Cordelia was born, it greatly helped those first few weeks, or as I call them, the Hormonal-Dump-Kill-Me-Now weeks.

As for Cordelia? Well, she was born at term, and weighed in at an impressive 8 pounds 4 ozs. Other than having colic and a strong attitude, she was as normal as any other baby and showed no signs of being affected by the antidepressants. It was a good solution for both of us.