Mama Dramas

Shape of my heart

2008-01-16T15:10:00.000-08:00

The first boy I ever adored was named Jeffrey. I was twelve, and he was a tiny slip of a boy with smooth looking skin and long eyelashes. Word got around, as it tends to do in seventh grade, and to my great delight Jeffrey asked me to take a walk with him at our upcoming weekend school retreat. This was a big deal at my religious elementary school, and a bigger deal to me, who lived most of my early adolescent life behind Paula Danzinger books and Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. The biggest deal was the way he asked me. He took me outside our science fair and presented me with two soap hearts, which he had made at someone's "how to make soap" booth. I was floored, absolutely ecstatic, my own heart racing with the romance of it all. But alas, poor little Jeffrey developed "inflamed lungs" (I will never forget the diagnosis) and had to miss the retreat. I was without a date to walk with once Saturday afternoon rolled around and I caught the attention of the class slacker artist, a hottie with great hair and a bad attitude. I was suddenly smitten and he would prove to be enamoured of me for as long as the walk lasted. Once I got home, I shelved Jeffrey's hearts far away, along with any interest in a "nice" boy for the decade that followed. Until I met my husband.

A and I met after we had both been battered by the "not good enough for yous". On our first date, we smoked Ultra Lights and discussed our most recent affairs of the heart. He had a seven year toxic relationship that he could not seem to kick, and I waa dating my umpteenth emotionally unavailable attorney. I was charmed by A's goodness, and finally ready to receive it, to be good to myself. Thankfully, he was too.

In our years before kids, it was easy to lavish the love on each other, to celebrate every occassion with great fanfare, to spend dinners staring dreamily at each other and reveling in our luck. Now, while our love has grown, our time has shrunk. Where we used to hold hands, someone is pushing a stroller or carrying piggyback. Where we used to share long tales of each other's day, we are interrupted by shrieks of "mommy!" or "milk" or just plain "aiiiieeee!" In many ways, we are living the Cliffs Notes version of romance.

It is important to feel courted, regardless of gender, but most importantly for women. My father, despite limited comfort in sharing emotions, readily showers my mother with gifts. When he travels internationally, he spends hours at perfumaries, inhaling coffee beans in between whiffs of various crystal bottles, trying to find the best scents. He buys her bananas, her favorite breakfast staple, before she has time to notice they are gone. He arranges her vitamins in the shape of a smiley face. He used to shop for clothes for her, until she put her foot down, down hard on a crazy Norma Kamali number that included a swimsuit that he believed was a blouse. And she has purses so extravagant with names that are totally lost on her. For their thirtieth anniversary, he proposed again, with a huge Tiffany diamond, the kind where you always wonder "who actually buys these"? I suggested he go to the diamond district, and he scoffed. "There's just something about Tiffany's", he said. And he's right.

I am a believer that actions speak louder than words. It's not the diva in me, it's the romantic in me. It's not about how much you spend, but about the thought -- the steps you take to really consider what a person would enjoy. Women often will say, "Oh, I don't need anything, really." I believe this is bad practice. I think a woman should be courted forever, and sometimes, this means getting creative, spending more than you anticipated, and doing instead of saying. For my recent birthday, my sister later told me that A sent her frantic emails, with subject lines like RUNNING OUT OF TIME - NEED IDEAS and HOW ABOUT A SPA PACKAGE? She told me that he was thoroughly stressed about the best way to celebrate me. He knows what I want, and you can't find it online. I want planning and plotting and attention to detail. I want active listening, noticing what I notice in others. It all shows that you care enough to still want to thrill me. I believe that woman should always assert her worth, or else she will be offered far less. If that makes me high maintenance, so be it. Because whether the heart is made of soap or gold, when the love is there, it is worth sharing.

Vacation?

2008-01-02T14:27:00.000-08:00

I've vacationed in Florida every year since I was six months old, so I dared to believe that, aside from a whole lotta nothin, there was not much to expect on my zillionth trip down there this past time.

Alas, any trip that starts with a plan to stay at my parents brand new house -- only to find that "brand new" in this definition meant no carpet, no couches, no hot water -- and evolves into a 12 day stay at an Embassy Suites is going to be anything but boring.

There were highs: Two perfect angels on the airplane that made even the surliest passengers salute in appreciation upon their departure, incredibly warm weather, time with my brother on the cusp on his engagement, a TJ Maxx that sells Seven jeans in reasonable sizes, kids who were so exhausted by the end of each day that they slept until 10:00, a daughter who put up with a ridiculously small travel crib, a son who finally defied his laz-boy demeanor and rolled onto his side (of course to visit me in the middle of the night, when he should be in HIS OWN CRIB), the Embassy Suites Manager's Party - where at 5:00 they have an open bar and snacks (we are instituting this at my house from now on), a king sized bed with room for four...

And the lows: A middle of the night hotel evacuation because some drunk fool pulled the fire alarm, blistering argument with my mother borne mainly of the fact that no one should vacation with their parents for this long regardless of how old they are, the awareness that if you are out of shape, wearing an out of shape bathing suit only makes you look worse, poop in the swim diaper (there is nothing more vile than this) and all you can eat buffets that pretty much kill that resolution to stop eating mini versions of things...

All in all, your typical family trip. I am glad to be home, sad to be home and just pretty much exhausted. I have some exciting topics that I would love some input on, including the topic of friendships and their return on investment and coping with the end of (spousal) courting. Stay tuned.

PS: New for 2008 - I also now blog here: http://svmomblog.typepad.com/nyc_moms/.
You can search me by name via the "categories" sidebar on the right, but I recommend perusing all of the entries. These are a great group of gals. This probably blows any shred of anonymity that I might have had, but after all I have shared here -- welcome to the family.

Puzzles

2007-12-17T17:58:00.000-08:00

One of the million things that I currently love about my daughter Chloe is how comfortable she is just being herself -- and how she never tries to be anything different.

This became strikingly clear recently, at Parent-Teacher conferences at Chloe's school. Yes, even the academic life of two year olds require conferencing.

So A and I arrived at Chloe's class, and I sat in a tiny chair far too small for my post partum posterior (more on this later). Her two teachers faced me, and I waited for what I expected to be tons of compliments about my lovely little girl.

And I was right. They told us how sweet she was, how adorable. And then the unexpected.

"Until two weeks ago, Chloe did not speak a single word in class."

My heart sank. I could not believe it. I heard myself babbling on and on in her defense and in my own outrage. I told them how talkative and bossy she was at home, how she literally narrates the entire day. They quickly reassured me.

"She has a quiet confidence", the teacher said. "She was always busy. Even when she was not talking, she would not let anyone push her around. In fact, her first sentences in class were "No, that's mine" and "I don't want bread, I like Cheerios". Oh, and she is the best in the class at solving puzzles".

I was shocked. Every day for three months, Chloe happily went to school. She barely uttered a goodbye. She never asked to stay home. She could barely wait to get there, and immediately got to work on a table filled with puzzles. How could she be so excited to come to a place where she did not talk to anyone, and barely anyone talked to her? This would be my own private hell. I hated starting a new job, mainly because I would not know anyone and would not have anyone to talk to. I was always looking forward to the point where I knew everyone and had limitless people to chat with.

But as I listened to her teachers describe how she cheerfully, yet quietlu, goes to each activity, I began to understand. Chloe and I are different this way. While I could talk to a tree, Chloe truly blossoms only when she is completely comfortable. Where I would be sickened to go somewhere every day where I could not yammer up a storm, she is happy just doing her thing, being her independant self. Unlike me, she does not need a million friends around, she is happy doing her own thing. So she may not be head cheerleader or sorority president or all of the things that I ever wanted. She is happy just being who she is, no pretense, no apology.

I am intrigued by this moment in time when she is so carefree. I wonder if next year she will cry that she has no friends, trapped by her own independance. I try not to think about it. For now, I enjoy sitting back and admiring all of the things I never had as a child: bravery, confidence and comfort in the periphery of things.

When do we lose the ability to embrace ourselves so completely and without shame? Currently, my crisis is that of clothing. In my mind's eye, I am a size 26 skinny jean, in high heeled boots, a top that does not open for some sort of lactation and perfect highlights. In reality, I recently went to buy some jeans and demanded a "mid-rise" (they should call it "mom-rise"), I wear long shirts that are roomy enough to cover my midriff and be yanked over a screaming baby, and if I splurge on haircolor that is not applied at my sink, it is single process only. My penchant for perfume has been cast aside, for fear that my baby will smell like Bulgari. I am often in a ponytail. At a recent indulgence at a makeup counter, the saleswoman said that she was "concerned about my skin's dehydration". I nearly laughed, as I am often concerned about my life's dehydration, as I thirst for who I once was, at least on the outside.

I should be thrilled. I have lost almost all of my baby weight, the crows feet have not yet landed around my eyes and at least my breastfeeding boobs are perky. And yet, I am somehow embarassed, that the life I have chosen, which is largely without time for indulgence or interest in bettering my body, is so much less than it was - or should be. There are moments when I am ashamed to admit that sitting on my bed in stained sweatpants, kissing my children's bare feet, feels better than the best moment in the office. And then I am equally ashamed when I long for a reason to wear my new heels, to spend four hours at the salon, to call a meeting when the participants are not in Pampers.

My new year's resolution is to embrace my new life, and the body that I use to travel through it, without such constant critique. I can be doing better, and I hope to make time for some crucial self improvement (or at least some crucial cardio)! But until then, I will take a chapter from Chloe, throw caution to the wind, and enjoy the puzzles right in front of me.

Wishing all of you a year filled with self acceptance. (I'll be back in 2008)!

Green mum

2007-12-10T12:48:00.000-08:00

In my world, the only granola around is the kind I mix into yogurt. I am not the earth-mother type. I leave that to some of my friends who are much more enviornmentally aware, and socially conscious. I learn from their time at the Food Co-Op and I try to "co-op" some of their green ideas, but basically, this urbanite does not have a whole lotta crunch.

But if motherhood has taught me anything, it has been to be more caring, overall, of the world within and outside of your home. So I am sharing my two most recent findings that have given me pause and lead me to make smarter choices for the health of my children and the world around them.

1. MDF: Medium Density Fiberboard. Basically, it is faux wood. Particleboard. Looks like wood. But it's not. Many styles of children's furniture is made of MDF (including almost EVERYTHING at Pottery Barn Kids!). MDF emits formaldyhyde gases which slowly enter the air and cause health problems, especially for children. There is much written online about this:
****

"WHY BE CONCERNED ABOUT MDF?
In all fiberboards, formaldehyde resins are used to bond together the constituent parts. This is usually urea formaldehyde, but some fibreboard including exterior or marine quality board will use stronger glues such as phenol formaldehyde.

Even at a low level, exposure to formaldehyde though inhalation can cause irritation to the eyes, nose, throat and mucous membrane. Formaldehyde can also affect the skin, leading to dermatitis, and the respiratory system causing asthma and rhinitis. The International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC), part of the World Health Organisation, quoted evidence that even short term exposure to formaldehyde, at far below the legal limit allowable in Britain, could cause irritation to the eyes, nose and throat.

The IARC's findings also stated that wood dust is a carcinogen' (cancer causing) and that 'formaldehyde is probably carcinogenic to humans'. IARC was also concerned about the reproductive hazards of formaldehyde'. " --www.childrensfurniture.uk
***
To add insult to injury, real wood is hard to find! Especially when it comes to children's furniture. I am trying to replace all of my MDF furniture, which is thankfully only my kids table and chairs and changing table. The best way to find real wood is by googling "Amish furniture". Who knew the Amish were so busy creating all of this non toxic furniture? I am thrilled to have found this. I will buy something untreated to avoid the whole lead paint issue, which means it will likely be ugly but at least it will be safe.

By the way, if you find a furniture company that you like, don't just ask "Is this real wood?" because they will say yes, even if it includes particleboard and MDF. This happened to me at Pottery Barn Kids and finally someone printed out descriptions which are not available to the public which listed MDF as the "wood". You need to be specific.

2. Bisphonal-A: Bisphenol A is a chemical found in almost all baby bottles. When heated, bottles can leach this chemical into the liquids inside. Bisphenol A has been linked to cancer, diabetes, immune dysfunction, hyperactivity and an alarming range of other disorders.

With Chloe, I used Dr. Brown's bottles which contained Bisphenol-A. This time around, I found Green to Grow bottles (www.greentogrow.com), which are Bispehenol A-free and overall have a great mission and products (also phthalate free).

Aint it nice that I can package my neuroses in an eco-friendly brown bag?

From mother to mother

2007-12-03T08:06:00.000-08:00

I lay awake last night, thinking about you. I was wrapped around my infant son, who was suffering from his first fever. As endless heat emanated between us, you entered my mind, chilling me briefly.

It has been a long time since I thought of you in this way, and I have to admit, it has been a relief. Last month marked 14 years since your son's death, and the first anniversary of the accident where I did not think about him. Last May, at my 10-year college reunion, I sat at a small memorial service for him, surrounded by the friends who had also surrounded me at his funeral. They cried softly, but I remained remarkably still. In a terrible way, it felt good that I could not exactly remember, even though we were walking the grounds where he lived.

The last time I heard from you was five years ago, a month past my wedding. It was right after September 11th, and you had sent a letter to my office. You had enclosed sunshine-shaped sequins, your trademark. They bulked the package in a way that made it appear suspicious at a time of high alert. It was torn apart, and then restored. Much like you, I hoped.

Your letter wished me well for my marriage, the news of which you had read in the paper. "I'm sorry I did not respond to your last note," you wrote. "It's just hard to find the words sometimes." We had traded words in letters for years on and off since your son, my friend, was killed in an accident just three months into his college career. I was by no means the closest to him, but I had been the newest, a romance just beginning to bloom. "He told us how you had watched a movie together," you had written in your first letter. I remember thinking how amazing it was that he had shared that with you, the hours we spent entwined in darkness, hearts and hormones racing. I would write back in an adolescent attempt to soothe a mother's wounds that were unreachably deep. You called me once, left a message, wanting to talk. I am ashamed that I never returned the call. I was too scared to hear your voice, to embrace the full measure of a pain that I could never understand.

Last night my mind returned to you, to a nuance that I had forgotten from that time. I needed a black dress for the funeral, and I had claimed that I had nothing to wear. Days before I had worn a black dress for Halloween, when friends and I dressed as slutty witches. This is what you do in college, when you are young and silly and carefree. That was the very last time we could be classified in those terms, as we were immediately aged and hardened by death. I would borrow a friends dress, and it would prove too tight, as I remember standing at the funeral, unable to breathe.

So I thought about that dress, and then it all flooded back, the music of that time, the searing emotions, your letters, the pain. These images entered me in the dense darkness of night, in that vulnerable place when you are neither asleep nor awake. I did not understand why now, of all times, I was back there again.

In the light of day, as my son's fever has come down and the sun has come up, it is clear to me now why I thought of you then. Now, I am a mother too. With a girl first, then a boy, just like you. I have never handled my children's illnesses well, yet there is something even more terrifying about my son when he is sick. He embodies a vulnerability that my daughter has never really shown, a neediness from the very core of him. I am his protector, in every sense of the word. And as he gripped my finger in his fat fist, burning up beyond belief, I dared to imagine losing him. And with that thought, came one of you and of your son who I barely knew. I wish I knew then what I know now. When the sunshine of your life was gone, the fact that you went on breathing, much less writing, and remembering, is miraculous. And just like my teenage words on looseleaf paper, I know my admiration does not dilute the pain. But from mother to mother, you are my hero.

Great-Full

2007-11-21T18:04:00.001-08:00

I was 18, it was summer, and my friend G was driving us back to camp. We were counselors on a day off which we spent at our friend Denise's house on Long Island. It was a precarious time, the last vestages of childhood slowly giving way. It was G's birthday that day, August 5. At the time, G and I were merely a fragment of the friends that we are today, but friends enough to share a long dark ride to camp in comfortable silence.

She was driving, and suddenly, tears began to slip silently down her tanned cheeks. I was stunned, unable to imagine what was upsetting her. After all, she had the two things that I believed were the key to ultimate happiness: perfect skin and boys by the bundle.

I asked her what was wrong.

"I'm okay," she assured. "It's just my birthday. I cry sometimes, thinking about where I was last year, where I am now, birthdays gone by. It's just...alot."

I nodded, and probably did not say much more, though I hope that I patted her back while she drove, or smoothed her long hair.

The truth was that I did not understand the emotionality surrounding a birthday retrospective. Birthdays never meant much to me. I remember them fondly but barely at all. I can't tell you how I turned 21, or 10 or even 30. But Thanksgivings -- I remember Thanksgivings.

In the 70s and 80s, my family's Thanksgivings were regal. My grandma Flo would would cook up a storm. She was an incredible chef -- the rare breed who cook and bake equally well. Everything she created was divine. And she was fancy and immaculate -- silky napkins, crystal goblets, extravagant flower arrangements. The table was a sight to behold, sparkling and gilded. This was her way. Twenty years later, we would be tipped off to her dementia when the food she cooked tasted off and crumbs appeared in her corners. And now she is 93, as energetic as ever but with little memory of the time when she was Queen of the Kitchen.

In those days, family would gather from far and wide for Thanksgiving, where the table needed its extra leaves and kids sat at an adjacent card table in plastic chairs. When the dinners moved to our house and grandma Flo stopped cooking, the guest list shrank. Food was hearty but simple. The kids would bolt away as soon as dessert was served to watch TV. The opulance was over, but the togetherness was still there.

Later still, my maternal grandparents died. First my grandfather, the spiritual center of my family. He had been the one to create a holiday prayer, a religious moment in a secular holiday. Then my grandmother passed, in 2001, just a week away from Thanksgiving. When the day did arrive, we ate bland turkey take-out. In an effort to lift spirits, my uncle's girlfriend brought sprinkle-covered candy apples. I still haven't forgiven her.

Since then, Thanksgiving has been erratic. My brother missed a few, a doctor in his residency. We spent one at grandma Flo's nursing home, eating boiled turkey and cranberry jelly from tiny packets. Some have been good, some have been less. But they have all brought us together, for the sake of family if not for food.

Three Thanksgivings ago, I announced that I was pregnant with would-be Chloe after struggling with infertility. At his turn to share what he was thankful for, my husband passed the sonogram picture to my doctor brother, who yelled "No fucking way!". An hour earlier, I secretly told my sister first, and we cried on grandma Flo's gorgeous green velvet couch which now lives in my parents library. Last year on Thanksgiving day, the second line appeared faintly on the EPT test. That time, it would just be our secret, A and I, until we would receive that black fuzzy photo of the orb that would eight months later become Dylan.

Every Thanksgiving a part of me wept, thinking of where I had been last. Just like G on her 19th birthday, Thanksgiving was always bittersweet -- heavy with memories of simpler times, when family was young, robust and intact. This year was the first time where, aside from this post, I stayed firmly in the present, and happily so. Our table was once again full, and this time, there were three babies. My nephew, Jacob, was finally walking. My daughter Chloe, was eating with a fork. And my son Dylan cooed and smiled in a manner that was nothing short of miraculous, considering that he was relegated to a carseat on the floor. Grandma Flo held him, long enough to believe that she was still spry enough to babysit. My brother, a self proclaimed bachelor for life, was whispering into the ear of the woman he will soon marry, another doctor. My parents looked young and acted younger, likely because they chose to cater dinner this year. A took his Thanksgiving nap wrapped around Chloe in an upstairs room. In a word, it was great -- full of great. And I am grateful -- that this year, this time, I stopped looking back.

Help, I need somebody

2007-11-16T11:18:00.001-08:00

The belated nanny post (3 months ago):
***********************************

We have hired a nanny.

If you are neurotic about caregivers, the best thing you can do is have two children under two-ish. Things will get so crazy that you will leave consider leaving the the kids with a homeless person, the doorman, the parking garage attendant. Goodbye neuroses, since someone on a message board advised me to "accept help from anyone, even if you don't like them".

Well, luckily I did not need to make any deals with the proverbial devil because we hired a lovely woman who I will call E for the sake of this site. She immediately put me at ease, but it does not take much these days - a kind stranger wants to come to your home and give you a moment to, let's say, go to the bathroom and immediately your heart turns to goo.

The night before her arrival was particularly hard. My husband was away, and I was exhaused. I called him crying and reached him at the airport. I felt all at once guilty and resentful for needing the help that would likely bankrupt us and at the same time, desperate for her to start. "We are all good at different things," he said. "You were amazing at managing a whole department of adults. You need help with the home stuff."

It sounds condescending as I type it, but he is right. I love being a mother, but the accessories of the job overwhelm me. I am a sucky cook, my diaper bag is never stocked nor organized, and mess paralyzes me. I get it all done, but by the end of the day, the exhaustion and anxiety can rattle me. I long for time to cook dinner, to finish thank you notes, to organize closets. I don't enjoy any of these things, but leaving them undone in the face of pizza, overdue gratitude and drawers that don't close keep me up at night. It's tough to be a Type A underachiever.

Oh, and there's that part time job I took that seemed like a great idea at the time, and now, I cannot fathom when the hell I am going to get any work done that does not allow me to wear a ponytail and unclipped nursing bra. To make any of this work, I needed a hand...two hands...any hands...

E has no children of her own but 16 siblings, a kind voice, loving lap and was not terrified by a surly toddler who glared at her beneath lowered eyelids while kicking the couch. Her hands are always open, loving, non judgemental. And best of all, just as neurotic as I am!

So day one is over, and while I am more exhausted than ever after a carefully choreographed meet and greet, the kitchen is clean, the rug decrumbed, and I had the confidence to give both children a bath. We had our moments*, especially Chloe, and there is an innate awkwardness involved in the employer/employee relationship when the business is babies, but all in all it worked. We have a long way to go -- but for now, I am happy to embrace the unknown in the arms of a stranger.

*E still stuck around even after, in a fit of outrage, Chloe bit me on the breast. Yes, folks, I was changing her shirt and she bit me right atop Dylan's "plate", so to speak. Top that.

Past Sense

2007-11-03T17:09:00.000-07:00

My childhood:

Sounded like: Sibling spats, singing "It's My Party" into a tape recorder, knocking on the wall that connected my sister's bedroom to mine, the garage door opening late at night when my father came home from work, Michael Jackson's BAD, Karma Chameleon, my parents rare and muffled arguments in our basement.

