Susan, I'm a "true" SAHM with virtually nothing on my plate except for the house and Owen and nothing you've written here seems remotely wrong to me.

I'll put the baby gates up and let Owen crawl the hallway and the nursery while I fold and put away clothes in our bedrooms. I'll leave him in the "baby corral" while I'm around the corner loading the dishwasher and making dinner. I'll put him in the swing for a half an hour while I iron. He'll sit for 40 minutes and watch Noggin without blinking while I check email and post here.

I don't think there are hard numbers out there for exactly how much time babies need your undivided attention. You have to realize that every activity you do with her--from getting her dressed and changing diapers to feeding her are VERY quality individual attention moments. The older she gets, the more she'll need to learn things on her own so there is no time like the present to start.

Is your guilt stemming from stuff you've read and thought "this is the right way to do it"? I think whatever works for you and Annabel is really the "right" way to do things. If she's content with things the way they are, I don't see the need to put yourself through the ringer.

It's a whole complex of guilt, I think. Part of it is that we're living in such a small and difficult to childproof house--even the supposedly childproof living room has things like bookshelves and cabinets we can't let her get into. If we had a house with a truly childproof space, she'd get more time playing on the floor. So I then feel guilty for not having worked harder or managed our money better so we'd be in a bigger place.

So I then feel guilty for

Susan, that is the key, right there. It seems to me that if there is anything, anything at all you can work yourself up into a tizzy of guilt over, you will. You are driving yourself bonkers, and you need to stop it. Stop. worrying.

Harumph. Went to do another henna test, but in the process of boiling the coffee, I boiled it all away.

And I think she's content. Part of the problem is I'm comparing her to my mother's description of my behavior as a baby, and I was pretty precocious on several levels. I walked at ten months, and while Annabel is close, she's not quite there yet, and she'll be eleven months Sunday. I think I also had a few words at her age, and while we think she sometimes says "dada" with intent and calls the stars on the wall everything from "stuh" to "gyar," I'm not sure either really counts, because she doesn't do them reliably enough for me to be sure it isn't random. And I've finally found a question that's more painful than being asked if you have a job yet your senior year in college--it's being asked if your baby has any words yet when she doesn't.

So I then feel guilty for not having worked harder or managed our money better so we'd be in a bigger place.

Well, that's wasted energy. That's not what you have to deal with right now. I don't quite know how to respond because there's no way I could've gotten away with leaving Emmett in a playpen for an hour and half. He'd barely tolerate the exersaucer for fifteen minutes.

One thing we did with our bookshelves which worked, was to pin sheets over the lower shelves. Out of sight, out of mind, for the most part. For my LPs we had very light chains across them, with hooks screwed in at the end of the cases. Stuff like that made a big difference.

Also, we had the very earthquake unsafe inverted-pyramid effect, where things just got moved higher and out of reach. Ultimately the living room was as safe as a playpen.

Even still, Emmett wanted human contact more than to play with toys. So if you can get Annabel to contentedly play with her stuff in there, then I think you're okay. If she's trying to get your attention by testing, then maybe you need to do some resumes after her bedtime.

Susan, that is the key, right there. It seems to me that if there is anything, anything at all you can work yourself up into a tizzy of guilt over, you will. You are driving yourself bonkers, and you need to stop it. Stop. worrying.

Well, I hardly know anyone my age who still rents, and no one trying to raise a baby in this little space. So it makes me feel irresponsible, like we must've fucked up our finances royally.

Well, I hardly know anyone my age who still rents, and no one trying to raise a baby in this little space. So it makes me feel irresponsible, like we must've fucked up our finances royally.

I still rent. I've raised Emmett in a two-bedroom apartment. He's fine. Kids don't need big houses to thrive.

I hardly know anyone my age who still rents

44 years old and have contributed handsomely to my landlord's European vacation habit. I'm not falling for the "we'll give a mortgage to anyone!" scam, because I know what the words "balloon payment" mean.

Part of the problem is I'm comparing her to my mother's description of my behavior as a baby

My mother has been going on about what I was like as a baby and saying that Owen is a lot like me, etc. Honestly, I think she's nuts. She had five kids and the last two were twins. And she had cancer when we were three and went back to work when we were six. So I think she may not be remembering all that well.

I have a hard enough time not comparing Owen to the babies we meet in Romper Room and in playgroup settings without worrying about comparing him to me as an infant, too.