Tasted like: Broiled chicken, tuna fish in big pasta shells, grilled cheese with tomato, a dixie cup of M and Ms for dessert, my dad's frozen Three Musketeers bars, "bird in the nest", pancakes with blueberry syrup, Juicy Juice 100% juice, bubble gum flavored roller ball lip gloss, celery and peanut butter, Sunday night grilling.

Smelled like: Jean Nate, Ivory Soap, Flex and Pert shampoos, Debbie Gibson Electric Youth perfume, sweaty elementary school classrooms, cat, other people's cigarette smoke on my moms "going out" coat when smoking was still en vogue, my grandmother's Revlon lipstick, freshly cut grass, my mother's Chanel No. 5, my dad's Aramis or Drakaar Noir.

Felt like: Frizzy hair, boredom, itchy sweaters, fear of my closet (specifically the hangers),wanna be insecurity, the bliss before knowing heartache, cozy family in front of the television, believing my parents could heal anything, dreams of becoming a writer and a teen actress.

Looked like: Any anonymous suburb, perma-autumn, stable family, the mall, library, ugly duckling, spoiled rotten, a Judy Blume book.

High school:

Sounded like: A million mix tapes, Survivor's "Popular Girl", U2's "One", St. Elmo's Fire, Chicago, Christopher Cross, "The Search is Over", my voice screaming, door slamming, late night phone talking, belly-pain laughing.

Tasted like: Bagels with techina, Uno's Pizza, frozen yogurt, Zima, gin, Cadbury Eggs, gum, shitty beer, diner food.

Smelled like: Eternity for Men, cigarettes, Tamar's vanilla car freshner, peroxide, The Body Shop perfumes (esp. Dewberry and White Musk), many many cosmetics.

Felt like: Cold early mornings and dark nights at school, intellectual insecurity, deep heartache, desperate for something more, fear of boys and longing for them, 3:oo am at a diner, fear of bad grades, intoxicating independance, a sinking feeling that the best was right now, friendships as deep as romance, blissful time before body image issues.

Looked like: Long ugly skirts, penny loafers, too-tight sweaters, perfect curls and skinny body, too much makeup, surly teenager, safe rebellion, developing a taste for bad boys, notes passed in classes filled with song quotes

College:

Sounded like: Gus(ter), Indigo Girls, stoned laughter, Spur of The Moment, Sarah Machlachlan, The Dave Matthews Band, Screaming fights, deep dark secrets, Sheryl Crow "God I feel like hell tonight", drunken declarations, pipe dreams.

Tasted like: Frozen yogurt, scooped out bagels, diet hunger, cheap sushi, Absolut Currant, Fresca, diet sprite and white zinfandel

Smelled like: Denise's Downy and Estee Lauder Beautiful, Jill's Paul Mitchell and Liz Claiborne, spilled beer, ashtrays, vomit, CK ONE, perma-winter

Felt like: The walk of shame, intellectual inferiority, popularity, high highs and low lows, longing, drunkenness, idealist images of adulthood

Looked like: The it girl clique, a clusterfuck, wasting parents money, learning between classes, peer pressure, friendships at their best and worst, self destruction, boring is better than bad.

Single in the City:

Sounded like: Club music, 80s remix, fighting roommates, the MTA, condescending bosses a mere few years older, Andrea Boccelli and "Everything You Want" by Vertical Horizon.

Tasted like: Cheap sushi and 60 cent peas, decadant dinner dates, vodka cranberry, eggs and home fries at 3:00 AM.

Smelled like: The cologne of a stranger, messy apartment, the xerox machine outside my cubicle, sweaty suits, Jean Paul Gaultier perfume, the gym.

Felt like: Cheap clothes, late nights and early mornings, regret, hangovers, multiple mistakes, girl fun, bank account poor and living richly.

Looked like: Sex and the City but without the sex and the Manolos. waiting for Mr. Right, settling for Mr. Right Now.

What is your past sense?

Go-To-Gal on hiatus

2007-10-21T17:09:00.001-07:00

I used to be the go-to gal. Need something? You can count on me. I relished being a good friend and loyal family member. Being devoted to others in a meaningful way is not easy, but I took it on as a full time job. And I enjoyed the fruits of my labors. For example, my college friend Jill had an internship in Boston which ended around midnight. I would drive to meet her from my toasty bed on campus, even on the chilliest of evenings. We would have a late dinner at an upscale 24 hour sushi restaurant, and unpack our days as we dipped our sashimi. Also in college, I spent a combined 12 hellish hours on a bus from Boston to New Jersey, all to spend a laughter filled weekend with my friend Tamar in a dank dorm room. When my mother needed an MRI ten years ago, I appeared on her doorstep at the crack of dawn to take her to the hospital, even though I lived in a different city. When my mommy-mentor Candice had her children and I had not yet taken the leap, I would take several trains after work to reach her downtown home and the $20 cabride back, just to stare at their perfect little faces for inspiration. Back then, it was easy to stretch myself to the point of snapping to be there for someone else, and to get back just as much.

That was BKE: Before Kids Era.

Nowadays, I am so consumed in the little details attached to my little darlings, that I have let my previously held commitment to excellence in the realm of relationships fly out the window, along with my taut stomach and low bloodpressure.

The plans I make with other people have become elastic, stretching and bending to meet the ever changing needs of my day. At best, it feels impolite and at worst it feels obnoxious, but with two children who need me to wipe their asses and one who literally feeds off of my flesh, my verbal commitment has to have the texture of bubble gum with the same ability to pop at any moment.

Take this weekend. I made plans on Friday evening to attend a children's service with a friend and her daughter at 5:00. At 4:30, Chloe was still napping. Now if there is anything I am "sanctimommious" about, it's kids and sleep. I never wake my children up unless it is absolutely vital. I believe they need every ounce to fortify their constantly growing bodies. But I was sure Chloe would wake up soon. She'd been down over two hours. I left a message, telling my friend I would be there, but late. Then I left another, saying we'd miss it altogether, but let's meet up at a fall festival the next morning at 11:00. Saturday morning arrives, and my husband (knowing nothing of these plans) starts doing laundry at 9:30. I know we won't be out of here by 11:00, and yet, I am still hopeful. I tell my friend to swing by to pick us up on her way. When she nears, we are still up to our elbows in Dreft. I tell her we will meet her there. We get there at 12:00. I have made a plan already to go to a lecture at a new baby store at 1:30. But by 1:00, the kids are starving and no where near napping, and I don't want to leave the party nor my husband with the two kids. I text another friend who was planning on going to the lecture that we would meet up at the park later. Well later becomes too late, both our kids sleep until 5. Sunday, I have tentative plans to meet a friend in the afternoon. I miss her call, and then spend two hours in a panicked conversation with my husband about my career woes. Tears ensue. When I finally come up for air, I reach my friend, and tell her I will be ready by 3:00 (this time, the kids actually wake up on time). But now she is busy, likely having wondered what had become of me.

And so on, and so on...

I wish I could say that I was wracked with guilt -- how have I become such a flake? But as I told my husband -- if I were had to be held in stone to every plan I made, I would never see a single soul. Because right now, just keeping these children alive is a full time job. I plead the understanding of all involved, that this is a temporary lapse in manners and mobility, and I hope to be reinstated to the positions of "friend who is on top of everything" and associated with words like "reliable", "punctual" and even, "the best."

The good news is, this stretchy street is two ways. When someone cancels on me, I don't even blink. When I made a date with a new friend she punched it into her iphone. "Let me just warn you," she said, "I am queen over double booking". I loved this. A pre-emptive cancellation policy. Unreturned phone calls, broken playdates, my birthday goes ignored and frankly, it makes me feel better. We all have busy lives, be it kids or work or just wanting to focus on ourselves. We can only hope that we will continue to find our way back to those we love, whether it's a foot on a calf in the middle of the night or a girls night out once a month -- we'll keep trying to show we care, even when we can't be all there.

Updates

2007-10-12T11:22:00.000-07:00

1. My husbands biopsy proved benign (thank god). He is taking two weeks worth of intense antibiotics that are so strong, they should blast out what ever is causing his lumpiness. Thanks for asking.

2. Chloe loves school! Well, at least she loves her teacher and a boy named Noah. Noah, Noah, Noah all day long. He is a looker, I must say, but is also the only one still crying in class. She clearly can resonate with his weepiness. I can only imagine them sniffling together down the aisle.

3. I realize what I miss about working in an office. Calorie restriction. Despite the occassional birthday cake, its pretty hard to overeat when you are working all day. I am about to go out to replace all of the M and Ms I have consumed, which were specifically purchased to convince Chloe to poop on the pot. Talk about stealing candy from a baby.

Three turns

2007-10-11T08:09:00.000-07:00

My nanny* and I were staring down at Dylan, Mr. Delicious. We do this alot. I think she loves him as much as I do. He lies back, looking at us, all gums and cornflower eyes and pale, spotless skin. "I can't believe how different he looks," nanny says, referring to the two months ago when she started working with us. I agree. "He has one more turn", she says, as she smoothes her hand lovingly across his soft spikes of black hair. I look at her, confused. "Three turns. Everyone has three turns. This is his second turn. One more left." She is referring to something she believes in, something from her home in Belize or something astrological, both of which I know little about. She maintains that all babies looks turn twice and then settle in at the third. So far, she is on track. He started out a little scrawny chicken, plucked too soon, all flailing limbs, droopy eyelid and rosebud lips. Now he has morphed into a large, lean bean, except for belly that hangs over pants. His eyes usually match now, a cornflower blue with an almond shape. His chin is mine, pointed and strong. Remnants of his dramatic entry to this world are all but gone - yet it is clear that his looks are not completely settled. There is a bald patch of missing hair that needs to grow back. His legs are still pretty bowed. His teeth are somewhere beneath pink rubbery gums. There is one more big turn.

I like this concept of three turns -- three chances -- to be who we really want to be, or who we want to be with. Three big relationships, three bold career moves. This is why people love their thirties, I think. Feeling like they finally settled in to where they were supposed to be. I like to believe that we have at least this many chances to change. This has held true in my love life. I started out painfully shy, scribbling love letters into notebooks behind thick glasses and a halo of frizz. I spent the next turn in skin tight clothing -- plunging necklines, Victoria's Secrets, walks of shame, cocktails and hangovers and indulging assholes. All this lead me to a wonderful man, marriage and an assortment of less exciting underwear that now includes the extra high briefs worn to accomodate a massive C section scar.

Then there's my career. Beginning with the beauty industry that proved to be anything but beautiful. Moving on to professional philanthropy....begging for dollars for a variety of causes. This felt good, better than shmoozing for shampoo. And still, I am unsettled. I am bored. It does not fit well, despite the fact that I wear it comfortably, like the maternity pants that I still run around town in. I want more. I want the jeans that make my ass look great. I want the career that makes me want to work, that gives me the sense of purpose which my father warns me never to lose. I know what I want to do, but I am unsure how to get there. I am ready for my third turn, but this one could really use a road map, a parachute and very big break.

*Post about my amazing nanny coming up - SF in Brooklyn, you inspired the turn on this topic!

Ultra Sensitive...

2007-10-09T11:22:00.000-07:00

...its not just for condoms and toothpaste anymore!

I have a Gmail account, and for those of you who don't use it, Gmail will "scan" the contents of your emails (they promise they don't read them), and produce banner ads on the side of the email that you might be interested in based on the key words in your messages.

Gmail explains it this way:

Google is NOT reading your mail. Privacy is an issue we take very seriously. Gmail is a technology-based program, so advertising and related information are shown using a completely automated process. Ads are selected for relevance and served by Google computers using the same contextual advertising technology that powers our AdSense program. This technology lets Google target dynamically changing content such as email or daily news stories.
Because the ads and related pages are matched to information that is already of interest to you, we hope you'll find them relevant and useful.

**
It is a little creepy to say the least, but an email system that far surpasses the spam nightmare of Yahoo.

So today, my husband and I were exchanging some messages based on what I believed to be a less than friendly tone which I perceived during our last phone call. Nothing too dramatic, and he immediately apologized (which he generally does.) Nowhere did he call me oversensitive, but Gmail sent me the following helpful hint:

Highly Sensitive?Learn to work with your sensitivity rather than against it, then shine!www.HighlySensitiveSouls.

Good thing I am not married to the robot behind that one!

Advice

2007-09-30T08:45:00.000-07:00

Some people hate advice. "Assvice", it is called, by those who feel irritated upon hearing it. They believe it holds judgement, an insinuation that something they are doing could be done alot better. Or even a little bit.

I love advice. Pearls of wisdom, opinions, what-have-you. Maybe it's the writer in me, seeking inspiration from the ordinary. Even if I don't heed it, I like to hear it - words that are important to those that I love and even those that I don't.

Here is some great advice that I have received, or thoughts that are strung together in a manner so succinct and interesting that I can not help but remember. Please share yours too, as I mentioned, I love to hear it.

"It's better to be liked than to be right." - my husband, in terms of finding peace in the workplace. Wish I had heeded this one more.

"Confidence is critical." - my friend Regina, on a porch of a boys bunk when we were 16 years old. She was effortlessly confident and quirky, in all the places that I was shy and safe.

"Don't wear blazers or any jacket that is longer than your waist." - My sister Leslie, who has a keen awareness of what fits a woman best.

"Never hesitate to make your husband feel a little jealous." - My mother, who routinely drives my father crazy with this. But they have been married for almost 32 years.

"Don't let a boy touch anything inside your reverse triangle." - My friend Denise, via her mother. The triangle is the route drawn from the top of your boobs down to your crotch. I may not have lived this one, but my daughter sure will *right?*

"You are not important enough to be this stressed out" - Suzy, a co-worker senior to me when I was a lowly scrub in beauty PR.

"Where you can't find a mensch, be one." - My dad, paraphrasing his dad, and a talmudic quote.

"Don't take that Percocet. You may never stop." - My sister in law after my C-secion. A psychologist who was quietly assessing my shaky emotional state and gleefully filled prescription.

"People who are secure with who they are have a special glow." - Ross, a boy I dated for a minute or two.

"Learn to play tennis or ski. These are social sports." - My dad, again. He may have been channeling the 80s corporate culture, so perhaps insert "golf" here.

"Love is not a feeling, it is a decision" - The rabbi who married A and me.

"Floss." - A variety of dentists.

"Nothing is harder than being a first time mom" - My friend Adina, after her birthing her third boy in five years.

"Good public speaking skills are crucial in life." - My dad, again. This one I listened to.

"They hyperbole of grief...is often used to fill the vacuum left by a personality." - A writer who had the balls to comment on the ridiculous outpouring of grief that occurred after the death of a celebrity who I will keep nameless here.

"Don't brush curly hair." - I wish I could remember who to thank for this one.

"Close female friendships are the best dress rehearsal for what it takes to make a marraige work." - I read this somewhere and could not agree more.

"When it comes to kids eating habits, look at a week, instead of each day, to assess nutritional success." - Dr. Sears.

"Everyone likes to be asked about something they enjoy doing outside of work." - my husband

"Your body is pre-programmed to be a certain weight. Unless you take extreme measures in either direction, you'll keep staying pretty much at where you were meant to be." - Recent NY Times article. I always had a hunch this is true.

"Your children are like a videotape, recording every move that you make." - Commercial

"No talk!" - My daughter Chloe, when I chat on the phone while playing with her.

"The state of a person's towels is a good indicator of the state of a person's life." - Oprah

We are stronger...when we are giving up.

2007-09-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

Back in the day, when I made mix tapes as frequently as I now make peanut butter sandwiches, I would give each tape a title, a quote from a song within. One of my favorites included "We are stronger...when we are giving up."* I was pretty taken with the concept, which seemed to be an inherent paradox of sorts, but these words seem to soothe me at those times in life when saying goodbye to something takes more guts than just hanging on.

I have been slowly giving away my babies' clothes, Dylan's too. Even he has his own stash of "too smalls", the things he once swam around in with skinny limbs and slackened skin. Now he is all husky and chubby and vibrant, and he leaves behind heaps of teeny tiny. I have not been giving it all away, just some, and I have been giving it to my nanny. Not because she is needier than anyone else who could receive them, but because I know that if I give them to her, I can't ask for them back.

Dylan is the kind of baby who makes me want to have 100 more. He is beautiful and sweet and smiley and so easy that I almost forget him from time to time. He is my prozac, the picture of tranquility and light. He lifts me up.

So I look at him, and I crave more of him. More delicious little miracles. And I think that I might even be able to convince A to spin that wheel one more time, to stretch our emotions and our strength and our finances. I don't feel done yet. I want more.

And we could do it, I think. If I was not me. Because when I am not gazing blissfully into my children's faces, I am freaking out. I am a worrier of the worst kind. I fear the worst, always. The internet is not my friend. I guess and second guess my decisions and how they will affect these priceless little people who have entrusted me with their lives. While I have become pretty good at living in the moment, when night falls and I am finally in bed my stomach twists with worry. How is it that Chloe watches TV during dinner every night? This is definitely a bad thing, right? And Dylan's head is becoming flat from all of the time that I need him to lie down away from his sister's busy hands. He will definitely need a helmet. I watched Larry King Live last night - all about Autism. Should I split the MMR vaccine? What about flu shots? Will Chloe choke on her Flintstone vitamins? They look awfully big. And when what about my marriage? Will A and I ever be able to spend a quiet evening alone, ever again? Will he someday crave his freedom, or at least a momentary reprieve from my expressed and repressed agita?

So you can understand, that despite the fact that I have been told by friends and strangers that I am a wonderful mother, parenting is hard for personalities like mine. Nothing slides off of me. It all sticks, and sometimes erodes. I can't help it. This is what love does to me.

I truly don't have the stomach for another child. And I am not talking stretch marks. I am talking the deep cramping of concern, when fever is not breaking or milestones are not met. It's so much already with only two. The pleasure far exceeds the pain, but the pain can be debilitating. And I desperately miss my husband, who I barely have time to take in before we both pass out.

I may regret this one day, when life is easier or I have become more accustomed to all this questioning. But for now, I take solace in acknowledging my own weaknesses, that which I can not change. The right thing for me, is not be greedy -- to accept my limitations and to rejoice in what I have, and not worry about what I am giving up.

*I am ashamed to admit that this quote is from the song "Meet Me Halfway", which I believe is by Kenny Loggins. Please do not allow that to diminish my sentiment here. I am an 80s kid, after all.

Nature Vs. Nurture

2007-09-14T09:47:00.001-07:00

When I was a child, I had a recurring dream. I was in a daycare center, filled with kids. I was holding a boot, and I left the room to find its pair. When I came back, everyone was gone. I was alone, terrified.

It does not take Freud to analyze this one. Yes, it may have been a foreshadowing of my shoe obsession, but really -- I was always a child who was terrified of being alone.

My mother blames this on the year she spent home with me, attached by the hip. I never wanted to be without my parents. I cried hysterically with other caregivers. I did not even want to lose one parent to the other, sobbing at their feet if they dared to dance at a wedding. Even as an older child, I had problems separating. I spent my first hours at sleepaway camp sitting on the wet sink, tears streaming down my face, begging to go home.

Much of this went hand in hand with a shyness that I never really got over -- which readily evaporates once I get comfortable but can paralyze me in the beginning. It's a formidable obstacle to manage as a professional fundraiser, and wreaked havoc on my dating life. At the office, I was regarded as a cold bitch, when really, I just had trouble making elevator conversation. Thankfully, this discomfort lasts only as long as it takes to make a stranger into an acquaintance. Once hands are shaken and pleasantries exchanged, I ease right into my chatty, effusive, smiley self. But the ice needs to shatter first.

I met my husband on a trip that I was running. He was one of the participants, one of 200 singles who were ready to party. While they hooted and hollered in the back of the bus, sweating out last night's cocktails and and groping each other, my husband sat in the front, listening intently to the tour guide providing historical reference about the landscape we were rolling over. His roommate was the veritable king of the party, one he chose because he knew it was his best chance to be thrown into the mix, where he would have otherwise sat somewhere closer to the sidelines, taking it all in.

Even my attempts at flirting were received awkwardly, and I still cringe when I think of the two of us, shy by nature yet quite attracted to the other, trying to make conversation. I was the bolder of us two, since I was actually "at work" on this trip, but I still felt the full measure of his discomfort around me. Months later when the trip festivities were gone, and it was just the two of us, sparks flew, shyness abandoned and it perhaps it was the keen understanding of the other's initially quiet nature that gave way to the boistrous banter that ensued and has never lapsed since.

Once married, and even before, our similarities became even clearer. I am the more outgoing of the two of us in social situations, but he is the business barracuda. And we can both "turn it on" when we want to, we really just love to be at home, with each other. I loathe his travel for work, as does he, and neither of us can imagine taking a vacation without the other. We enjoy our tiny apartment, our kids in our bed, sharing a space to the point of a smother. He does not relish "guys night out" and my idea of an ideal girls night is just a few of us, some great sushi and being home and in bed beside A by 11:00.

***

Day two of preschool proved worse than the first for Chloe. It started out deceptively well, and I bid her a chipper "bye byeeee!". I sat in the hallway with another mom, a lovely woman whose son did not bat an eyelash when she disappeared. As the minutes ticked by, I allowed myself to relax and believe that this was working. I even allowed myself to discuss plans for next year's school, overly confident that Chloe was blissfully building towers, creating clay sculptures, feeding doll babies -- my amazing, well adjusted kid.

My daydream was shattered by a loud "ahem!" It was one of her teachers. "I think you need to come back inside", she said. I looked around, and it became apparent that she was talking to me. I saw the back of someone who looked like my child, sitting on the teacher's lap. But her shoulders were shaking in a way I had never seen. When she turned around, she was even more unrecognizable. She was purple. Her face was soaking wet, mucus dripping down her nose. She was gasping and shuddering, so upset she barely registered my presence. "Mama sit!" she wailed. "Home! Home! Home!"

This was not good. All of the other children were happily absorbed in some project, or at least not crying. I remained for the rest of the class, much to the teacher's irritation, I am sure. It was starting to feel as if this was never going to happen. Yet, it really has to.

This situation is keeping me up at night, and annoying the hell out of A and everyone I talk to about it. What had I done wrong? Chloe has always had a nanny, I was always working part time. She has been left in the care of my mother, sister, brother, best friend and countless others with no problem. Was I too smothering? Did I not provide her with enough playdates? Enough independance? Why was this happening? Why did 11 other children scamper away without a look back?

My parents were quite opinionated on this topic. "She needs to be with other people...she is with you too much...," my mother chanted. "I knew a girl who could not separate from her mother in Kindergarten," my father said, "and its 40 years later and she still has not separated!"

Helpful.

As I tried to connect the dots, they all lead me back to one place...the mirror. And not in the way I expected. It was not something I had done or not done. It was not that I am just so irresistably great to be with. It was who I am, and the pieces of me that I see in her. The shyness that eventually gives way to loud and lively friendships. The need to be close to the ones that I loved. I live less than a mile from my mother, and talk to her several times a day. Same for my sister. I guess I never really separated, did I? And all the ways I have already explained that A and I are one and the same -- what some may call co-dependant but I like to call just being crazy in love -- all of these factors have spiraled their way into Chloe's DNA.

I have always envied those who are instantly comfortable in new surroundings or fake it well -- my friend Gail is like this. I have known her for more than half my life and she glides into any situation, as if on skates, shattering the ice as she dances on through. I remember that before my 16th summer spent in Israel, there was an orientation meeting for parents and participants. I had to miss it, so my mother went without me. There had been some reason to ask for volunteers to act out something that evening, "and guess who was the first to raise their hand?" my mom asked. Gail, of course. It's just her way. I remember thinking, "I could never have done that." And I know my mom was thinking "Amy would never have done that." Because moms know their kids, their frailties and their strengths -- perhaps because they are oh so familar.

We spend so much time worrying about what we should do to keep from messing up our kids, or to enable them to be their very best selves. When really, there is only so much nurturing we can do to overcome nature's strong hold. We need to embrace our children for who they are as well as what they do, and come to terms with "that which we can not change". I hope this gives me an edge in trying to salve Chloe's growing pains - to provide her with the things* that I cling to in order to embolden myself: deep breaths, a big smile and a belief that I am stronger than I think.

*and in Chloe's case, a Hello Kitty backpack.

A lump in the throat

2007-09-10T17:46:00.001-07:00

My Chloe started school today -- and by school, I mean overpriced sand table and finger paints. I was told by the teachers "Don't expect them to come home READING. This is PLAY."A pretty idiotic thing to say to a group of crazy Manhattan parents with delusions of MENSA. Me being me, I volunteered to be Class Mom. I have no idea what this entails, but I already plan to wield my power to veto the lame snack offering -- Cherrios and water.

The hardest part of being and adult is acting like one. Chloe and I rode the bus together, arriving early. We sat on the benches outside a local university. As if time was not flying fast enough. She looked divine -- brand new dress, bursting with excitement (over the cookies I had brought, not the school). I felt a lump form in my throat, and I swallowed it quickly, along with the Nilla wafers. No crying allowed.

Her first days of school involve a phasing in process, where the parents slowly disappear. I watched her play blissfully amidst dilapidated toys, all new to her. Every few minutes she would remember and call to me, wanting me to join, tears filling her eyes when I encouraged her to keep going it alone. "Mama sit!" she would demand, handing me a dump truck. "All the kids earlier separated easily", one of the teachers commented. Already a "Needs Improvement"? I thought we had time before the red pen came out.

Somewhere in the middle of the hour, my phone rang. It was my husband. He had been seeing a doctor for a lump in his throat that had not gone away. At this morning's appointment, a CAT scan was recommended. I know it is nothing -- because it has to be. I fear even recording it here, infusing it with importance. And the doctor was sure it was nothing too, but wanted to be positive. And I had to be positive, upbeat...whispering "It's fine"s and "I'm not worried"s amidst "The Wheels on the Bus". I had to swallow the lump in my throat yet again, because the one in his is the one that matters.

The mommies are being ushered out the door, and it closes with a soft thud. It's time for everyone to be brave, I am thinking, and mentally instructing my little girl whose whimpering I hear behind wood. I am not sure who I need to soothe first. Just at that moment, my mom appears. And I unload, grateful to be a child first, and a little less brave, if only behind closed doors.

LABOR day...

2007-09-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

...what a fitting name for a long weekend vacation with a 2 year old and a 6 week old.

First, a shout out to my hometown of Jersey, and specifically Long Beach Island, which I highly recommend to tri-staters looking for a tropical experience. I found myself regretting that the only time I had been to the Jersey shore was after the prom, when my highschool friends and I could have had some serious fun there when we were young enough to not care about SPF or hearing damage from the bar DJ.

I also found myself thinking about beaches. Being a mother at the beach is a surreal experience, kind of like being a mother at the pediatrician, or at new parents night at school (tonight!) These are times when I can't help but feel like I am just playing a part -- that the name "Mom" still does not fit quite right, I keep searching behind me for my own.

I have a multitude of beach memories -- as a child, my father flipping me into the waves with his hands in a tight and painful grasp under my bony arms...as a teenager, writing the name of the boy I liked in the sand and watching my secret get washed away...standing under a waterfall in the Galilee as a 16 year old, surrounded by friends, totally ignorant of how we had it all for just a moment...at 24, watching my then boyfriend now husband kneel in the sand on a perfect beach in Antigua, offering a promise of limitless happiness...

And now I was watching my daughter frolic with her father, my husband of six years, against a glittering ocean that I could not believe was reached via the Garden State parkway. My son, who continues to amaze me with his angelic quality of complete complaceny, lay in a netted sun dome beside me under an umbrella. While I had moments of missing -- the romantic quality of the beach, the time to smooth scented lotion on sunkissed skin -- I am now a mother, whose fun very much comes last. And yet, I finally truly understood the meaning of living vicariously.

And now, a few important lessons learned for those of you who are yet to embark on such a journey:

1. Always bring pool toys that are as cool as the other kids will have.
2. Do be surprised when your exhausted toddler happily sleeps in the hotel pack and play.
3. Newborns and sand do not mix.
4. Nursing and sunscreen do not mix.
5. Get a wax -- you will have no time to shave while on the trip if a toddler is busy washing your feet with her filthy washcloth.
6. Your car can fit more than you ever imagined.
7. Expect to have a totally separate vacation from your spouse. The one with the toddler will be frolicking on the beach and collecting shells. The one with the newborn will be worrying about biting flies while reading In Style under multiple umbrellas.
8. Splurge on the suite unless you enjoy taking naps all together and going to sleep by 9:00 (we have never been so well rested!)
9. Dine early -- kids eat free before 6 PM!
10. Saying "I won't order anything, I will just share (kids)" is the surest way to gain 10 pounds. Leftover fried nuggets, the end of an ice cream cone and soggy fries do actually have calories.
11. Nothing is grosser than #2 in a wet swim diaper.
12. Don't pack anything nice...for anyone...
13. You do need that many diapers and wipes.
14. There is no good way to bring a newborn to the beach -- stick poolside.
15. Don't buy that huge sand shovel unless you are prepared for it to become a weapon at any moment.
16. Try and find a hotel with an elevator. You'll have lots to lug.
17. If you only have stairs, it is a great opportunity to teach someone to count!
18. Find a wonderful friend with a gorgeous beach house to stop at on the way to your destination. Bonus points if she makes her own cookies.
19. Expect many a boo boo.
20. Allow for multiple ice cream cones in one day. It's worth it.

Romi Belle

2007-08-30T18:43:00.001-07:00

A warm welcome to the newest member of the Mama Dramas blogroll: Romi Belle.

I'm all about the bling, when it comes to Chloe's clothes, and baby GAP sure does not have enough crystals. Enter Romi Belle, a great company started by my friend Romina Alstodt, who, if you can get over the fact that she is tall, gorgeous AND talented (grrr...) has developed a great collection of baby and kids clothes and gifts that are truly one of a kind. She has some great new mommy gifts on there as well, and stuff to splurge on for yourself.

One of my fave pieces of Chloe's wardrobe was the bedazzled "wifebeater" tanktop that Romina made for her, which bore her name in crystals which actually held its own after a bazillion washings (finally succumbing recently to fingerpaints and I am devastated!) So I can vouch for the quality and applaud a "momtrepreneur".

Visit her at www.romibelle.com. Mama Dramas readers get 10% off -- just mention "mamadrama" at check out.

Bling on, kids.

Regrets, I have them too.

2007-08-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

Please visit my pal at Apartment 53 (see blogroll). She penned a phenomenal list of regrets that are incredibly profound and inspiring. In an effort to share the fact that no matter what lives we live, we all have a thick stack of regrets, here are just a smattering of mine. Jill, you are not alone, but thanks for inspiring the following bravery:

1. I regret that I interviewed for Ogilvy and Mather without preparing first, and got bitched out about it, rendering me terrified of future interviews and without a great copywriting career.

2. I regret how long I wore and loved bodysuits.

3. I regret that I spent so much time judging a book by its cover.

4. I regret ever having sex with an ex without a condom.

5. I regret waiting so long to take Accutane and suffering for so long with bad skin.

6. I regret every fucking second I lay out in the sun. I am convinced Melanoma will kill me.

7. I regret not realizing that I was once a natural beauty.

8. I regret waiting 21 years to lose my virginity, only to lose it to such a loser.

9. I regret the fact that I was not a great big sister until my little sister was big.

10. I regret that my friend Jill and I did not live with our friend Phil that first year out of college. I don't think that bad year would have ever happened. It would have been tantastic.

11. I regret that I ever dyed my hair as a teenager and ruined the texture.

12. I regret that I often confused lust with love.

13. I regret that I spent so much time as a sullen teenager.

14. I regret that I was not better to my high school friends while we were in college.

15. I regret that I believed my parents when they said that you can't make a living in the creative arts.

16. I regret that I did not go to sleep away camp sooner.

17. I regret that I never wrote that pilot with Jill, or started that great company with Elise.

18. I regret that I blamed my friend for my brief stint with an eating disorder and froze her out.

19. I regret that I hooked up with that guy who said "let's not tell anyone about this".

20. I regret that I did not I did not heed the words: "hold on to 16, as long as you can", that my friend Tzipora used to name my 16th birthday mix tape.

21. I regret my wedding dress.

22. I regret not taking that trip to California with my friends after the summer in Israel. By the time I had convinced my parents to let me go, I had chickened out.

23. I regret that I told my friend after her boyfriend hit on me. They stayed together and stopped talking to me.

24. I regret that I did not attend Beri's wedding, and that she was not a bridesmaid at mine. She deserved to be.

25. I regret that I found it so hard to let some decaying friendships go.

26. I regret that I bitched about my boss's "pet" to her, thinking she might see things my way.

27. I regret that I ever attempted laser hair removal. Does not work.

28. I regret that I am spending way too much time on this blog, but also, not enough.

29. I regret that because I did not know better, my grandmother died.

30. I regret that I did not spend enough time memorizing her while she was alive.

31. I regret that I ever thought I looked good when I was super skinny. I just looked old.

32. I regret that I did not realize that youth is really wasted on the young.

33. I regret that I allowed boys to get between me and the same friend, twice.

34. I regret that I am no longer in touch with my friend Adina. She is amazing.

35. I regret that I bought Nutella. It's too dangerous to have around.

36. I regret that I ever stopped working out. Now I have no choice.

37. I regret that I never had enough hustle to get where I wanted to go. I hope I can change this one.

38. I regret how much TV I watched when I could have been writing.

39. I regret not buying a TV for my bedroom.

40. I regret using flat paint in the apartment -- too many flaws show.

41. I regret that when an decent ex boyfriend's mother died, I was unable to pay a shiva call.

42. I regret that I ever thought flourescent green was a good color on me.

43. I regret that I ever used a hair brush.

44. I regret that I never learned Excel.

45. I regret leaving my first great job for more money to end up at my very worst job.

46. I regret thinking that I could handle it all myself.

47. I regret telling a friend what I really thought about the girl he was interested in. They eventually got married and now it's awkward whenever we see each other.

48. I regret ever trying eel sushi.

49. I regret every minute that I spent being shy.

50. I regret that my career is nowheresville

51. I regret that I only went abroad to Israel for one semester, instead of a whole year.

52. I regret that I often made my dad feel badly for just being who he is.

53. I regret that I chose to move and have my first baby in the same month,

54. I regret that I did not buy a variety of different apartments when the market was much better.

55. I regret that I did not find a brilliant way to tell a certain ex colleague to go fuck himself.

56. I regret that my mother is often right.

57. I regret that I did not fire my old nanny sooner.

58. I regret that I felt so wounded when friends let me down. I now know that not everyone can be everything to you every time.

59. I regret that I lost those amazing pink cufflinks that my husband bought me at Thomas Pink.

60. I regret that I have lost so much of my old writing.

61. I regret that I have spent most of my life being non-confrontational, which is often a slippery slope towards passive-aggressive.

62. I regret not taking three months maternity leave.

63. I regret being a bitch to so many drug store employees who were not moving fast enough.

64. I regret that I do not make nearly enough zucchini bread for my husband who loves it.

65. I regret that I do not always remember to kiss my husband when he walks in the door. I always want to.

66. I regret that I once made my grandfather upset when I pushed him too hard to talk about the Holocaust.

67. I regret that my lemonade addiction is killing my stomach.

68. I regret that I never truly learned mathematics.

69. I regret that I once wore blue glasses that had grey tinted lenses.

70. I regret bangs.

71. I regret that I did not change obstetricians when I knew I should have.

72. I regret that I can't let go of how angry I am about mistakes surrounding Dylan's birth, even though we made it through okay.

73. I regret that every time my husband travels for work I am terrified that he will die on an airplane.

74. I regret that I may never actualize my true potential.

75. I regret that I cannot sit on the floor with my kids for days on end without feeling the walls close in on me.

76. I regret I am too tired to jump my husband every night, when he is so damn appealing.

77. I regret knowing so many terrible stories about children that my mind tortures me with the "what ifs" (and I then in turn torture my pediatricians).

78. I regret not getting that bikini wax before going into labor.

79. I regret de-friending my friend Tamar in 6th grade for a day or two.

80. I regret that I have not yet appropriately thanked the friend who sent over dinner the night that I came home from the hospital...for that and so much more.

81. I regret that I don't call my living grandmother nearly enough.

82. I regret not ever seeing Les Miz.

83. I regret that I was an MTV intern.

84. I regret that I wore penny loafers for waaay too long.

85. I regret that I don't really understand the ideal answer to that Miss South Carolina question myself.

86. I regret that I don't know much about history.

87. I regret that I am yet to renew my drivers license.

88. I regret that I may parent out of love and fear equally.

89. I regret that I am yet to really learn HTML.

90. I regret all the times that I littered.

91. I regret the fact that I have mercury dental fillings.

92. I regret not continuing to sing after high school.

93. I regret not seeing enough of my cool friend Kara.

94. I regret not downloading "Baby Beluga" for Chloe because I hate dealing with Ipod.

95. I regret that my kids and Gail's kids have opposite nap schedules.

96. I regret that I now actually crave McDonald's after spending 2 decades never missing a thing.

97. I regret how much time I have spent staring at my pores.

98. I regret hiding behind my hair.

99. I regret not putting addresses into label format for all the damn thank you notes (see #44)

100. I regret the fact that I should have mentioned that despite all of these regrets, I have more blessings than I can count.

The Man

2007-08-19T09:46:00.001-07:00

My friend Gail asks in an email "Tell me about the little man". I have traded several emails with her daily since he has been born, and somehow have yet to babble on and on about Dylan. I have been so busy in my own head, trying to both freeze and speed time, that I have been barely able to articulate and record the details of the new man in my life.

I kind of expected that this baby would be just like my first, and I realize now, as I said to my pediatrician, that his newness makes me an ignorant parent all over again. All of the things I knew and even believed myself to be an expert on are now packed away to make room for all the newness, the insecurity and the brand new delight.

Dylan, in a word, is a dream. His physicality speaks volumes about the kind of baby he is -- he has a wide open face, that is inquisitive and busy when he is awake and docile and doll-like when he is sleeping. His eyes are so much like his sisters that I can not imagine they will change from their blue-gray seas despite his brown eyed parents. Unlike Chloe, whose features and persona were intense and somewhat critical as a newborn, Dylan's are embracing, accepting, luminous. He has Chloe's strong chin and full lips, the lower one pouts out only in a rare moment of upset.

He spends most of the day asleep, whereas Chloe would stare at me, petulant in a bouncy seat. He craves closeness, holding, stroking. He has shared a few genuine smiles, but they are still distant and they vanish in the blink of an eye.

He has a stubborn streak already, and arms that I swear push my hands away when I am doing something he does not like. He refuses a pacifier - and clearly resents it when I push the plastic muffle on him. He is not easily distractable and does not greatly enjoy toys -- opting instead to stare at some household favorites, the metal rods of our headboard, the pattern of the duvet cover, the twinkle of the kitchen lightbulbs.

He is the lightest sleeper imaginable. He can smell me from a mile away and immediately starts calling for a drink, even if he is not thirsty, just because he senses that it's available. The sound of a bag opening, my typing, the creak of our bed, it all awakens him into a small gripe.

He likes to sleep in, just like me. Except I can't do that anymore, and neither can he, since his sister is shouting "Baby 'wake!" into his bassinette.

He has already brought me profound happiness, and redemption. This time, I am a mother who fell in love at first sight, felt strong even in the weak moments, and wants to stare into his eyes all day long.

I hope he makes all good women in his life feel this way, forever.

Mean Mommy

2007-08-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

...that's me!

Today, I said "No!" at various decibels in response to the following:

1. Impaling fork into tray
2. Throwing poorly cooked orzo across room
3. Jumping on bed in an effort to cause concussion
4. Slapping brother's head. Twice.
5. Putting pieces of chicken into water glass. Wiping wet chicken on me.
6. Yelling "Mine!" while hugging every item on a communal playspace
7. Waking up momentarily sleeping newborn by pulling on his toes at the crack of dawn and yelling "Baby Out!!"
8. Recreationally ripping toilet paper that A nor I will remember to replace when we run out.
9. Running amok with popsicle stick in mouth.
10. Refusing to share chalk with little Max and his baby sister -- whose lovely mother, incidentally, is recovering from CHEMOTHERAPY for CANCER and hanging out at the playground. And yet I still have the audacity to be bitching right now?

Chloe is a totally different child with A: laughing (not the sinister one she reserves for me), gleeful, adorable. As they splashed each other in the bath I commented on this fact and A said: "Try being fun".

I am too tired for fun.

Though I might add that despite all of the above irritation, I discovered that it feels really freaking good to have a Thomas engine (or one of his fellow trains) dragged up and down your back at the end of the day. Try it.

Two

2007-08-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

My first baby, you feel all grown up already. When I came home from the hospital with your brother, a week after your 2nd birthday, it was clear that the final vestiges of your babyhood have all but evaporated.

You started calling me "mommy", instead of "mama", which will likely give way all too soon to "mom" or "her" when you are angry and spilling secrets onto your girlfriends like I did. And you have grown a sense of humor, laughing a big fake laugh at your own jokes. You delight in yourself as I delight in you, your songs and the way you, for now, want to be just like me. You strut in high heels and demand to accessorize with a purse and hat, more like a grandma than like your mommy who hardly has time for a shower.

You are the consummate host, ensuring that everyone has a snack "nack", when you do, kissing everyone when you are in a good mood and bursting to share your joy. You are all at once a diva and a tom boy, playing in the dirt without a care in the world until you are chagrined by your own "dirty".

Your loves are simple: an ice pop, a ride on Daddy's back, a TV show, your grandma's house and your binky. Your fantasies are a bit more complex: a trip to the beach "Me in beach!", a ride on an airplane, to shave your legs, to have a baby of your own.

I am amazed by your physical gifts, your dexterity and energy level, your huge blue eyes, dimples and flawless skin. I don't love you for any of these things but am humbled by each one, wondering what I did to deserve the cherry on top. Your sensitivity astounds me and worries me all at once -- the way that you ask "Mama 'kay?" when I whisper the smallest "ouch" from across the house. I pray that your universally caring nature will be a blessing and not a burden.

I love how you love me, even though the smothering is driving me a bit batty right now -- as my breastmilk leaks and my unwashed hair tickles my neck in that way that I hate. Your rough yet loving embrace hits me right at the incision that the doctors made to rescue your brother -- and while your hug hurts, it also heals.

You have still proven to be my wonderful girl in the face of so much chaos. The one who asks for naps, kisses her brothers toes, and wants me above all else. When I feel like I am failing at so much, and looking like hell, I am thrilled that someone thinks that I walk on water -- a supermodel.

I am writing this here, because when our days are filled with "No!" and "Gentle, gentle" and "Now!" I need you to know that "I love you" rings louder than the rest. You are irreplacable -- my girl, my first, my everlasting, my soulmate.

Nocturnal Emissions

2007-08-10T16:27:00.001-07:00

When you have a newborn, "late night talk" is no longer about Leno or Letterman. And it's not about erotic utterances, hot breath in eager ears, for at least 6-8 weeks (and even longer if mama is uniquely traumatized!)

Late night talk with a newborn is spoken through a thick haze of fatigue, dried contacts on eyeballs, dry throats and squinting in the dim shadows of nightlights. Nights of no sleep, days of back bending diaper changes and begging for burps. If you are lucky enough to have a partner on this exhausting journey, in those late hours, it is hard to be feel grateful. It is hard to feel kind, or compassionate, or understanding towards your partner. Because all of that good stuff is being used on that demanding little bundle whose squeals and squirms you are trying to interpret at some ungodly hour. So those middle of the night words are not always as gentle as they should be.

I know, I know, there are couples who gaze fondly into that bassinet at all hours in the night, cooing at the baby and each other, serving up breakfast in bed along with lines like, "you sleep, I will give the baby a bottle." And frankly, 90% of the time my husband and I are pretty lovely to one another in those wee hours, or at least broker who does what in silence.

But sometimes, it's just easier to snap. To stew in feelings of abandonment and irritation. To stare at your sleeping partner and seethe while watching his chest rise and fall. Still, I can usually bite back angry comments and instead am inclined to mope the next day, head filled with exaggerated doubts and eyes red with weepiness and fatigue. That's how I roll.

On the other hand, should I be victimized by a midnight zinger, a less than warm and fuzzy comment, I recoil in pain. I welcome all the sticks and stones you can hurl at me, but I can't take a careless comment. Anxiety consumes me and I fester in anger and accusation until my husband dares to ask, "what's wrong", having long forgotten words spoken while basically unconscious.

If I could change anything about myself, I would thicken my skin tenfold. I have spent much of my life bruised and battered by far less than cruel intentions. The slightest critique is often my undoing, much less the usual spats that come and go with deep relationships. A friend told me once that when she argues with her boyfriend, it is no holds barred. They hurl insults instead of china plates and it is immediately forgotten. I could never handle this.

Recently, when I actually said "I'll take the baby outside" at 4:00 AM and meant it, I was watching a Sex And the City rerun. The one where Carrie and Aidan break up for the second time. When he wants to marry her and she is not ready. When it is clear that they are parting again, and this time for good, Aidan says, "I can't believe I'm here again." And in a moment no longer than a heartbeat, when it is clear that what he needs to hear is "I am so sorry" or "Please don't do this" or "I love you", Carrie says...

"Shit."

In that one profane moment, it is clear that she is unredeemable. Because the truth slipped out, as ugly and unintended as it may have been. The most hurtful moment of the dialogue was not her rejection of his proposal, but the shitty way she chose to handle his heart when responding to the fullest measure of his pain.

Shit.

So whether its in the diaper or the space between you and me, it's still hard to sleep well when you know it's out there.

Baby photo

2007-08-05T17:46:00.001-07:00

Can't get you the real thing yet -- but Dylan bears an uncanny resemblance to this guy:

http://bp1.blogger.com/_bhECcozxPpI/Rhwyn43Ue-I/AAAAAAAAAAc/nzzCgXYBWKY/s1600-h/mr.+hall.jpg

Anyone know who this is? Apartment 53, I am counting on you!

Hey Jealousy

2007-07-31T13:37:00.000-07:00

Jealousy has eluded me more often than not. In general, I am too spacey and consumed within my own life to worry about who has it better. Of course, there is longing -- for poreless skin, wash and go hair, a larger apartment, better career. But these yearnings are all theoretical, rarely centered on any one person who possesses what I would like to have.

My husband once called me jealous, in relation to other women in his potential orbit. I stand by my response that this is summarily untrue. I think I am a pretty hot dish, and frankly, don't worry much about other women stealing him away. I just have zero tolerance for female friends, flirty banter, etc. because of all the things that could be misrepresented, misconstrued -- the general slippery slope shit. I am unbearably sanctimonious on this topic, so let's stop here.

Jealousy has reared its head round these parts -- I watch Chloe as she festers in it without understanding what has overtaken her, wearing it like a belt that's too tight. It is a floating discontent, where she is visibly unsettled even when she does not realize that there is a baby in the house. She clings to my skirts, throws food on the floor, whines without reprieve. She is not jealous of the baby per se, but of a life she once had where she was the center -- when mommy was not so irritable, tired or feeding a mewing bundle from the very heart of her.

And lo and behold, I am uniquely jealous -- not of childless women who do not know of these tugs, but of mothers of one, or mothers of two or more who are past this phase. Basically, anyone who is not struggling to recreate normalcy. I am jealous of harmony, the lilting music of a family dancing to a familar beat, the mindless routines of who-does-what.

I am even jealous of pregnant women, my friend who was due a few days shy of my due date and was still blooming with anticipation. My waistline has thinned and my legs have taken on their unique post-partum knobiness that will flesh out in the upcoming months, yet I longed for her girth, for more time to prepare for this seismic shift. All the while knowing -- there would never be enough time to ready myself for these growing pains.

Twitching Hour

2007-07-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

When my daughter Chloe was born, I was warned of the "witching hour", around 6 or 7 PM when I could expect her to cry like a lunatic. Well, it never happened. She would chill out placidly amongst her fish in the fantastic Fisher Price Acquarium Bouncy Seat, or chomp at one of my boobs as I ate dinner (eat and be eaten, I suppose). No screaming.

If anything, this new baby is even more relaxed. I hear that this is common for babies born on the early side, as he behaves as if he has swallowed a few Prozac, or taken a huge bong hit. I have barely heard him cry, not even at the supposed witching hour, which is actually the only time he is somewhat alert, staring into space, safely tucked far enough away from his sister's sinister fork that can be tossed with a vengeance at a moments notice.

I, on the other hand, have a Twitching Hour. It sneaks upon me at around 7:00PM and really gets going at around 8 or 9. I start to twitch in panic, that this is just too hard. It generally comes after Chloe has hurled herself in anger against my incision, fists of furt flailing as her brother tries to nurse. Then there are just the after effects of a long humid day with overfull breasts, a sore abdomen, too much time spent indoors, inability to nap and anticipation of a somewhat sleepless night ahead. And then, there is my ever present dread of change, guessing and second guessing myself, wondering if Chloe has been traumatized beyond repair. Add a sprinkling of concern that this baby sleeps too much, a dash of worry that my milk supply is dwindling and a heaping spoonful of "what the hell will happen when I am finally alone with these two" and you have a recipe for some serious twitching.

My husband A offers up a "too late to turn back now", and sometimes even offers up some lovely soothing words. But in general, he seems totally unaffected by this life overhaul. He expected as much and is just thrilled that I am not the psycho that I was the first time around. And in many ways, so am I. Whereas last time I lay in bed, choking back tears for hours and days, sure that I have made a huge mistake, this time I have willed myself to smother my anxiety for most of the day, releasing it slowly only when I am to tired to supress it.

And unlike last time, this time when I greet the morning I am actually twitch free. In the unapologetic light of day, I am thrilled by my choices and their outcomes, and pretty sure that I can do this -- confidence filled, armpits shaved, ready to try again.

Live to Tell - Part Two

2007-07-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

When you have a normal vaginal delivery, they swaddle your squawking bundle and lay him on your chest. "Hi Mommy!" they say, or something equally ridiculous that would make you cringe any other time. There is talk of bathing and breastfeeding and daddy can or can not cut the cord depending on how brave he is. I remember looking down at Chloe, who showed no visible signs of trouble, and thinking: the worst is over.

When you have a C-section under my circumstances, there are no surprises. "The baby will be taken away soon after we take him out", the nurse said. "But don't worry. He will be checked and then he will go to a special nursery."

"The NICU?" I asked. I knew of the NICU from bloggers with preemies and friends with twins. "Oh no," assured the nurse. "Just a little step-down nursery before he goes to the general nursery. It's called the CCN".

When I lie awake at night, I tend to unpack the moments of the day that I did not understand but did not have time to comprehend. Words I had not heard of, equations that were over my head. When they wheeled me into recovery I chanted "CCN" in my head until it became clear that it was not a cable channel filled with gray haired news anchors, but the Critical Care Nursery. Critical. I tried to erase the words from my brain.

As they moved me from one gurney to the next, I was reminded of obese homebound people who needed to be turned by an army of ten. "You'll feel like you will fall, but we won't let you fall", a nurse said, as I was shifted from one bed to the next. It felt like the moment you are falling asleep, when you swear that the ground has been pulled from under you. And you jerk your body in defense, calmed and embarassed once you find that you were safe all along. Safe. I craved that feeling, and it was still eluding me.

My recovery nurse was a strawberry blonde whose hair reminded me of my friend Leigh. I concentrated on things like this, familiar things, to center and calm me. The nurse seemed too lithe and young to manage the heavy load of my body and heart. She moved my legs, deadened by anesthetic. I watched my knees and feet move by, and had a grave understanding of what paralysis must feel like. "As soon as you can move your feet you can go to a room," she said, hoping to motivate me out of the makeshift recovery area that looked frighteningly like a morgue. I tried to will my toes to twitch to no avail.

The buff resident had reappeared, and was instructing the nurse on this and that, clearly pleased to have some underling to delegate to. "Dude, you freaked out in there," he said. I tried smiled at his cavalier attitude. It was the first normal thing anyone had said to me in hours, something that would have been said after a horror movie or ferris wheel ride. I listened intently as he told the nurse what medications I could and could not have -- I did not trust anyone not to make a mistake.

"What do I do with the placenta?" another nurse was asking. She was carrying a bucket that looked like it should hold paint or cement.

"We are sending it to pathology", the resident answered. His eyes met mine which must have been widened in fright. Pathology meant cancer and all things bad. "It looked healthy," he reassured. "We are just making sure." I would ask for my placenta results in the days that followed and would never hear anything in return. It would be the first of many times that I forced myself to acquire a new philosophy of "no news is good news".

I sent A away to take Chloe to her two year pediatrician appointment. Amazingly, life had to go on. I had checked in to the hospital at 4:00 AM and had died a thousand deaths and become a mom of two over the hours between then and 11:00, which was the time of Chloe's appointment. He left reluctantly and I remained in a half sleep state until my legs miraculously regained life.

I was taken to the room where I would remain for four long days. I asked to see the baby. "You are on bed rest", the nurse explained, "for 12 hours. The baby can not leave CCN for a few days. You can see him as soon as you are released from bed rest." It was shocking. We were separated by mere feet and yet unable to see one another. "I need to pump," I said, referencing my breastmilk that would appear in the form of colostrum, otherwise known as "liquid gold". I did not want him to be without it, though I did give the ok for formula to tide him over. Miraculously, I hunched my exhausted body over a breast pump for as long as I could, producing an surprisingly large amount of colostrum. Later in the CCN, a nurse would tell me that she had never seen a C section mommy produce so much so soon. "You are amazing," she would whisper in my ear. Her words would warm me like sunshine.

My mother would arrive, followed my my doctor brother and his doctor girlfriend. I would retell the story as many times as I could, trying to desensitize myself to the details. My friend Elise appeared, arms filled with ice cream which was regretfully not allowed on my clear liquid diet. She came just as I was finally allowed into the CCN to try and nurse. "I won't be back for a while," I said. "I will wait," she answered, in her trademark cheshire grin. Everyone in this lifetime should have one friend who comes even when you tell them not to, brings ice cream, and waits for you to return. I was able to hold the baby up to the window for a moment before the shades were drawn. CCN babies remain behind covered glass with rare exception, despite the fact that, as my mother noted, those are the babies that people need to see most, to be reassured that they are okay.

The baby was smaller than Chloe, with long legs that held slackened skin. Where Chloe had been robust and plump, he was pale, a bit wan looking, with longer limbs which promised that he would likely outpace his already tall sister. Unlike Chloe, who had emerged from my body somewhat bruised and battered, this baby's head was a perfect round orb, his skin unblemished, his eyes a deep blue. His nose was smaller and more sculpted. He looked like a china doll, minus the plump and rosy cheeks. He was covered in wires, that I learned were called "leads", monitoring vital signs. He also received an IV of antibiotics, just like the one that I dragged along side of me. He could only be unhooked for the hour that I tried to feed him, and then he was returned to a warmer (CCN babies can't be swaddled because of all of the wires). You would think that I would have been heartbroken to return him, but truth be told, I was freaking exhausted. I was thrilled that someone more lucid and qualified than I was would be in charge for a few days.

As I write this, I am remembering that as I nursed him in my wheelchair, I had a catheter in. It is amazing how easily my memory dismissed a bag of urine that I dragged along with me for days, shrouded by my recall of the smallest details of my baby's skin.

In the days that would follow, it was hurry up and wait. Hurry up to get out of bed, get walking and wait around to fart (of all things) which would release me (pun intended) from my clear diet. Wait, wait for the baby's blood to grow a culture to rule out infection. Unlike me, he stayed stable. I would spike a fever for days thereafter around 7 PM that would abate quickly but left me drenched in sweat. It terrified me to think that something sinister remained lurking in my body, threatening to wreak havoc and put an end to my slow but consistent recovery.

While I had longed for a private room and actually tried to get one after my fever left me somewhat delirious, I actually lucked out with my roommate. She was a Muslim woman from Morocco in her forties, who had just birthed her fifth son, first C-Section. She was gently maternal and totally non intrusive, soothing me from behind our curtained partition. She handed me a farenheit thermometer when no one could tell me how to convert my celsius fever reading, and she demonstrated a better nursing position by thrusting her huge brown breasts in front of me. Her sons were lovely and all walked in a straight line to see her, muted without the usual scrapings and screamings of brotherhood. Ultimately, while I recoiled from the activity in the room from her family and cursed the lights she left on at night, I was grateful for the kind company. She talked about me to my mother, telling her that I am quick to upset but I let it go quickly. A pretty astute assessment from someone who regarded me me mainly from behind a hanging cloth.

By my third day in the hospital, I was itching to leave. While I enjoyed the care and the relaxation, something happens to the psyche when you spend your days in a gown that opens in the back. You start to take on the persona of the ill and infirm, when walks are relegated to the toilet and you are listlessly dragging an IV of fluids behind you. I changed into regular PJs and deep conditioned my hair yet I still felt crippled and I desperately missed home, and Chloe (who, by the way, thrived in my absence but thats a whole 'nother story). By this point, the baby had been released from CCN and was allowed in my room for night feedings and spent days in the general nursery. He received all that could be given with regards to a clean bill of health. I, on the other hand, had an OB who left my room crossing his fat fingers in a sign for, "still hoping for the best." Thankfully, my fevers disappered, my incision was healing and slowly I let myself dream of good old messy life outside the sterile world of my hospital room.

Before I left, we had to fill out the birth certificate. We were still on the fence about a name, and a pretty blonde nurse asked me what I was thinking. I told her, and watched her face my son, all young and tall with perky boobs, tiny ass and low slung scrubs. "Hi Dylan!" she cooed, and I imagined him hulking and strong, flirting with the blondes, years away from this vulnerable scary start. Instantly I loved the name, sounding bold and sultry coming from her mouth. I penned it in to the certificate, a lasting proof that he was here, to stay, without the fear of what such an arrogantly permanent move might mean.

As I exited the hospital, the warm sun on my pale skin, redemption was immediate. I felt so good to be walking away, with my son and my uterus in tact, with a story that while huge to me is actually quite small in terms of what could have been, what others have endured. I am home now, and my back aches from changing diapers, My breasts are on fire, and I am long overdue a shampoo. Yet somehow, despite mind blowing fatigue and the heavy chains of change, I have never felt so free, so alive, so goddamned lucky.

Thanks for listening.

We interrupt Live To Tell

2007-07-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

..to bring you a word from my recent sponsors:

1. "Hospital-Style" maxi pads, now available at Duane Reade. All of the fun, without wings and sticky pad. Sexy!
2. Showers. Mmm, sweet nectar of the gods, otherwise known as hot pulsing waters, and sweet sweet soap, cleansing away goop from hospital bandages, breastmilk and other leaky unmentionables.
3. Bris leftovers. Not that I am ever in the mood for a pound of lox, but it sure keeps the visiting family full and happy!
4. Toddlers and TV. When all else fails, thank god for Kids On Demand.
5. Husbands who say "Can I get you anything?" in the middle of the night, even though they really mean, "Please don't ask me to move a muscle".
6. The power of positive thinking: So far, so good...

Live to Tell - Part One

2007-07-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

"I'll see you in an hour!" my sister scoffed, as she climbed into my bed at 3:00 AM. It would be so "me" to decide I was in labor just because that afternoon my doctor had said I was two centimeters dilated and my parents were about to go to Florida. I was about three weeks from my due date, and I had been two centimeters for at least two weeks with Chloe. But my pelvis hurt, a deep unrelenting pain.

"Does not sound like labor", said my OB. "But come in anyway."

I maniacally began packing things like makeup and tanktops and stuff that I had promised myself would help me look cuter in photos than last time. And then I started shaking. And crying. "I can't leave Chloe!" I choked. My husband (A) soothed me. "She'll be fine," he said. It was the start of what I know will be a long road of feeling like I am abandoning her, choosing her brother first because he is more needy.

My teeth chattered. We went outside to hail a taxi. "Why is it so cold?" I asked. I was shivering in convulsions. It was 85 degrees.

Once we reached the hospital the shaking worsened. The labor and delivery ward was darkened and felt empty. I quivered in front of the nurse. "I think I am in labor," I huffed between breaths. She was unmoved. She lead us into a room and made me remove my clothes and don a robe, a particularly cruel request considering my state. I was hooked to monitors and A sat across from me, poised with his best "pretending I am ok" face. The machine beside me rang an alarm. I knew this noise, I had been in this room a few weeks ago when A made me come in because we thought my water had broken. "Paper Jam", the nurse had said, scribbling as much on the paper that curled from the mouth of the machine, in order to explain away the gaps in record. But this time, no one cared. The machine bleated, and I started to heave. "Need to throw up I said," as A grabbed a bucket. Orange gatorade flew from my mouth, my face scarlet in embarassment as I instructed A to hold my hair. I missed my friend Denise, the best hair holder in times of puke. I could tell A was afraid to tug too hard.

Vomiting provided minor relief. A tired and young looking blonde woman who called herself a doctor came in. She was a resident, the only one available. "I am going to examine you now," she said. She placed a gloved hand so far inside of me I thought I was going to faint. "Still 2-3 centimeters" she said as she snapped the gloves off. "What?!" It could not be. This felt like 10 centimeters. "And the monitor has no record of any contactions" she said wearily. "You are in very early labor". But how could this be? I was clearly not in any labor at all, still the same diagnostically as I had been earlier that day, before I went shoe shopping and ate fish sticks. Oh, how I regretted those fish sticks.

"I am telling you, something is wrong", I said. She looked unconcerned. "You can go home," she said. "Or you can stay. Something clearly brought you in here. But you could deliver in a matter of days or longer". And then she left. The vomiting continued, in between episodes I screamed, "I am going to die here." A stroked my arm, and it felt like pure acid burning my skin. I wet myself, and was hoping it was a surer sign of labor that my water had broken. A searched for the resident to be sure, but no one was to be found. In desperation, he called my doctor. He left a scathing message. When the resident appeared, she said my water had not broken. She put me on the phone with my doctor and I cried to him. "I am lying here in my own waste! My husband is cleaning my vomit because no one is bringing us new buckets. And I swear, there is something wrong!"

"The resident says you are fine", he said. "You are just as you were a few hours ago. There are no contractions. You are fine." He sounded confused but not at all alarmed. And he hung up.

If there is a moment in this story that saved my life, and my son's life, it is right now: I spiked a fever. Over 102 degrees. At this same time, Abs' gaze on the monitor turned to obvious concern. The resident assured me that she would tell my doctor about my fever. Suddenly, my OB appeared, which surprised me considering the fact that I knew he was home when we spoke. He looked at the screen, at the paper. I started mumbling about paper jams. "Is everything okay?" I asked. "No," he answered. "Why didn't you tell me about the fever and vomiting?" The fever just happened. Didn't I tell him about the vomiting? Time was no longer reliable, nor was a determination of which words were mine aloud and which had been screamed in my head.

The doctor looked ashen. And suddenly, everything moved at warp speed after langushing for hours. The wheeled me into a birthing room, where I mainly remember that after flushing the toilet, it splashed back in my face. I hoped it was a final insult. I lay in wait, and the doctor regarded me in a serious tone. "We need to take the baby out now, via C-Section. His heart rate is very fast (this is what A had seen on the monitor) and he is not responding well to whatever infection you may or may not have." Suddenly I had images of my literal bun in the oven, heating up. I imagined brain cells being fried. "We don't know what is causing your fever", he said, "but we need to take ever precaution." I started crying again. They began an IV of antibiotics, and the baby would receive one for days afterwards if all went well. IF.

"Will the baby be okay?" I asked for what felt like the 100th time. My OB would not answer. A was soothing me, telling me it would be okay. I am not sure if he said these words, but I felt them radiating from him. I called my brother, a doctor. "This is not out of the ordinary," he scoffed. I would later find out that he was worried, and have now mentally stored the fact that he is a damn good liar.

A resident accompanied my doctor to take me into the operating room. He looked about 21, with muscles protruding from his short sleeved scrubs and a rhinopastied nose. He was the first kind face I saw from the hospital staff. Nevertheless, I bullied him into giving me some assurance. "How rare is this?," I demanded. "Is there a page in your book that covers this?" I asked condecendingly. "It's not uncommon," he said, his voice a kind lilt. "Your baby will be fine." This resident had just started two weeks ago and clearly was unafraid of malpractice. Still, I clung to those words, as someone handed A some navy scrubs. I watched as he struggled to get the booties over his shoes. "No time," the nurse said. "Just come with us". A ran along side the gurney, and I stared at him, incredulous over how handsome I found him in this moment, skull cap and all. "You look so cute," I mumbled. They asked him to wait outside while they prepped me. This may have been when A finally let himself cry.

Through the doors, it looked like Grey's Anatomy amidst a really serious case. I am sure I remarked as much out loud. I still felt the need to be funny, to please. 15 (or 50) people scurried about, ripping open plastic bags of tools. I was suddenly keenly aware of being half naked. An anethesiologist who was the spitting image of the shrink on Law and Order SVU greeted me gently. He explained the spinal injection and all of the scary things I had already signed consent to. A nurse held me, my head in her cleavage. "Arch like a cat!" she ordered, and it is only now that I can envision a hissing cartoon cat that she was trying to conjure. A leadened stream coursed through me, and my feet became electric. They lay me down and suddenly my chest felt heavy. A heavy man was sitting on my chest, I was convinced. My arms were spread out like Jesus on the cross. "I am dying!" I screamed, for not the first time today. And again, my pleadings. "Guys, something isn't right." "It's normal", everyone chanted. I did not believe them, because I had watched TLC's A BABY STORY and the women always lay placidly behind the cloth curtain. Various doctors whispered in my ear, things about lungs and chest and heart. Someone must have put some sort of relaxant in my IV because the panic abated and I felt pretty damn swell. "Where's the husband?" someone called out. "Right here," A said, and he was magically beside me. I told him how much I loved him, how he was the most important thing in my life. That we have our Chloe, and that we would get through whatever he outcome was here. He tried to engage me in light talk about names for the baby. "Igor", I said. I could not bear to name a baby who might be pulled from me without life. Still, I relaxed. I heard the doctor talking to the resident, something about my ovaries. Were they on the table? I wondered. Then they announced the pressure that I had heard would precede the baby's arrival. No pain, just weirdness. A gurgling shriek. "It's a boy!" the doctor said. "Is he okay?" I asked A, who was permitted to gaze over the partition. "Yes," he said, without great confidence. "Not too little. Pale." The cries became more robust. "Apgar 9/9" someone announced. I knew as much to know that was a good thing. They handed him to A. "They would not do that if he was not okay..." a nurse above me said. He was beautiful. I know everyone says that, but I expected the baby to look war torn somehow. He was really just lovely. I did not 100% believe that everything could be okay, but in that moment, regarding father and son in equal states of lovliness, I let myself believe it.

Like a record (Baby)...

2007-07-11T19:07:00.000-07:00

Even before I started blogging, I have always been pretty much an open book. Not an exhibitionist by any means, but when people ask me questions, I don't spend time strategizing around the answer.

My mother, a shrink, always told me that this was the kiss of death for dating. "Just spin yourself in the best possible light!" she would order, when I would discuss that time around the third date when the past is discussed over low lights, vodka, overpriced sushi and the headiness of new romance. A friend refers to this as the "baggage claim", when you gaze into the eyes of a pseudo stranger and start spilling your secrets on cocktail napkins.

I could never do this. I don't have much to unload, but what I had, I shared. And I lapped up the lives of others, with little judgement, sometimes ignoring the red flags, other times smiling while listening to tales of exgirlfriends, depression, bad childhoods, big regrets and wondering how much of the past had really passed.

Nowadays, the new people I meet are not men but mommies. And "secrets" are shared on message boards, at the playground, at Gymboree. After childbirth, breastfeeding and overall post partum pain, I am even further stripped of any interest or energy in spinning the truth into a pretty package. So I speak with great ease about my intense feelings of fear after Chloe was born, the unimaginable pain of breast engorgement and the often excessive amounts of television my toddler consumes. I serve up heaps of honesty along with goldfish crackers, McNuggets and artificially flavored ice pops. When it comes to mommying, I do the best I can and don't even ask that much from other moms that I meet.

And yet, I am surrounded by spin. A mom sends an email, frantic for a new nanny. "What happened?", I ask. "Oh NOOOTHING", she trills. "Everything is PERFECT....I just want to be sure that I am doing the absolute best for my child!" Later I find out that her nanny has been lying to her for weeks. But she wanted to paint the prettiest possible picture, rather than reveal a crisis. There are just some people who would rather fake perfection than own up to a struggle.

I don't get it. Someone asked recently me what I am a "sanctimommy" about. And frankly, I could not come up with a single thing. Even the random assortent of kid topics that I feel strongly about: breastfeeding, early intervention, healthy sleep habits, sunscreen...I don't expect anyone else to care as much as I do. I do have many opinions -- but they are just based on extensive research and not a doctrine of belief. If someone disagreed, I would assume that they could be just as correct. I am so hard on myself, that I can't even imagine expending the energy to judge another mother. But this does not stop the spinning, and it's hard to keep up a conversation with someone who is working up a sweat in defense of the reasons her child knows all of the characters on Spongebob Squarepants, or is sucking on an pacifier on his way to Kindergarten.

My theory is that behind every closed door, exhausted parents are brokering deals, bribing, and cobbling together less than ideal situations with their kids, just to make it through the day without tantrums and gain a little peace. For all the talk of "Ferberizing", I am pretty sure that we have babies in our beds, feet in our faces, shhh, shhhing when the hours before its dark enough to feel like night but light enough that we can already sense the alarm about to go off. After the 100th carrot is flung on the floor, the only consumption of orange that happens in some homes are in the form of Cheez Its. And in the end, we are own worst critics. So why not share some of the secrets, without excuses or apology or false assertions, so that we all feel a little bit better about just doing the best we can.

Stuck in the middle with you

2007-07-05T06:18:00.000-07:00

There's alot of waiting going on 'round these parts. I am three weeks or a month away from becoming a mother of two, depending who you ask. My contractions resemble hot flashes, which leave my brow beaded and my chest heaving. In real life, I rarely sweat. It was one of those graces god granted me after strapping me with legs that only stay smooth after shaving for five minutes and skin that burns at the slightest sight of sun. So I am waiting, for my cervix to dilate, whatever that means.

And we are potty training Chloe, kind of, which involves alot of waiting. On the can, coaxing with water and books and promises that she can unravel all of the toilet paper ONLY if she makes a PEE PEE in the POTTY. And there's the lesser known, but quite revolting practice of watching your diaper free toddler cavort around until you see a trickle (or worse) and then throwing them on the toilet. We had the "or worse" scenario, which involved me silently gagging in the corner as my husband ran around the apartment with Clorox wipes.

We are on the hinge of major change. This in between phase unravels me like a braid of hair, once tightly woven. I like to be in knee deep, once change is visible, and tackle new situations. The waiting phase makes me bite my fingers in worry and fear. My eye twitches relentlessly. I get heartburn, the kind that cannot be relieved, no matter what ROLAIDS claims.

Waiting makes me organize in fits and starts, snap at my husband who is trying to keep up with my mood swings, make long lists of to-dos, and then finally only want to collapse in front of the TV to watch someone's fictious life unfold.

And soon the baby will come, and Chloe will be sporting underwear, and I will be more and less needed depending on the day. Life will get to that place when we turn to each other and realize that we can't remember it ever being any different - when it all feels routine and well fitting. Until the next great shift. I wish I could revel in the magic of life's revisions and adventures. But instead, I will always be someone who longs for stability, the familiar. Perhaps my passport will go unstamped, my tales less colorful, but I am most comfortable in the known.

Mad About You

2007-06-29T07:16:00.001-07:00

Its been a while since I offered a round-up of my favorites. With so much else to say but no energy to expend, this feels like the right post for right now - just some bits of brilliance I have recently recalled or acquired.

Sting:

Damn he's good. Since I have only listened to the Annie soundtrack for about 6 months now, I had all but forgotten my lost musical loves, and Sting is tops. My friend Denise told a story about when she was a kid, and her older brother dragged her into his room and forced her to listen to "Every Breath You Take". This was musical perfection, he told her, demanding she worship The Police. I like to imagine that he was in acid wash jeans and a mullet, since this was the 80s, and little sister Denise just nodded enthusiastically, thrilled to even be sitting in big bro's room. This is what Sting does to you - it makes you want to force others to just sit still and LISTEN. There is something almost biblical about the lyrics, and I am a lyrics chicks. Specific favorites include "Mad About You", "Shape of my Heart" and "Fortress Around Your Heart". And I challenge anyone to listen to "Why Should I Cry For You" without wiping away dramatic tears. Thank god for the soundtrack at CVS or I would have all but forgotten how much I love Sting.

Lemonade:

I thought of lemonade way too late in my pregnancy. It's fantastic. Specifically, the Simply Lemonade brand. I do not like Newman's Own, charitable donations aside. I enjoy mixing with water and cran-raspberry juice. My grandfather was a big juice mixer and had hoped to market his concoctions with my Dad, who he thought of as the all-American business guy. If I were in the burbs, I might have to coax Chloe to open a stand.

Johnson and Johnson's 2-in-1 shampoo plus conditioner for curly hair:

Chloe's hair has mystified me -- a luxurious tumble of waves that responds to neither brushing nor scrunching. This shampoo has at least made the mess a bit less -- messy. And what's more fun than diva beauty care for toddlers?

Acuvue Oasys contact lenses:

I sleep in my lenses, despite the fact that I resolved this New Year's Eve to stop. My glasses scratched and hold lenses that are about three prescriptions old, and I am too chicken for LASIK. And I hate waking up blind. I don't know if you are supposed to sleep in the Oasys lenses but I do and they feel 100 times better than the others, even during the day. God, I hope Chloe has my husband's eyes.

Blueberries:

These remind me of my Grandma Ceil (she'd mix with plain yogurt and peaches), summertime, and my kid will eat them. They are expensive, but worth it. Until I step on one and stain the carpet, which is likely to happen any time now.

White noise:

Even beyond the cool air effects, the whirl of the air conditioning has done wonders for my pregnancy insomnia, and I swear it helps Chloe nap. I have it on in all three rooms (Con Ed is gonna love me) and it seems to be the only thing that can drown out the never ending dialogue of to-dos and to-worries and not-to-forgets that fill my head these days.

Binge and Purge

2007-06-25T10:50:00.000-07:00

My sister Leslie came over yesterday and performed an exorcism on my closet -- freeing me from years of bingeing on pleather and lycra and cheap. I rarely shop for clothes for myself these days -- but my closet represented an old habit. Shopping for clothes was my vice for years. I bought clothes to match a mood, an event, a haircut. New clothes for a new me post-breakup, for a new job, for a date. This chaotic accumulation marking milestones and manic mentality lead to a closet that looked like a nervous breakdown.

I have good taste, theoretically. But I also had severe buyers remorse which did not ever allow me to spend much on any one item. Hence the synthetic fabrics and clothes that did not hold up after a few cleanings. So I bought knock offs, many times victimized by a trend, leading to a twisted pile of sales rack shit. My husband has a slender closet filled with well invested must haves. Psychically, it's just the way he is -- organized, neat, methodical, risk averse, thoughtful, beautiful. And then there's me -- well intentioned but sometimes over the top, creative, confident, impulsive with need to surround myself by lots of things. So the walk-in space that my husband so generously turned over to me has become the pit of the most extreme versions of my personality traits.

My sister, who is much more like my husband, held court over mounds and mounds of the crap couture. I was given five vetos, which I used quickly. And then she had the final word. The goodwill pile grew quickly, and I watched swaths of my old life land lifelessly into a garbage bag. I am currently a mom and a psuedo executive, which meant cargo pants and capris or suits and tailored blouses. There is no room for things that require flat tummies, or strapless bras, or something that matches so exactly that it can't be grabbed when halfway out the door. Memories tumbled over memories -- the dress from my rehearsal dinner (too faded, too tight), my favorite suit that I have had for ten years (which Leslie said reminded her of the one worn by the homeless man that would walk up and down our childhood street with a newspaper under his arm, yet nowhere to go), and tons and tons of hoochie wear. The only exception to the rule of "toss if it's trampy" were my miniskirts, which my husband could not bear to see me part with. Even when I put one on under my 8 month pregnant belly he thought it was just divine. So in an effort to cultivate my last vestiges of sluttiness, I kept some of those.

My new closet is orderly and clean and dieted down to the basics with some splashes of fun. I guess that's who I am these days -- dangling on the edge of change, purging the past while holding on to those things that will always fit and make me feel divine.

Stacked

2007-06-14T12:14:00.000-07:00

I have had a love-hate relationship with my breasts ever since they sprouted. As soon as my tee shirts stopped lying completely flat, I demanded a bra. I still remember wearing it to school for the first time, hopeful that the strap would be snapped by the boy I liked, because that's what happened to the cool girls in seventh grade. Never happened. But still, it felt like an elastic ticket into adulthood.

It must have been an express ticket, because I experienced some lightening fast growth that required almost immediate underwire, trips to Victoria's Secret and a quick education into the world of men who leered. I never saw my breasts as a sexual symbol, which is why I wore tight shirts and was left to wonder over the whistles. I was frequently in trouble at school for my clothes -- the religious administration of my highschool did not embrace my very apparant appendages. My penchant towards ribbed sweaters did not help matters, but I was later amused when my younger sister told me that the boys from her class still ask if I wear them.

Which brings me to the more recent now. In the 90s, when the waif look exploded, I began to loathe my breasts. The kept me from wearing the strappy shirts and from ever feeling thin despite the fact that I always was. I wanted to feel lithe, wispy. I wanted shelf bras built into my tank tops and string bikinis. None of this was possible, as I vascillated from a DD to an E cup at any given time. Jogging was a painful experience and gravity was already taking it's toll far sooner than my perkiness was supposed to expire. I called my mother once in tears in a dressing room, telling her I was getting a reduction. "Don't you dare," she said, the very woman I have to thank for this genetic fate. "You will never be able to breastfeed". She played THAT card, even though I was not even pregnant. So I swore that as soon as I was done with kids, I would minimize them and finally enter the world of wire free lace and a bounceless walk.

And then I had Chloe, and my breasts became working ones. Their volume finally had a purpose, as I had enough milk to feed a small country, or at least fill my freezer. I was proud of them for the first time, and despite the excruciating experience of the milk coming in for the first time, I was able to breastfeed without a glitch. And they looked better than ever because they were always full. It was silicon-chic, something Dr. 90210 would approve of.

And after a year of breastfeeding, and gearing up for yet another, I am glad they have finally earned their keep. Amazingly, I have stopped caring about their size and I am more focused on if they will "work" again. Chloe does not recall nursing, but there is something about my chest that holds comfort for her -- I can tell by the way she rests her head and absently pats the area below my neck. She points to them now, and announces "Baby!", as if somewhere she knows she is about to share what was once her prime real estate. After all the unwanted attention, the self consciousness -- it finally feels good that they are so in demand.

The hardest to learn was the least complicated...

2007-06-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

I just got back from my 10 year college reunion. On paper, a silly strategy: a 4+ hour trip with an uncomfortably pregnant belly, restless toddler and exhausted husband to a school that was home to as many tragedies as triumphs over four long years. I would be with my friends Gail and Denise, and largely motivated to see Leigh/Grahamad, who lives in Boston but whose house I have never seen. (I have an urgent need to see the places that my loved ones call home, to imagine them exactly as they are when we are apart).

Fourteen years ago, I was a college freshman who had graduated from a religious private school. My "real world" experience was limited to a few warm beers, stealth trips into Manhattan, furtively smoked cigarettes and a bit of tonsil hockey. I chose Brandeis with little forethought. I knew a few older classmen, the campus was pretty and not too scary and it sounded like a school that a future lawyer would attend. That was all I really cared about -- cute boys, small surroundings, a name that invoked justice. Plus, my father believed that I would be happier at a bigger school and I was eager to prove just how little he knew me back then.

But of course, he was right, and after six months I was suffocating. I felt that I knew everyone in the small class, there was not enough fun and the boys were not as cute as I hoped. I quickly realized that I did not want to be a laywer, but a writer instead and the course options were limited. After a great weekend visit, I desperately wanted to transfer to Penn. I spoke to a camp friend who was an older Penn student and shared my plans with him. "Let me give you a piece of advice", he said, with the sage wisdom of someone who was about to graduate. "If you have good friends at college, that's all that matters. Don't leave that."

I believed him, largely because my freshman year GPA would not enable me to transfer to Penn or anywhere else. And despite the tumult that the next four years would provide for my friends and I: death, divorce, depression, drinking, eating disorders, cheating boyfriends, academic probation, near fatal illness, screaming fights...despite all of this, I graduated with an education in friendship like none other.

Miraculously, I fell into a group of six girls, as random and accidental as my choice of university had been. We had some pre-existing ties: three of us were friends from camp, two of us were friends from highschool. But in the important ways, we were strangers. We developed a "clique" that resembled those that I had only read about in teen novels -- a group that I would be told by others was revered and feared. I had never been a part of something like this, a place where I felt prettier by association, more confident, more important than standing alone. On the surface, it was all the makings of a crew found at Sweet Valley High. But deep within, we developed complicated and consistent relationships that carried us through four years, even in times when we thought we were ready to stand on our own.

This reunion weekend mirrored my college experience almost exactly: the weather sucked, the food sucked, the events were disappointing. But none of it mattered amidst the warm nourishment of friendship. Some were there in person, others there in spirit, but the weekend recreated much of our time at Brandeis: alot of waiting around for something great to happen, and passing that time with stuff that was even better. It had been a long time since I barged into a friends room to find her in her PJs, or to sit on the floor, braless and in mismatched socks, gossiping about the evening to come.

I learned a tremendous amount from these girls, now women. These lessons have impacted me far more deeply than those learned in the classroom. So in honor of this anniversary, and the girls who will always be my family, I will share some of these lessons with you.

Gail:
1. Always make a house a home. Even when it is a shitty dorm.
2. Guys do make passes at girls who were glasses.
3. Smile and the world smiles with you.
4. Use your voice for beauty and not for evil.
5. Less is more.

Denise:
1. Great friendship and great love are almost indistinguishable.
2. Love means always having to say "I'm sorry".
3. You can look like a slut as long as you act like a prude.
4. Don't take no for an answer.
5. Anger is healthy.

Jill:
1. The art of great conversation is one of the most valuable assets imaginable.
2. You need not always make peace with the pain of the past.
3. Great love letters need not only be sent to great loves.
4. Always thank the host before you leave the party.
5. Confidence is sexy.

Leah:
1. Family is fundamental.
2. The best things come to those who wait.
3. Things left unsaid can be ruinous.
4. Sleep is one of life's true luxuries.
5. Fear is more easily conquered with someone as scared as you are.

Leigh:
1. True beauty lies within our differences.
2. You have to work hard to get what you really want.
3. It's good to be the boss.
4. Always have a surprise in store.
5. Erase your own stereotype.

Giving Notice and Searching for Ants....

2007-06-03T05:57:00.000-07:00

...that's what I have been up to.

Two things I never thought I would do.

Both involve some disgust and terror on my part. The ants were Chloe's idea, or as she calls them, "AHNTS". She searches for them, legs crouched in a squat, running a finger over the sun-warmed sidewalk. I sit beside her, my now huge tummy bursting from beneath an ill fitting shirt, hoping she finds them without my help. I have been terrified of ants ever since I left my sneakers poolside as a kid and they filled with red carpenter ants which bit up my feet. I hated how brazen they were, how they traveled in packs, how even one on your skin could make you panic.

Much like the ants, my job had become insufferable. A combination of creepy crawly factors, some emotional, some intellectual. But mainly, I was over-ready for a change. I had checked out long ago, never really unpacking the crappy office they moved me to, abandoning the formerly ferocious and arrogant attitude towards work that often made me loathed in this particular office. I used to be an ant -- marching in line, tireless, industrious and effective, one of many "yes men". After I had Chloe -- and a series of events lead me to acutely understand how unwelcome moms in the workplace really are (more on this soon) -- work became just a place to wear my great shoes, get a small paycheck and feel like the old me. It was never really the same, much like I am not, and the can-do ant in me became restless, lost, with a tendency to bite without warning.

So I have a new job, one where I will work from home, and I am desperately hoping that those two words are not inherently conflicting. I will have much more time to be with my children, to sit on stoops and look for ants and eat popsicles without worrying about the stains.

A colleague I was quite fond of will be retiting at the same time that I will be leaving our shared organization. When I asked him why now, he answered sagely and plaintively: "I have spent years trying to squeeze time with my granddchildren in between everything else. Now I want to squeeze everything else in between time with my granddchildren".

When it comes to my current child, and the one on the way, I am lucky to have this same opportunity. Because as my daughter is already announcing "BYE, MAMA" as she struts out the door, purse in hand, hat on head, barely looking back, I am thrilled to be making the right squeeze for me, right now.

The Wow Factor

2007-05-29T09:09:00.000-07:00

I have written before about the fact that I have always loved infants. Their delicious smells, their needy lump figures that melt perfectly into your chest, their cherubic cuteness - big eyes, rosebud lips and mounds and mounds of smooth skin. But lately, I am all about toddlerhood. And it's largely due to The Wow Factor.

There are so mant stories I would like to tell about Chloe but I am afraid they will seem less magical to anyone else. The fact that she has started to pick out her own clothes, and this morning opted for the strappiest camisole and mini jean shorts (though she would have preferred a skirt). That she packed a shopping cart for a walk down Park Avenue (after a day inside with a cold) and filled it with lipstick, a business card holder, keys and Thomas the Tank Engine. She has taken to carrying a purse. And since my friend Tamar came over, and said "Oops!" it has become Chloe's new favorite word, pronounced "Oopth!" Chloe is fastidious and hates when things are out of place, like the blueberry interrupting the golden plains of her pancakes, or the tiny scratch on her tiniest toe. These "problem" always elicit an "Oh Nooo!" (complete with chagrined hands to cheeks), an "Uh Oh..." (usually said in accusation in conjunction with chubby pointing finger when a playmate had held behind a shaker that he was supposed to return to music teacher), and now..."Oopth!"

So yes, these things and more have made me a huge fan of this delicate state before the terrible twos rain down on us. But what surpasses all of these mushy moments is the fact that life, to Chloe, is one big WOW.

I can say most anything, "We are going to buy a banana", "Daddy is fixing your bike", "Do you see the taxi?" and she responds, "Oh, WOW!" It can be the most banal thing, a line of ants (she calls all bugs "bees"), a sprinkler in the park, an ice cream cone. They all delight her in a manner that can only be described as sheer amazement.

I remember when she was a few days and weeks old, and books would mention that I should expect newborns to sleep alot, because life is so new and overwhelming that they need to recuperate. I never understood this, because Chloe never slept more than a brief clip during the day. She was always staring, eyes wide open, likely seeing little more than a gray haze and shapes of her exhaused parents looming over her, begging her to take a nap. I think she was waiting for life to get more exciting. And now it has, and I feel so lucky to be reminded of the joys of the little things -- things I take for granted, or ignore altogether. It's the reason, I suppose, that some friends say a blessing upon waking up and before every meal. It's a pause to remember that when all is said and done, it's great to be alive. We are damn lucky.

Welcome

2007-05-22T12:53:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Mink Coat and Velvet Sweatpants (see blogroll). Even tho her belly looks so much better than mine, it's great to have another (likely better dressed as well) mama-to-be in the 'hood, with her own share of dramas. Enjoy!

Call Waiting

2007-05-19T16:19:00.000-07:00

The phone has always been a symbol of independance. Remember the desperation with which you wanted your own "line" in your own room? The first phone I remember coveting was called "Private Call". It had some sort of lock and key, and what could be more important to the oldest of three kids who was regularly throwing her sister and brother out of her room with a force that sometimes drew blood?

I still remember those nights on the phone, after my parents finally gave in, lying stomach down on my carpet, feet in the air, stereo playing, ankles locked, talking to a best friend or boy friend (two words). I had limitless energy for the phone. One would call me at midnight to watch Headbangers Ball, and another regularly phoned at 6:00AM to ask what I was wearing to school that day. I would chat until my cheek got sweaty, my mouth dry. Sometimes a friend and I would not even speak on the phone, but hold the line while we watched TV in order to quickly comisserate at the commercials. I liked to play mood music in the background. It was a multi media experience, at least for the late 1980s.

In my single years in NYC, the phone maintained its appeal. Boys you met at bars either sank or swam based on if they gave "good phone" (later replaced by "good email"). Date nights were analyzed with girlfriends while we sipped wine across town from one another. I remember calling my sister the morning after my first date with now-husband, babbling for hours about my fears that he was just not that into me. I loved coming home to the blinking answering machine light. This was before I had a cellphone, which later only served to enable my vice.

And then I had a baby. And I feel like my entire life is now filled with unfinished conversations, unreturned and uninitiated phone calls. At work, where the walls are thin and time limited, calls to friends and loved ones are hushed and sparse. At home, they are nearly impossible. Chloe whines and orders me "Off, Off" as soon as I get on the phone. She glares at me from beneath her trademark heavy eyelids of discontent. And she's right. It's rude. I am somehow sending a message to her that our time together does not warrant my undivided attention.

And the rudeness does not only extend to Chloe. If I am able to multi task, I run the risk of an annoying and obnoxious simultaneous conversation, one with my friend, the other with my kid. I am not a fan of this. When I am on the other end, I find it confusing. Do I want a peanut butter sandwich? Wait, you aren't talking to me. When I have to engage in a chat with Chloe while amidst another conversation I try to pause and apologize -- but often, like when my sneaker is dangling above the toilet in a passive aggressive threat, I don't have time and find myself abandoning my friend mid-sentence. It's wrong. I just can't lift the rules of phone etiquette because I am a mom. I would never have a dual conversation with another adult while on the phone, why should I do it just because someone who is only three feet tall is demanding that I shift my attention? What am I teaching her about manners and patience and "just a minute"?

So I avoid the phone when I am with Chloe, which leaves me the evenings. The only time that I have to collapse, reunite with my husband, watch mindless TV. And by then, I am so tired, I can barely dial. So what does that leave me? I don't miss the casual conversations. But there are times when I need to deconstruct an issue, to really hear someone who is reaching out to me, to catch up until there is nothing left to say.

The only silver lining is that this conflict has forced me to redefine quality time, and chase it. Friendships are built less on good phone sessions and more on terrific in person time, no matter how hard it is to arrange. I use the phone for catch up in between, when I am alone and can really contribute to a conversation. I leave longer than appropriate voicemail messages. I make the most out of every moment, and try to manage these moments in a respectful and valuable way. It's not ideal, but at least it's real.

Blogorexia

2007-05-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

This blog has been malnourished as of late. I have no real excuse, except that I have felt so busy, and yet so lazy. Mother's Day finally kicked my ass into gear - the need to pay homage to this Hallmark holiday which this year, I greatly appreciate. Maybe it's the fact that I finally don't feel like such a newbie and the mother title finally kind of fits, or the fact that I am well (or should I say, "swell") on my way to #2, and therefore, can't really pretend that I don't own this persona any more.

But it's a constant inner battle. The other day, on a day home with Chloe, I text messaged my husband and asked him if he remembers which sandbox toys were ours. The politics of a sandbox are for a whole other blog post - but suffice it to say you want to be sure you leave with what you came with. My husband wrote in response: "Get back to the office", meaning, how is THIS the crisis of your day. So there's that -- and then there's also the growing joy I experience from just watching Chloe grow. There is something amazing about toddlerhood - the mini-adult attitude, the surges of personality and independance. I had always loved the musy gushyness of infancy, but I am just mesmerized by the impending twos. I am afraid to miss a moment.

I recently read a blog entry written by a newish mother of twins, who is plagued with the crisis of creating balance, of prioritizing herself within motherhood. I do not diminish these struggles, but I have to say, this answer has come easy to me. I actually embrace my place, and it is behind my children. Not in their shadow or even as their crutch, but as their cheerleader, their cultivator, their caretaker. I have this weird theory that we are biologically at our best for motherhood in our twenties and thirties for a reason. Because after two or three decades of me, me, me, the universe says - enough about you! Enough about the size of your jeans and the fun of your nightlife and the indulgence of your whims. It's time to move on, to care about someone else in a way that sometimes even eclipses your own primal needs to sleep or go to the bathroom. It feels good to be selfless for a majority of the day. It's a relief, after so many years of self absorption. I only wish I had more time to coddle and cuddle my husband, who has redefined selflessness in this whole process, and makes every day feel like Mother's Day.

This is not to say that I don't miss sleeping until my eyes open naturally, getting my hair blown straight, long dinner dates and a life without free floating anxiety that at any moment, something terrible can happen. My to-do lists are long and never ending and rarely about me. But to give of myself in this way, even when the returns are uneven, hard to realize or not there at all, has undeniably made me a better person. When time is constrained and I have merely minutes to focus on me, the things I choose to do are priority and necessity. I no longer wonder what is important.

I often laugh at the fact that in my home, nothing material is sacred anymore. My most expensive shoes, the ones I was queasy paying for, are tripped around in by feet that are swathed in GAP socks size 18-24 months. My makeup bag has been ransacked, every item licked and sampled. My jewelry is tugged on to the point of near breakage. My vanity mirror is smudged by someone's loving kisses. When a recent incident forced me to evacuate my apartment in minutes, I ran outside with my purse, my daughter, her stroller, a diaper bag and a sippy cup. I did not remember to put on a bra or even socks. I was less concerned about what I was leaving behind and more concerned with where I would be able to find eggs and bananas, the promised breakfast - while looking like a street urchin. This is my life now - the bare essentials, the unimaginable rewards that can't be bottled or bought. It feels good live so light, even in my heaviest moments.

A Life More Ordinary

2007-04-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

My best job was working as a waitress at Pizzeria Uno's in Harvard Square. I know this sounds strange, heralding an experience that involves "The Five Minute Express Lunch" and mandatory khaki pants. But it was all part of the package - a great gift of independance and empowerment and keen understanding of what hard work really means.

I needed something to do over the summer before I turned 19. I was living in my first real home away from home with two college roommates and a strange boy who did not speak but was there for summer school. We were living in a dilapidated house in our blue collar college town. A friend who had his own car drove me to Harvard Square for my interview. "I don't know why you are doing this", he said, chastising me from behind the wheel of his brand new Lexus. "You don't need to work." Financially, he might have been right. I might have been able to get enough money from my parents to screw around for one last summer without real responsibility. Emotionally, he was dead wrong. Coming off a tumultous year, I needed the stability of every day work, to gain distraction from my own life's complexities and take on a role that was most unlike me. I interviewed with the restaurants manager, who was a terrifying spin off of Lenny from Laverne and Shirley. I would later learn that he won millions of dollars after being hit by a train, only to squander it all in a few short years. This is what I would grow to love about the restaurant staff. Everyone had a story. He looked me up and down with a stare that could cut glass, asked me a few cursory questioned and said "You can start as soon as you finish your training". Training?

Fast forward a few days and I was in a generic classroom amongst several other "students" of various ages. There was a blackboard, xeroxed packages of materials and teacher who may have been younger than me, had dandruff on his shoulders and wore an unfashionably skinny tie. We spent hours poring over the menu, studying ingredients, corporate policies and ultimately sampling every calorie laden item. It was pizza school. I graduated, earning a golf shirt with the company logo and a likely spike in my cholesterol.

Harvard Square was not easy to access from the house I was living in. It required the Commuter Rail to the T station. And the rail schedule was irregular at best. I bid farewell to my roommates hours before my time to punch in, walked in the summer heat to the rail as they dragged their hung over heels out of bed to start their jobs as Boston Trolley salespeople. I would finally make it to the Square, bustling with college kids and an assortment of others. The stores that butressed Uno's ranged from alternative rock music and The Limited. I don't know what I did over those hours, but it was the first and last time that I loved being alone.

Uno's was an Alice in Wonderland type microcosm. The staff was all under thirty (except for one or two "lifers"), each with their own compelling saga. One waiter had run off and married a fellow waitress when they both turned 18. Disowned by both their parents, they were making ends meet. John was a hulking frat boy with a thick Boston accent who was an aspiring actor and was known for making the best after hours ice cream concoctions. Evan wanted to be a comedian, much to the chagrin of his Russian immigrant parents. Joshua had lost over 100 pounds and often came to work stoned. I had a quick fling with Jason, who was caught in a love triangle with John over Emily, who was six feet tal, blonde, and finding herself after dropping out of Ohio State. It was nothing less than a soap opera. Much to the delight of my roommates, Rodrigo, the head chef, called me daily to ask me out. He was an attractive, yet abrasive almost teenager who clapped irritatingly whenever someone dropped a pizza. Which was not rare.

There's a well kept secret about Uno's pizzas. They are insanely heavy to carry. By the end of a shift, by arms ached, my legs ached. My shirt smelled of old cheese. I would often spend half my tips on a taxi home, armed with a leftover pie for my roomates, unable to bear the commute on foot. I loved that about waitressing -- the cash. I spent it almost immediately at Urban Outfitters, across the street from the restaurant. It was silly, but it was mine. The autonomy, the grown-upness of it all, was addictive. There were staff meetings and smoke breaks and W-2 forms and dates with customers who were in Boston on business at grown up restaurants. The click of my card as I punched in and out was the heartbeat of my redemption - a catharsis set in a silly chain restaurants, serving food with stupid names like Spinocolli. And it felt good to serve others, in a weird way, on hiatus from my own indulgent issues, to ask someone else "How can I help you", which was the constant refrain of those trying to save me from something.

It was a complete departure from my pampered, private school persona. I fantasized about a life like this, living in suburban Boston as a college dropout, waitressing to get by, getting drunk after shifts on overly sweet cocktails. The days felt full and meaningful, mainly because they were concrete. A good day meant big tips, not having to close, and making it to the table with a loaded tray without spilling anything. A bad day was a slow day, the manager is in a bad mood, the tips were left in condoms and cigarettes instead of currency. Nothing was left to interpretation. You did not turn in an "A" paper only to receive a "C". There were no worries about life in the real world -- you were already in it. And it felt smaller and more manageable than in my nightmares.

When the summer succumbed to the always too early autumn, I returned to the dorms, to frat parties and term papers and larger expectations. I quit without notice, the most irresponsible act of my whole summer, sending the volatile manager into a tailspin. The grease stains, unfashionable uniform, dropout colleagues and general waitressing life did not mesh well with the polish of my year round pursuits. But I missed it desperately and often still do - a job where what you put into it is exactly what you get out of it -- limited surprises, minimal disappointments, a pocketful of cash, living a life more ordinary.

Cinematic Struggles

2007-04-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

I have a Love/Hate relationship with the movies. At movie theaters, specifically. Unless I am exhausted, which lately is all the time, I have trouble focusing on one thing for an extended period. And in those cases, I need a couch to sprawl on, not a narrow seat with plastic armrests and sticky floors. I like to pause and pee. I have restless EVERYTHING syndrome.

I also have trouble suspending reality. I can't get caught up without that cynical voice whispering "THAT would never happen." And because I am an writing enthusiast, I am hyper critical of the dialogue, the character development, even the cinematography which I have no business commenting on.

So to be trapped in a dark room full strangers, in a stiff seat with the greasy odor of popcorn surrounding me as I try not to listen to my inner critic was not always my idea of a good time.

Things began to shift in my youth when going to the movies became the sole vehicle for any type of social life. At a private, religious elemantary and high school, dating was haphazard. There were no school dances or homecoming games. Left to our own devices and the likely need to catch a ride with our parents, movies were as risque as it got.

My first movie date was an accidental double date with a friend and her "boyfriend" and another boy whom I did not care for. I was 12. We saw Moonstruck. What struck me was the fact that if you don't like a boy, you like him even less at the movies, when you are hoping he does not try to hold your hand on top of an unused cupholder. In the blinding light of day, outside the multiplex, I was thrilled to get away -- from him and that freaky wooden hand that Nicholas Cage sported in the movie.

And then things changed, as they often do when you leave the pre teen years and enter the true teens - when clearasil and frizz give way to Victoria's Secret body splash and tight jeans. Group outings to the movies with boys had a heightened sense of appeal. It was rarely a one-on-one venture (still at a religious school), but the darkness felt more electric amidst their oversized varsity jackets, cologne with names like Drakaar and Farenheit stolen from dad and the awareness that they wanted to touch more than your hand. And that would not be too bad. We saw movies with erotic undertones that would still be acceptable by our parents. And we would twist in our seats, giddy with the taste of adult life.

Through the dating years, when it was good, movies held a great excuse to sit close in the darkness and concentrate on the rhythmn of each others laughter and breathing, if nothing else. When it was bad, you are trapped. You could learn alot about a date by going to the movies -- is he a center aisle guy or more of the side show type. Obnoxiously loud or a suprise crier. A friend had a date pay for himself with a free movie voucher and left her to her own devices -- I need not comment here. One of my more memorable movie dates was the one whose Mercedes had heated seats, who paid at Concessions with $100 bills and asked me not to judge him on superficialities. He wore Calvin Klein Escape. I sure wanted to.

My husband has made me really love the movies again. It is our only real way to journey outside our own busy life, and take on the lives of others -- if only as cynical spectators. I like eating bad things in the dark near someone who I love to touch. He laughs loudly but not obtrusively, and he'd kill me for saying so, but he cries in those anonymous surrounding more than he ever does in the light of day. We both like to finish the snacks during the previews and he always gives me the better seat and a separate one for my coat. It is as alone as we can get, and it only happens every few months, which adds to the appeal. Sometimes he will let me dissect the nuances even if it means ruining a perfectly good script. Other times, we walk home in silence, mourning the end of the fantasy but eager to return to reality -- larger than life. Our happy ending.

Teenager

2007-04-08T15:10:00.000-07:00

Upon watching me post shower and shave, my 20 month old hiked up her pants, extended her leg, and asked for lotion.

Boy, am in for it.

Only in New York

2007-04-08T07:28:00.000-07:00

1. Scene takes place at diner. Young Korean woman is screaming at her non-Korean boyfriend about the state of his cuticles.

"Are you using the cream I gave you?"
"Yes! You see me use it in the mornings!"
"Look at that one, (inspecting finger). It's disgusting!"
"I do everything you tell me to! I use the cream right after the shower!"
"You need oil. You need a cuticle brush and oil. Do you hear me?? Will you use it??"
"Yes. I'll use it."
"You better use it. I am going to spend over $10 on that oil!"
"I will! I promise! Can we talk about something else?"

2. In Duane Reade baby section. I am shopping for coloring book to cheer up child who has been sick at home for a week. Greeted by cute young mom looking type who is in diaper section.

Woman: "Excuse me?"
Me: "Yes?"
Woman (looking at my handfuls of crayons and Purell). "I was wondering if you could help me, since you are a mom."
Me: (Chest swelling with pride over my apparant air of motherly know how.) "Of course! How can I help you?"
Woman: "Um, I am having a problem with these diaper sizes."
Me: "Yes, they can be confusing."
Woman: "Well you see, I need to buy these diapers for my DOG. We are going on a long trip. He has a 14 inch waist. Which should I buy?"
Me: (Recovering quickly): "Well, how much does he weigh?"
Woman: "About 15 pounds."
Me: "Well these go up to 16 pounds. That would be your average five month old, I think."
Woman: "Well, what was the waist size of your baby when it was five months?"
Me: "Um, um. I actually have no idea. I don't know what her waist size is now. But if you get them a little bigger, you can always pull the tabs over, or use...um, tape?"
Woman: "Oh! Okay!"
Me: "Did you try Petco?"
Woman: "Their diapers leave a hole that's too big for my dog's tail".
Me: "Of course. Well, I would go for these store brand, because they are awfully expensive".
Woman: "Ok, thanks. Wow, you have been so helpful."

In the words timeless words of Liz Smith...Only in New York....

Second bests

2007-04-06T07:31:00.000-07:00

The last time I was pregnant, it was sublime. Despite the morning sickness and the expansion of all of me, I reveled in it. I loved the miracle of it all, the excuse to eat anything, the total ignorance and blind anticipation of what was to come. I felt as if pregnancy had annointed me with some sort of special gift, one that I sported proudly. I bought pregnancy clothes the moment the second line appeared, opting for bright colors instead of my standard black. I consumed all things organic and every piece of literature written about pregnancy. I never studied so hard for any final -- hoisting myself into awkward positions on the windowsill of Barnes and Noble, gobbling up "What to Expect When You're Expecting" along with my obstetrically-sanctioned snack.

This time, it's all different. I look pretty much the same, but I feel huge. And I have the physical woes of a huge person - my legs ache and itch, I can't breathe through my nose, my back aches. I never drink enough water, and have subsisted on a steady stream of Sunkist and Starburst. I know too much - and worry incessantly - about how we are going to handle everything and the infinite "what ifs". I already have a baby at home, who I am obsessed with in a manner that makes me wonder if love really is limitless, or if I have used up my stash and this next baby will be left with the dregs. I fear the unknown instead of reveling in it - and wonder if we were too arrogant in spinning this wheel of chance again.

And then there's the guilt. Does the new baby, floating around in a fluid filled with my poor food choices, feel less loved already? Does he wish he came first, when I had the time and energy to do things like walk on the treadmill, read baby name books and count down the days? Is he destined for a life of second bests? His toys will have been prechewed. Is there such a thing as hand me down love?

Underrated

2007-03-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

The movie "She's Having A Baby". That Kate Bush song, the whole "I was given more than I gave, I was loved more than I loved" thing. Perfection.

Nutella.

Payless shoes. If you are buying black ballet flats, why shouldn't they be $9.99?

The flip side of your pillow.

Mentos. And the friend who gives you all the pinks.

Blog commenters that you have never met.

Watching the simple delight created by a sandbox, pail, and shovel.

Exact change.

The way you looked in high school.

Bath sheets.

Just calling to say "I love you".

Hot dogs.

A well stocked fridge.

Appetizers.

Scratching your itch.

Spring forward, Fall back

2007-03-27T06:34:00.000-07:00

Spring, with all of its promises of renewal and redemption, can't always be trusted.

In the Northeast, it often arrives on the calendar without its promised reprieve from itchy wool and down coats. Even if the winter has not been harsh, it has been long, it has been dark and in New York City, it has been irritating. We have been blown about for months, slush in our shoes, subway grit in our eyes and not enough places to defrost. The holidays are long gone and now half priced versions of their evergreen promises. We are ready for thaw.

I spent my nineteenth spring in Tel Aviv, Israel, on a spring semester exchange program with my home university. I actually arrived mid-winter, after a fitful year of college-born angst, complete with extreme dieting, heartache and passionate arguments with friends. It was an escape -- and while I was going with a few friends from college, I was set on disappearing, on starting over.

Tel Aviv in those winter months still felt like spring. Partly because I was desperate for renewal, but mainly because of the weather. Cold air nipped only between the hours of my earliest classes at the University. By mid-morning, the breeze had warmed, layers were shed and the promise of new made me giddy.

The campus was a sight to behold. Maybe not for those hailing from the University of Florida or the like, but for me, who had spent three years in an often gray and frost-bitten suburban Massachusetts campus, I was in love. It was lush and green and rolling. Students sat on the grass and scattered on towels with radios in a manner that I had only seen in that college catalogues that I had discarded despite my father's urgings to go to a different school that was bigger, and newer and more. My dorm room boasted a huge balcony that overlooked it all where I would sit for hours, listening to local radio, trying to decipher the words, desperate to feel like a native.

It's amazing how you can carve beauty out of madness when you set your mind to it. That particular year was riddled with terrorist attacks in Tel Aviv. The ground beneath me would rattle and I knew something had happened. The students would be coralled and counted, hoping that no one would have to make a terrible call to parents who were wringing their hands near CNN at home. None of this fazed me. I ignored my parents pleadings for my immediate return. I focused hard on the new me, desperate to avoid any reality that might permeate my efforts towards total reinvention. Our dorm room was on top of a night club called "Focus", and I would lie in bed, walls shuddering with disco music, focusing on my magical new life.

And it worked, for a while. I had the perfect partner in my new roommate B., a new friend with the same curls, sense of humor and likely the same demons. But she was different in a crucial way. She was a risk taker, an enabler. "No" was not in her vocabulary. Every day was a delicious adventure, the kind that fills your mouth like an unexpectedly sweet peach, juices dribbling down, leaving you desperate for more. I don't know exactly what we did together -- mainly because much of the time was spent intoxicated either in truth or in metaphor. But the smallest things - the new piercing in my ear cartilage at a run down drugstore, the stolen handfuls of supermarket candy, the long walks along the desert sky (when I begged for a taxi) filled with secrets...these things were all new and freeing. We would dance on tables, hike mountains and sing out loud. The weather always agreed with us, adding heat to our constantly flickering fires. And as much as I was unloading, I was just as quickly building fences between the new and the old.

When I felt the semester slipping from me, I became desperate. I underwent a significant makeover. I straightened by dark curly hair and dyed it red, and then blonde. I greeted summer in Tel Aviv in the smallest clothes possible. I stayed out all night at clubs with names that translated into English had names like "Corruption". There were a variety of boys and drinks that I did not remember, and narrowly escaped some life altering mistakes. I tried to sever the ties to my past, my college friends who watched me from a distance, shaking their heads in disbelief. But like the sand on those Mediterranean beaches, it was slipping through my hands, and the more I grasped, the more that spilled - tiny grains everywhere, impossible to gather back into original form.

The night I headed back to New York, I cried in the manner of the child I had behaved like for so many months. When I came of the plane, my mother was clearly horrified by the sight of my hair, my faraway longings. But there was life to return to, an internship in New York City. I had to remove the ear piercing. My hair straightening routine became too time consuming to maintain, and my dark roots grew in defiantly. There were relationships to heal, a senior year to deal with and another winter ahead.

When I returned to school, there were bits of my personal renovation that had remained -- shorter skirts, a penchant for bad techno music and expensive highlights, my lingering friendship with B which kept my life juicy. And there were other things -- like my extra earring hole and friendships that had eroded from neglect -which would gape open and slowly heal but leave scars in its place.

I no longer rely on seasons to heal me, or on makeovers to change my insides. But a well planned escape - to the colorist or the Carribean, can do wonders to spring me forward, in a never ending quest to keep things warm.

Golden Arches

2007-03-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

The following endorsement is going to shock the hell out of anyone who knows me in real life.

In general, I am a healthy eater. In the past few years I realized that my weight is more determined by exercise than by diet, so I eat well for longevity, and not the scale. Since becoming a mom to a daughter, I know longer scoop out bagels or ask for things "on the side", but I do opt for grilled over fried and whole wheat over white, when I can.

But lately, you'll find me at McDonald's.

Let me explain. As a kid, McDonald's was rarely a part of the repetoire. My father is a health fanatic, and would never set foot in an establishment that did not offer a fruit plate (and in those days, McD's didn't). Mom would take us once in a while when Dad wasn't around, but that was it. My friends did not eat there, and it was not a pit stop routine on long car trips. I watched "Super Size Me" with the requisite disgust and probably entered the golden arches only once or twice in my adult life.

And I never, ever imagined taking my child there, with her pristine body and unmarred digestive tract. I condemned things like fast food and television when I was pregnant, swearing that I would be grinding up organic meals and reading endless books.

As I write this two years later, my daughter is sitting in an unblinking stare, fixated on Curious George, a belly full of nuggets.

When Chloe started eating solids, it became clear that she would rather do anything else. Always something more alluring beckoned, like crayons or crawling or clapping. She would first shake her head from side to side, lips clamped in indignation. When she learned to talk, it became "no!!" and "out!!" and me picking up linty pasta off the floor, tossed in a mini revolt.

We tried every trick in the book. Eating together. Reading while eating. Having her help in the kitchen, pick out which egg she wanted scrambled. Bribery. Nothing worked. And my chubby infant was evolving into a spindly toddler.

My generally nonplussed doctor was concerned, especially as she began to lose weight. "Try milkshakes" he offered. "And hot dogs". Buttered bagels. Sauteeing in oil. Nothing was working.

I should insert here that even the slightest concern from my doctor lead me into a tailspin. My child was starving!! As a mother, much less a Jewish one, it was my job to feed. I had spent a whole year sacrificing my breasts and independance to do just that. I watched other children in restaurants and playgrounds, opening their mouths like baby birds in response to a rubber tipped spoon, filled with anything. Chloe would study each morsel presented to her with the eye of a scientist, rendering many specimens unacceptable to taste.

Being a Manhattan mom, I sought the advice of a specialist -- a feeding expert, catering (no pun intended) to children with varying degrees of dysfunction in the areas of feeding and speech. Her office was a studio apartment with a small kitchen, a table, and oodles of toys. Much like the car you take to the mechanic, Chloe offered no troubling "noise" as she dutifully consumed her hot dog. The doctor watched Chloe eat and play and asked a million questions. Finally, she told me that she was normal, but may have some sensory preferences that were keeping her from trying certain things. For $100 a session, she could do things like squeeze flavored gels into Chloe's mouth to desensitize her. And as much fun as THAT sounded, and as strongly as I believe in early intervention, I had to believe something else would work, once a developmental delay had been ruled out.

"Have you tried McDonald's" a friend asked, likely tired of hearing me complain about this problem. I regarded her as if she had suggested shock therapy, or poison. This friend is a more experienced mom, who I often disagree with. But her daughter was a picky eater, so I could not totally disregard her comment. "Chloe would never eat there. I make her nuggets at home, and the last time I put ketchup on her plate she dissolved into tears." "She'll like it. All kids do". A few days later, while my mother was babysitting, she called me at work. "I want to take her to McDonald's", she said. "Fine." I acquiesced. "But no meat." Just then, the McDonald's pushing friend came into my office. "It's FINE" she said, pooh-poohing my mumbling about Ecoli. I gave my mother the green light for the happy meal and sat back, smugly anticipating the frustrated call I would receive after Chloe would spread ketchup on the table and eat half a fry before declaring "Bye!". The phone rang two hours later. "She ate everything!" my mother declared. "What?!" "Everything. The nuggets, the fries, everything. It took two hours, but she ate it all.

I had to see for myself. And I did, every Wednesday, after her gym class (how appropriate). I should mention here that part of my McDonalds digust was based on the physical space. Manhattan McD's are not like the suburban ones -- here they are dilapidated and almost embarassing when you consider the top cuisine offered in this city. And the one closest to my home is on a particularly busy and grimy street, surrounded by construction. Still, once I entered, I had to admit that I found it somewhat intoxicating. It was warm -- and I am not sure if it was due to the heat, the deep frying, or the bright yellow walls. It was cheap. And the happy meal was pretty damn happy. McDonald's has perfected the lukewarm temperature which is perfect for toddler food, limiting the time spent blowing on plates. It came with a toy that I was able to withhold until all food was completed. And it was. Not only that, Chloe was upbeat, attentive and patient, a combination never seen at mealtime.

I tried to infuse some depth to the experience, goading Chloe to count all the "M"s that she saw, admiring the animals on the Happy meal sac (it's no longer the cardboard box of years gone by). But I had to succumb to the lowbrow decor, the salty, greasy offerings and the unsophisticated clientele. It was all worth it, as her face filled out, and she proved that she did not have a problem eating - she just wanted the "good" stuff.

And I know McDonald's is not the good stuff. Sanctimommies who read this are likely to throw stones, and that's ok -- I was one of them. I know that the food is less than vitamin-packed, that the grease makes Chloe's face break out, and that the dining companions are often unsavory (like the one who announced mid-cheeseburger "I just lost my tooth!"). And I also know that to really work, I need to partake as well, shunning my own concerns about what this food will do to my thighs. But here's what McDonald's does have, which works for my kid. It has ambience. It has other kids, toys, and fun. This is hard to find in Manhattan restaurants. And the food, whatever they put in there, works for a kid's palate. At Burger King, the nuggets are too spicy and Wendy's uses Hunt's ketchup, not Heinz. So there is something magical within those amber walls, and despite my usual Type A brand of parenting, we indulge. And since then, her eating has gotten better, not just at McDonald's but everywhere.

I have found that the most important attribute of good parenting (for me), is flexibility. It's learning when to stay on course and not to give in, and when to let go. When I have been too strict, too scheduled, I have found myself ignoring my gut and generalizing my very specific kid. And sometimes we need that helping hand. And even if mine is wearing a yellow glove and attached to a creepy clown, I'll still take it.

Son

2007-03-15T10:10:00.000-07:00

Infertiles often speak of the fact that once pregnant, they feel a pressure to revel in their good fortune, and keep their mouths closed. This means no complaining about morning sickness, exhaustion, aches and pains. And god forbid, no talk of gender preference.

When I was pregnant with Chloe, I tried to keep my mouth shut. But when I indulged a secret wish in those early months, it was to have a son. Readers of this blog will be familiar with my husband worship of sorts, and I longed for a little clone of him. Wanting a little boy seemed natural to me - since I had been longing for male company in one way or another since early adolescence.

But then I started really thinking about my husband, and the adoration that comes from little girls. I thought of dresses and braids and ballet. I considered my own penchant for all things pink, and my husbands ignorance of sports. So when the technician announced "It's a girl" without any great fanfare, we were thrilled.

And it has been one of those things that turned out to be only better than expected. There is hair to ribbon, never ending dance recitals on our hardwood floor and clomping around in my stilettos. She is star struck around my husband, whispering "Dada" with unrestrained delight whenever her ears capture the "ding" of an elevator. She announces his presence on our walls, pointing to his photos and asking to hold one while she eats when he is traveling. He has learned to create almost symmetrical pigtails and choose outfits that blend, if not match. She is sugar and spice with a dash of tomboy. It's sublime.

As the taffetta burst from my every closet, I could not imagine having a son. Two sisters, giggling and sharing and wearing matching outfits. Tea parties and tap dancing and of course -- wedding dress shopping. I was so sure that my next child would be a girl, that I did not even wonder of boys names, baseball gloves or peeing while standing up.

Almost two years later, another technician stood over my same belly, smeared with the same warm goo and announced "It's a boy!", but this time, with real excitement. There was no denying it - as a very perceptible nub was viewable between two very immodestly spread legs. We were shocked. And again, a shift in fantasy. The ruffled socks and canopy beds were replaced with dirty overalls and matchbox cars. And while these are all gender stereotypes, as my friend whose son loves show tunes and barrettes readily reminds me, when you are imagining, it is often in broad strokes with little nuance. I expected my heart to tug, at least a little, at the loss of ten additional fingers to polish.

But as soon as I saw him, wiggling unhelpfully in skeletal black and white as the technician tried to capture a shot of his heart, the details of my dreams evaporated, and I wanted only for healthy, for happy, for ours. In that immediate moment, he was nothing less than my child -- my son -- my very first choice for my likely last child.

Quirks

2007-03-12T15:32:00.000-07:00

...what are yours? Just a few of mine:

1. I hate sharing a toilet and regularly squat, even in my own house.
2. I can't sleep if a single strand of hair touches my face.
3. I am compulsive about being on time. If I am late, call the police and assume the worst.
4. I have the TV on as whenever I am home alone, regardless if I am watching it.
5. I love hearing new words and immediately demand that they are spelled.
6. Re-reading books calms me down.
7. I definitely have unmedicated ADD.
8. I invent stories in my head about strangers that I see.
9. I love the smell of heavy cologne. If you are offending someone else, I am loving it.
10. Talking on the phone exhausts me.
11. I am afraid to throw out photos of loved ones. I fear it is a bad omen.
12. I have a death fear of heights. Even a few inches off the ground makes me weak in the knees. 13. Good music makes me cry.
14. Panty hose give me the chills. I never wear them, regardless of season or event.
15. Ever since I weighed thirty pounds less than I do now, I have needed to sleep with a pillow between my knees to prevent the feeling of bones touching.
16. I love the smell of beer and cigars but hate the taste of both.
17. I always say I love you or I am convinced something terrible will happen.
18. I leave money in my pockets so I can find it again.
19. Bar soap disgusts me.
20. I look for magic signs in ordinary things.

Milestones

2007-03-02T09:27:00.000-08:00

Talk of milestones starts early. I visited my daughter's pediatrician almost every month in the first year of her life, and we always discussed milestones. "Is she tracking an object? Rolling over? Crawling? Does she have two words?" and some were more complex. "Does she have a sense of humor? (how can you assess this from someone who can't talk?) and "does she imitate you around the house?" (when she starts barking orders and rubbing her temples I'll let you know, doc!) It's all about meeting milestones. And especially in that first year, where a problem can appear only as a nuance, when new parents don't know what normal is and isn't -- there is an immediate pressure to be sure your kid is making the grade. My husband and I had bought an obscure book about parenting that listed gross and fine motor skills expected each month in a confusing grid not unlike an excel spreadsheet. We would read a month ahead and grow excited about what was to come, but also, to ensure that our kid was keeping up.

But milestones are not only reserved for infants. It's a bar mitzvah, a graduation, a first time behind the wheel. These moments are just as large as the ones we watch in our babies, and just as easily analyzed and obsessed over. The details, the disappointments, the pressure can all but erode the experience. At my bat mitzvah, the boy I liked danced all night with my best friend. It rained the whole day of my college graduation. I failed my drivers test three times. In the moment, it was hard to see what I had achieved once it was all over.

And let's not forget relationship milestones. Did you sleep together? Meet the parents? Take a vacation together? Talk marriage? Sometimes, these milestones happen seamlessly, without the "but what does this mean?" moment. Other times, defense mechanisms kick in. A break, not a break-up. Engagement ultimatums. Tear filled arguments and trial separations. And even when it all ends with forever, what does the avoidance and acceleration of milestones do to the story of us?

Anna Quindlen changed my life in one very specific way. She wrote an incredible essay "On Being a Mom". I have copied it below. It is easily transferrable to life in general, kids or no kids. It's about living in the moment, a manner of existing that I never before embraced. And while I still struggle with thinking too far ahead, I pause every day to notice the appreciate the things I have, right now, even when those things arrive late, only after a lot of resistance, or in a totally unexpected way.
___________________________________________________________________

On Being Mom

by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the blackbutton eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. ALL MY BABIES are gone now.

I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.

Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.

Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education, all grown obsolete.

Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all. Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit- up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing.

Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk,too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons.

What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.\n",1]
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be.

The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts.

It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were...

Never say never

2007-02-27T17:25:00.000-08:00

Forever terrifies me. The irrevocable nature of it shakes me to the core. I crave fluidity, flexiblity, the promise of a brand new tomorrow. After my last summer at camp, on that final night, I cried large and choking tears, not because I would miss the bunks or even the friends but because I would never be a camper again. After college, I spent many a day with my stomach in knots, nauseated by the end of an era.

My aversion to forever surprised me when it appeared with a vengence when my daughter was born. I found her lovely and delicious but was plagued by her permanence. I lay in bed beside her bassinet, when she was barely a week old, sickened by worry over things like college. It was far away, unimaginably far, but she would be there and it would be up to me to get her from here to there. I could not imagine how I would factor her in, much less centrally, to my already full life. I passed a restaurant, watching childless people clink glasses and lean over plates with sunglasses on their heads. While pushing her stroller I thought, "I will never eat out again". My world was suddenly filled with nevers and forevers.

Thankfully, my anxiety dissipates once the change settles in and blends with the panorama of my life so that it becomes unnoticable. But I still crave options. Recently, my best friend asked me if I would have a third child. I had always planned on three, but this was before - before the financial, emotional and physical burdens of child rearing became real. Less real than the joy and love perhaps, but still there and huge. I am pretty sure that our second child will be our last, but I found myself unable to commit to that resolution. Because that means I will never again be pregnant, never give birth, and forever be a family of four. All of these things might be more than fine, they might be the way they should be. The way that I want things to be. But that little voice still wants to crack open a window, a maybe.

The only time in my life when I seamlessly slammed the door on one chapter and eagerly ripped open the next when my husband proposed. I enjoyed my single life, but when presented with a forever with my husband A, total love and assuredness rendered any little voices mute. It is this experience that made me believe that I could be alright with earth shattering change, with reinvention and final farewells. It has never again been that easy, but at least I know I have it in me, and beside me.

Smotherhood

2007-02-25T15:18:00.000-08:00

You think you want it. Just a moment of peace - to pick up crushed Cheerios, to go to the bathroom, to watch Sex and The City on On Demand, to just be YOU for a minute, or anybody else.

"It's Naptime!", you declare, with an artificial brightness reserved for dental hygienists and stewardesses. There is pain and turblunce ahead. Her face falls. Fun is over, and usually abruptly, because there is never a good time. "Mama, No!" she cries. She is despondent. Betrayed. She is on a seemingly great date who suddenly remembers he has an early meeting in the morning, hours before last call.

Tears ensue, with more "Mamamamamamama"s, making you wonder why you ever looked forward to hearing that little voice form words. Guilt mixes with anger and exhaustion. You plead behind clenched teeth, "just a few minutes. Why can't I just get a few minutes".

And usually you do. No one is crying out for you anymore. And it feels good, for a little while. The indulgent silence, which you never thought you'd want since you are usually such a noise person. But minutes turn to hours, and the decaying feel of Sunday night sets in. You miss your pal, your playmate. You miss feeling needed and wanted in a primal way. Everything you wanted a short time ago is yours, but now it feels desperately lonely and all wrong.

That's the thing about needing space. Whether from friends or lovers or kids. It can go from liberating to lonely in a matter of minutes. Be careful what you wish for.

Taking Sides

2007-02-21T06:08:00.001-08:00

When my husband A proposed, we were on vacation in Antigua. He got down on one knee on the very first day, leaving me with a week on an almost deserted island, head spinning with details of our impending forever together. I remember thinking: Our children with be dark haired and brown eyed! We both were. I had no doubt, and it was exciting to "know" yet another previous "unknown".

When I was pregnant, A would whisper to me at night about our daughter's curly hair. "She'll have hair just like yours!" he said. And I believed him, imagining little ringlets that I would know just what to do with (unlike my straight haired mother).

Sure enough, Chloe entered the world with a head full of raven locks, which started out black like A's but eventually settled in lighter than both of ours, an ashen brown with blonde flecks. But her hair was straight, and continues to be, with a lone stubborn wave on the nape of her neck. I still don't know what to do with her hair, except to brush it, and unlike my own it settles naturally after being raked over, needing little extra attention.

Her eyes were most startling. They are huge and blue. "They'll change," everyone told me, as they would look to me and my husband in confusion as we stared back behind brown eyes. But they won't. She is nearing two and they are a dark blue with brown rings around the pupil, a small homage to her parents. And they are gorgeous, surrounded by lush dark lashes. They are alluring and flirtatious and demanding and will surely be the downfall of many suitors.

So she looks much unlike me and while she is a softer looking spin off of A, she is not an exact replica. She is her own person, who sometimes looks more like my blue eyed friend Gail when she holds her than like either of us. So I find myself identifying other ways that she resembles us, just to make sense of this blue eyed beauty.

And there are many. Watching her personality develop has been perhaps the most miraculous thing about being a parent. While she has created her very own harmony of both nature and nurture, she manifests many qualities that are "just like us". And while I revel in her individuality, it is somehow comforting to know that she is still very much a part of us, even as she grows away:

From Daddy:
Your serious kindness
Your love of counting things
Your enjoyment of air-travel
Your love of the outdoors, trees and leaves, and autumn
Your hatred of mushrooms and other suspicious looking foods
Your quiet work focus
Your love of walking and running
Your tendency to wake up too early
Your disdain for wasting time
Your ability to multi task
How unaware you are of your own beauty

From Mommy:
Your obsession with high heels and makeup and clothes on hangers
Your affinity for reading alone in bed, the same books over and over
Your love of dance
Your stuffed animal family
Your love for grandparents and small babies
Your rough and enthusiastic hugs and kisses
Your chattiness, especially on the phone
Your love of cookies
The way that you share
Your morning grumpiness

Accessories

2007-02-13T11:21:00.000-08:00

It started with slouch socks, gold plated best friend necklaces and scrunchiis. Somwhere along the way, it morphed into Tiffany toggle bracelets, satin Prada purses and stilettos.

Accessories have followed me for a lifetime.

As a rule, I am not big into decoration. My jewelry is always meaningful and generally minimal. I sleep and bathe in my necklace and ring, both designed and gifted by my very gifted husband. I admire women who change purses and jewelry as regularly as their underwear. I could never do this. I am too picky and generally running too late to wonder which bag my wallet and metrocard are in.

Accessories can be burdensome, both emotionally and physically. When my husband got down on one knee and offered me his life and a diamond, it was immediately intermingled with an apology. "If you don't like it, we'll exchange it" he said as he anxiously pushed the ring on my finger.

Accessories can cause second guessing and worry -- about style, about loss. What does it say about you? It never ends, the pressure to accessorize our world. I find this maddening in motherhood. There is always something, an extra, that I can be purchasing to better my daughter's life. The stores are teeming with extras that appear the same except for that all important nuance that promises to change both of our lives. It's big business, and it's easy to get caught up. Not because I fear that anyone is looking or judging, but because I am afraid that I might be depriving her.

And then I watch her play with a tupperware bowl for 45 minutes, and I am reminded that the extras in life are just that...sometimes meaningful, often disappointing and generally disposable.

Sunscreen

2007-02-08T09:52:00.000-08:00

Put everything that means anything to you in a box. Your money, jewelry. Your credit cards, family photos, grandmother's candlesticks. Your ketubbah, the dress you broke the bank for, birthday cards from your kids. Your pet. Now close it (but don't forget to punch holes in the top if Rover is in there).

Now imagine that you need someone to watch the box for you. And it can't be anyone you know. Sounds insane, right? A stranger off the street holding the things you hold most dear.

Now multiply this infinitely, and you have got the experience of find a caregiver for your child.

I am searching for a nanny. I have never left Chloe with anyone I did not know well, or through a very close contact. But the time has come, to engage a stranger and hand over our own life.

Some don't overthink it at all. They interview, make some calls, and hand over their kid and their keys and a list of to-dos and not-to-dos. I, instead, lie awake at night, thinking of all the crazy people I know, those who have been damaged along the way, those who I would never leave Chloe alone with but at first and second and third meeting seem totally....sane.

The initial phone conversations are the most difficult. My worst tendencies kick in. Are they upbeat? Articulate? Educated? Does their kindness just ooze over the phone? In my profession, giving good phone is critical. As words bounce and stumble between us, my chest tightens. How will my kid understand you if I can't?

And then you come to my door, and it feels like dating. My heart will soar or sink immediately, and I will know right away if you can possibly be "the one". If you are not, I want you to leave, but I need to smile and drag my child in front of you, and pretend to buy into to the exaggerated gestures that you believe proves that I can trust you.

"I believe that most people are inherently good" I always say at these interviews. And its total bullshit. But I spread it on, thick and dripping and sticky as honey, trying to gauge your reaction perhaps. Will you flinch, and show me that your intentions are less than pure? Or maybe I am saying this to make sure that you know that if you mess with my kid, you will be destroying my whole outlook on humanity. None of it matters, really. Because as you sit on my couch and eat or don't eat my cookies, you are the same potential phony that I can be upon first meet. We have all done it, whether interviewing for a job or hunting for a spouse. "My greatest weakness is that I am a perfectionist". "Of course I know Powerpoint". "I have no problem with micro managers". "I just had an STD test". "I totally wouldn't care what my engagement ring looked like". All benign lies really. No one's life is a stake in these situations.

Babysitters for an evening are easier to take. A teenager can watch TV with my kid, eat my icecream and no one is any worse for wear. But a nanny will be with my child for more waking hours than her parents. I am interviewing someone with huge influence, who my child will look up to, will emulate, will learn from, will want to be like if for no reason other than the fact that they are around. And I won't be there to ever know what happened if anything does. I am not just worried about something bad. I am worried about not good enough.

When it is sunny outside, I slather Chloe with SPF 50. My mother thinks I am nuts, and I have my own freckles to prove it. I know Chloe will make her own bad choices, create her own dangers some day. But right now, it's just her parents making the choices, because that's our job. I want her to go through life without burns for as long as possible. But when I open my home, her life, to a stranger who is doing the job that many will consider mine, it feels like playing with fire.

Fashion Weak

2007-02-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

Every February, when the white tents cover Bryant Park like some alternative circus, I get a little weak in the knees. It's not because I wish I were a model strutting the catwalk -- I got over model glorification after watching one lose her shirt in the middle of a show. It's because I remember Fashion Week February 1999, when I made one of those choices that forever changed my path.

I had been working at a beauty/fashion public relations firm, for Vidal Sassoon. It was my first job out of college, and one that I chose in the same manner that I had made so many other too-important choices at that age -- my friends were doing it. Specifically, my best friend J, who is the type of girl who had a "Job Hunt" binder, complete with dividers by industry, lists of contacts and coverletters. I was lost, unable to find a career that would "just let me write". "Go into PR!" J pleaded with me, as I sat on the lowest step of the staircase of the house I grew up in, where I found myself living once again, unemployed after college. I sent a few resumes and got even fewer bites. One, which we'll call Sabrina Star Communications, seemed most promising.

My interview was in Manhattan, and I prepared by reading my sister's "PR 101" textbook on the bus ride to Port Authority, squirming in my cheap cotton suit. The agency was designed almost entirely in hot pink, the signature color, I would soon learn. It was on Park Avenue, where I had imagined all of corporate life happening. I walked through rows of cubes and offices, as heels clicked around me and women in varying degrees of trendy dress rushed, as if I was in some sort of "Fashion E.R.". My first interview was with a woman named Laura, who intimidated and charmed me equally. She was pin thin, in the manner that I coveted at the time. She seemed much older to me then, but I now recognized that she was likely no older than 33. She talked to me about the agency, their beauty clients, the meetings, the travel. The glamour was building. I stared at her highlighted blonde hair, her designer suit and perfect makeup and suddenly worried that she would notice how unlike her package I was.

Luckily, the second meeting was with an overweight Jewish male VP, who could have easily been my father. We hit it off instantly, as I was much more accustomed to people like this. I knew that I would be hired, as they lead me out behind glass doors, handing me a glossy bag filled with press kits and client products. I was "in".

My comfort and confidence at Sabrina Star lasted no more than that one day. When I started my work as an The company, comprised almost entirely of women who might as well have had well manicured claws, was lead by Sabrina, who was almost cartoon like in her evil. She was anywhere between 50 and 80, with skin pulled tight across her face. She teetered in stilettos and wore Chanel suits from the 80s. A decrepit dog would follow her forlornly around the office until the day he did and was immediately replaced with the same breed of dog and given the same name. Her best features, piercing blue eyes, were constantly narrowed in discontent. She invoked extreme fear, and had no qualms about calling coordinators at home to ream them about messy offices or overdue deadlines. This woman made me shake, she made me loathe my unpolished nails and knock off Prada shoes. "No one uses hair gel!" I remember her screaming through the office at a member of the Vidal Sassoon staff. "Unless you have hair like her!", she seethed, pointing to me with a withering look. My hands ran quickly over my hard and crunchy curls as I tried to dissapear. And Sabrina always sniffled, which was either due to a hideous tick or an equally bad cocaine habit. Probably both. You could hear her sniffling before she found you, giving you time to brush crumbs from your desk or kick the sneakers beneath it.

Still, as I stood pressed against proverbial glass, hunched over a tiny desk which was forever teeming with tiresome "to do"s, I longed for the glitz. My first client was a motorized toothbrush, and I dealt daily with dentists and gingivitis and plaque. It was far from the world of beauty that I imagined when I interviewed. I am sure they believed me to be a better fit in the world of oral health care than that of Cover Girl, and they were probably right. But I pushed to get closer to the prettier people.

Which lead me to Vidal Sassoon. I was finally moved to that part of the business, only to be met with more difficult bosses. There was the one who was happily married to a clearly closeted air steward, who would conveniently lose his wedding ring on overnight flights. She was a pleasure to work for, her mood solely determined by his travel schedule. To augment an already stressful situation, I had begin dating the boy who I would ultimately lose my virginity, and my mind to. I cried easily at work in bathroom stalls, wiping my face fast enough to start inventory on the many different shampoos. And while there were exciting moments, eventually running my own fashion show for one, they were few and far between. On the surface, I had it all, a job in the beauty industry, a handsome latin boyfriend who wanted to kill any man who looked at me twice. But I was falling apart at my sale rack seams.

I pinned much of my hopes on Fashion Week, which Vidal Sassoon was sponsoring. It was the ultimate manifestation of all that I wanted to be a part of. I loved the production end of the shows, watching them all come together from casting models to that very first strut. Not that I was a part of any of this. My first formidable task was to find some sort of solid honey that Mr. Vidal Sassoon enjoyed with his tea. This was pre-internet accessibility, which meant hours and days of calling. When I finally found the jars I bought several, and would snack from them as my only sustenance in the impossible long days. As I met more and more people from this glamorous world, I was more and more unimpressed. The best folks I met were the staff from Proctor and Gamble, who owns Vidal Sassoon and traveled in for the shows in faux fur vests and leather pants, clearly trying too hard, all hailing from Ohio.

When I finally got to the shows, holding my laminated pass as tightly as a life preserver, the aesthetics were everything I had hoped for. Beauty was everywhere. Crisp white fanned out over a beautiful park. Celebrities who looked even more ethereal in person. Lights, camera, action. It was perfection. And it was also freezing.

In all of my Fashion Week fantasies, I never took into consideration that the tents might not be heated. They weren't. I spent day after day stuffing gift bags until my hands were blue and my teeth chattered. Only colder than I was likely the models. Tears pricked my eyelids. And on my last day, my rented cellphone rang. I stiffened in anticipation of my next set of ridiculous orders. It was my boyfriend. Who, in a rare moment of conventional niceness, had sent my resume to a local non profit. "They want to see you", he said. It sounded bland and boring and totally unglamorous. But it also sounded warm. And it was.

So I took the job, bidding farewell to free cosmetics and celebrity sightings and lying awake at night feeling terribly unfulfilled. Years later, I would meet my husband through this job, which would lead me to forever thank my terrible ex, those freezing cold tents, and my ability to have the strength to choose a life that was much more "me".

The path to righteousness

2007-01-28T16:32:00.000-08:00

I have always believed that you can learn everything you need to know about a person's true character by their instanteous decisions. The things that a person will say and do when they have a split second, if that, to plan, to premeditate.

It's easy to be a good person in generically tough times. In mourning, in job loss, in illness. There are cards and visits and flowers and milkshakes and the salve we all utilize to do the right thing. And sometimes, behind these generic gestures, the sentiment is clear and true. But in an instant, when we have no time to think or breathe, the answers are tough and that require us to make a difference in a life by inconveniencing our own, to engineer a whole new kind of comfort, to say nothing at all...this is what separates the everybodys to the tight circles of somebodys. At least for me. These are the people who drop you off at the door when it's out of their way. The ones who call six months after the funeral to see how you are doing when the chaos has lifted. The ones who answer "yes" before you have even asked the questions. They may forget birthdays and holidays -- these are rarely Hallmark people. And they are few and far between.

These are the same people who do for others with no regard for their own gain. I have never seen this as personified as in the case of my husband, A, and my grandmother.

I have one living grandparent, my paternal grandmother. She is called Flo, as many grandmothers seem to be. After 40+ years of widowhood spent immersed in intense social activities like bridge and singles clubs and choirs, we received a call from the AARP telling us that her membership dues were late. Flo was never late. This lead to some belated digging, which brought forth a snowstorm of chaos - of unwashed dishes, uncleaned house, unpaid bills and near-miss driving accidents. It took serious negotiations to get Flo out of her house and into an assisted living facility. The cruel nature of early onset dementia is the fact that the victim rarely senses a problem. So a family swoops in, with poorly concealed tears and concern, but nothing feels wrong to the person it is happening to.

But there was something very wrong with Flo - who was hallucinating and creating stories. She was hysterical in her assertions, such as the time she believed that my husband stole her car. Now she wasn't totally off, since we were considering using her car, but she believed that A had come to her house, taken her keys, and driven away. He was my husband of barely a year. I was surprised that HE did not drive away.

In the years since, Flo has declined and plateaued. She made some peace with her new home, after agreeing that it was the "best place for her". But the uphill battles have changed. Her short term memory is gone, which means that she is easily offended by forgetting information that she wants to know and was just told to her. She still creates things that do not exist, which can send her reeling and leave us scrambling for excuses as to why she ever thought this or that. It is not unlike the movie "50 First Dates", because we are constantly starting over, even in the same conversation, over and over. She refuses to change her skirt, because it seems new to her every day, despite the filth and the wear and tear. She had always dressed to the nines, and one of the most obvious effects of themental illness is her attachment to the same clothes, which leave her so uncharacteristically unkempt.

Phone calls and visits to my grandmother are immediately forgotten by her. So many of us make the call, pay the visit, because it is "the right thing to do", and it will somehow buy us points with another person. But in this case, the gesture occurs in a vacuum with limited lasting effect. It is a great undertaking. The calls can be maddening, the repetions, the false assertions. The visits are even more difficult. They require a great deal of physical strain to lift my now obese grandmother into a car to get to the diner. Her hygiene issues are unsettling. She often complains about having to go. But it remains important, to us, and on some level, we need to believe that it is still important to her.

My husband, A, is the one who limitless patience for Flo. He initiates many phone calls. Her handles every part of our trips with her to Friendly's. He holds her frail hand, tightens her seatbelt over her expanse. He jokes and flirts. She is crazy about him and he lavishes her with attention. "How's my boyfriend?" she asks me about him. "If I were a little bit younger, you'd have a run for your money."

After our outings, he walks her to the door after the trip. He hugs her despite the dirty shirt and unwashed hair. As if he was her own. There are few moments when I believe I am in the presence of righteousness, but when I am with A and my grandmother, I am reminded of the righteous man I married. For these visits, these calls, these gestures are vapor in an instant to Flo. But the intent to me is everlasting.

These dreams go on when I close my eyes....

2007-01-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

In life, I like to believe that I am a creative person. Always trying to mix it up a little, keep 'em guessing.

Have I mentioned that in life, I am also always generally happy?

My dreams are a whole 'nother story.

I have been plagued by recurring, stressful dreams since childhood. My childhood dreams were one of two: my mother was a villain who was trying to kill me, or, I exit a day care establishment to find everyone gone. These are two of the worst scenarios imaginable for a little kid, I would imagine.

The recurring dreams of my adult years include the following: I have a final in a class that my graduation is dependent upon, but I have never attended the class; the toilet is overflowing; I have somewhere to get to and no clothes tha fit (my friend Gail is often in these, trying to help); husband is cheating on me and we are divorcing and he is nonplussed, and all of my teeth are loose or falling out (this last one is accompanies by clenching and grinding).

As a parent, sleep is golden. However, the fact that mine is riddled with anxiety is a cruel twist. It's akin to living a whole other life that is not really yours, and it aint a good one.

Does anyone have good dreams that they don't want to wake up from?

Things that Make Us Happy

2007-01-20T16:05:00.000-08:00

16 years ago, a bunch of 16 year old campers sat around a bunk into the wee hours of the night, making a list that was called "Things That Make Us Happy". I am not sure how it started, since I was asleep at the time. (Not sure if my friend LB reads this blog from Grahamads, but if she does, she will likely explain the origins of this list).

I did weigh in the next morning, after the list was already miles long. I am not sure what it is about 16 year old girls that make us desperate to record everything -- in diaries, in mix tapes, in letters (and probably now in emails). Nonetheless, it was an addictive exercise.

I remember some of the items on list -- most of them revolved around boys. Things like "Being told you smell good by a guy that you like" and "arm tickles" and "having your hair played with" and "The St. Elmo's Fire Soundtrack". The point was to combine the mundane with the offbeat/creative - which I guess is every teenager's hope in general.

16 years later, it's amazing how things change, and how they stay the same. I still like the arm tickles, but the hair playing I leave to my kid when my curls get caught in her chubby folds. I do still love that St. Elmos Soundtrack, but these days it's all about Raffi and Annie.

So it got me thinking about Things That Make Me Happy. Here are just a few - and would love to hear some more from you!
____________________________________________________________________________________
*Sunkist. Despite the color and the calories, I am enjoying this beverage again.

*Opaque tights. I have been wearing them for my whole life and they only seem to make me happier. And warmer.

*When my daughter wears my heels and a purse and pretend lipstick, hobbles to the door and shouts "buh-bye" over her shoulder.

*The joy of meeting the children of my friends.

*Humidifiers.

*Blog Love from Weboy and Grahamad (see blogroll)

*PB and J sandwiches, with JIF not Skippy. Made by my husband who won't divulge his secrets.

*Old family photos. Even when I look like a freak, I love resucitating the memories.

*Text messaging.

*Blog comments.

* The Modern Love section of the Times' Sunday Styles.

* A head on my shoulder.

*Knowing my limitations.

* Johnson and John's Baby Powder in Jasmine and Vanilla (hard to find - but worth it!)

*Grapefruit.

*Febreze.

*Fancy Bathrooms.

*Diamonds.

*Online photograph sharing.

*Letting go.

*Hanging on.

*The words: "Everything looks great!"

In sickness, and in health

2007-01-18T07:28:00.000-08:00

I have always been a nurterer. My mother tells the story that as an infant, I hated the playpen and refused to sit inside of it, even for a moment (my daughter has inherited this same hatred of mesh walls). Except for the time that my mom was desperately sick with the flu and she put me down in the aptly named pen, and I sat quietly, staring at her as she writhed in the bed. She claims I just "knew".

I know how to help when loved ones are sick. I am good at the head petting, the water with lemon, the hot compresses or cold compresses. Vomit does not scare me (though it is not my favorite). I can read a mercury thermometer. I understand the importance of fresh sheets, new toothbrushes, dry toast and backrubs.

In moments of more dire illness, I am able to escape my generally terrified personality and buck up for what needs to happen. I have scheduled MRIs, pestered doctors for test results, demanded second opinions and abused Google. When my grandmother was slowly dying from a massive stroke, I chatted with her at her bedside as if nothing was wrong. I smoothed her blankets and hair. My doctor brother regarded me incredulously. "You should have been a nurse", he said, in a moment of uncharacteristic compliment. I took my sister and her two day old son to the emergency room when he needed bloodwork and held my hands over his little body while he was poked with needles and screamed. My sister, who was barely vertical after giving birth mere days before, still laughs at the way that I scooped him up and held him to my chest when it was all over, forgetting to hand him to her.

This is just the way that I am.

Much of this comes from my own mother, who, while terrified of illness, is an amazing caregiver. Being a sick kid in my house meant fruit punch and coloring books and the little television dragged into your room. When she told me she would check on me at night, I believed her and always felt her hand on my head. I have known a few pretty serious illness in my own life, and she has always been the one to manage my care.

My husband, who is the most loving and caring man on the planet, is not the best at the sick thing. I do not think he had good role models. His intentions are good, but he tends to miss the fact that a sick person wants attention and sympathy and bowls of ice cream. Instead he tends to look at me worriedly, pat me awkwardly and ask what I want instead of just knowing. I want company and bad TV and lots of indulgence. But he is great with Chloe, when she is vomiting in his lap, so the Daddy part is fully functional. I should add that he is also a difficult patient, who has little to no appreciation for my overtures and would rather moan about his impending death and be left alone to suffer.

Maybe its a guy thing.

In college, I was at my sickest one week of Sophomore year. It came over my dorm like a plague, instantaneous and merciless. My salvation was the double bed in my friend J's room, where we both languished for days. When I mustered the strength to to go to the bathroom, she would count backwards from 100, telling me that she would come and find me if I had not returned when she reached number one. We lay beneath sweaty sheets, wasting away from malnutrition and fever, but still finding time to laugh (largely at J who insisted on smoking a cigarette and nearly stopped breathing).

It was then that I realized that misery -- above all else, above chicken soup and Vicks Vapo Rub -- loves company.

Mall Scrawl

2007-01-12T13:01:00.000-08:00

Redstar and Weboy have both commented on THE MALL, where we often find ourselves this time of year either shopping for crap on sale or returning crap that you won at the office grab bag.

For me, the mall is not seasonal. I spent my whole childhood in a city that is considered the mall capital of the world, and I now find myself living in a city without any real malls. I miss them desperately. When vacationing recently, we had our choice of upscale waterside shops, home to lighted fountains, Prada, Chanel and Escada, or the mall filled with Cinnabon, Sunglass Hut, Macy's and massage table kiosks. We chose the latter.

There is something about the smell of the mall - the combination of shoe leather, perfume and grease. The crowds bustling with limitless enthusiasm. The children (especially mine) running amok. You eat things that you rarely do anywhere else. You fight with strangers over who was first on the always too long fitting room line. You get makeovers without having to buy a thing (but you do anyway), free gifts with purchase, fried chicken samples and impromptu teen fashion shows. What's not to love?

But the mall makes me miss my mother. She is the best shopping partner I have ever had. Hours melt away, sale racks are turned upside down, and unnecessary items are always purchased. She likes the chicken salad at Nordstrom, and I can always convince her into a frozen yogurt. These days, both of our husbands call when we are shopping together, wondering where the hell we are.

The mall also makes me miss my friend T. We did the mall run in Jersey on a regular basis as teenagers. One of our mothers would drop us off and we would circle aimlessly in search of a new skirt or shade of Clinique lip gloss. One of our last teenage trips was prom shopping, when a less mall - experienced friend who came along literally lay down on the ground in submission, declaring that she could not go on after the hours that T and I dragged her around.

My husband tries to be a good mall buddy, but he hates shopping with a passion and has limited patience for the art of the browse. So I have already cultivated a shopper in Chloe, who makes a bee line for the closets of friends and tears through their hangers, shouting "Ooooh, Ooooh!" She loves to try on shoes and knows to hand over a credit card and accept a receipt. It may not be the most important skill I will cultivate in her, but I'll need someone to wheel me around for the mall's senior specials.

It's anything you can smear

2007-01-08T17:22:00.000-08:00

When people would complain about the TSA's annoying guidelines, I always rolled my eyes. "It's such a small inconvenience" I would think about removing shoes and longer lines. "What's the big deal?" Sure it was somewhat ridiculous that the TSA would adjust the guidelines based on the specificities of the latest threat, but really, aren't the worse things than being barefoot on the slimy floor at Newark Airport? (aren't there??)

But that was before they started screwing with my makeup.

On the way back from a recent trip, at the security check, things were already chaotic. We were loaded down with all of the ridiculous crap that you haul when you are airborne with baby -- the books, the snacks, the change of clothes for the inevitable puke. My husband was irritated because my license is expired (and I would rather be set on fire than renew it at the DMV) which meant I was in for the pat down. And then I remembered.

"My whole makeup bag is still with me!"

I had meant to put it in the checked luggage. I started to sweat. "I have over $500 of makeup in here!"

It's not exactly true. More like $200. But I had just gone to Sephora and replaced the last makeup bag that I lost somewhere. And this bag had everything, minus the tweezers. The overpriced Stila foundation. The perfect blush my friend J bought me for my birthday whose brand had rubbed off rendering it irreplacable. Brand new Lancome mascara, not yet clumpy. Need I go on?

"Let's go back!" my husband said. "It's not too late to get it in to our bags". He knew what he had on his hands.

But it was way too late. Chloe was already careening towards the empty shoe bins and we were virtually miles from the curb where we had checked our overpacked bags.

The security agent solved our quandary. "If you remove the liquid based things and put them in the dish, you'll be fine".

But what constitutes a liquid? Cream eyeshadow? Eyebrow gel? Lip gloss? I must have been wondering aloud because the agent said "It's anything you can smear".

I purged it all, relieved (until Chloe had to be separated from her stuffed dog, and we were both given the once over with a beeping wand.)

When my attention turned back to my husband, I realized he was amidst his own shakedown. Finally he walked over to me, eyes flashing.

"You are very lucky", he said, pushing my makeup bag at me. "They wanted to take this away."

"Why?" I asked, irritated. There was nary a liquid to be seen. Just powders.

"They said you should have removed all of the contents," he said smugly. "You came this close" he said, creating an inch space between his fingers and scooping up Chloe who was chewing on the Boarding Pass.

Look, I can handle the lines. The fact that my underwire always sets off the alarm. That my husband's foreign sounding name always makes us get double checked.

But when you start messing with my beauty stash -- you have gone way too far.

Oh and also, what are they doing with all of these confiscated beauty products? Surely there are women in need with unconcealed undereye circles and unemphasized cheekbones?

My Love

2007-01-08T12:56:00.000-08:00

I love you for things that you don't even know. The way you always charge my cell phone. Sometimes you slips twenty dollar bills inside because you can deduce that I am out of cash. I love it when you buy me chocolate from all your trips, hiding it under my pillow even though I forget to look each time. I love that now you let me wear your expensive T shirts to sleep, even though you are relegated to crappy ones on the weekend because that's all that is left. I love when you rub your hands together in childlike delight, and I immediately get excited too. I love that we don't have any really bad stories from our past, that you have always treated me with respect and awe and nothing bad that you have said ever sticks. I love that you allow me to be hypocritical, to bitch about things that I tend to do myself. I love your nerdiness, the way you love politics and detest crime and like to talk about both at parties. I love that you love to work. I love your moral compass, the way you stick to your beliefs with conviction and without apology. I love it when you rub my feet even though they are not cute nor polished. I love the way that you parent, the fact that you are a natural even though I rehearsed for years. I love that I have never seen anyone as handsome as you. I love that you learn from our mistakes, that we will definitely get a baby nurse next time. I love that when you proposed we had never talked about it first, I never became unsure or hostile waiting for a ring. I love that I know that you have powers that you don't let on, that you would whip out in an instant if we were in danger. I love that you allow me to be judgemental because you know that I am secretly accepting of most flaws in others. I love that you have made me believe in miracles, and in 401Ks. I love how you look in a tie, it makes me want to buy 100 ties. I love that you barely notice what I wear -- unless it is particularly slutty -- because you see me on the inside. I love your huge and resilient heart that continues to grow healthy despite its scars.

And I love that there is so much more I could say, if this was not for public consumption. I love a new thing about you every day. I hope you know.

Some are gold, some are not

2007-01-06T16:43:00.000-08:00

I was in the park today with my friend T, enjoying an indian summer in New York City of which cynical New Yorkers are fearful. We were discussing friendships. T has a friend who has become increasingly distant and difficult. "I think I have to let her go," T said. I was surprised. T does not let anyone go without a fight. But she was a newer friend, and it was getting exhausting. "I totally understand", I said, nodding as I watched my toddler take off with a bucket of dirt. And I did understand. But it wasn't easy getting there.

T is my oldest friend from the age of ten, when she transferred to my elementary school. That year, my best friend had moved away, so the timing was good to find a new one. T sat directly behind me, and my first words to her were "Can I borrow your White Out?" The first day of school was the first and last day I was ever fastidious about my schoolwork. She produced the little bottle from what I am sure was a clear plastic sleeve inside her looseleaf notebook. Upon my third request her eyes rolled slightly. Still, we became fast friends, bonded in bad hair and a love for Chinese jump rope.

T is still the funniest person I have ever known. We laughed our way through highschool, through the six hour bus rides to visit each others colleges. We lived together briefly in Manhattan in our early twenties until she met the man she would later marry and I discovered I was much better off living alone at that age. I was a bridesmaid in her wedding, she at mine. At her wedding, she handed me her jewelry mid ceremony, a tradition for a bride to hand to a woman struggling to have a baby. She was the first friend to meet my daughter at home, for a good half hour before I had my first of many post partum breakdowns and kicked her out.

It has not always been idyllic. I retreated in dark moments, disappearing for weeks or months. We drifted apart at times. Still, T never let me go. She knew me inside and out, and how to handle me. When I finally came to see why she hated my boyfriend and cut off contact with him, she fielded his calls. "If you know Amy at all," she told him, "you know she will talk to you when she is ready". I never was, thanks mainly thanks to her.

As T talked abut her friend who she was on the verge of severing ties with, my wisdom came from an experience with a shared friend of ours, named E. E came into our lives in high school. She was unlike anyone I had ever met. Petite, artsy, cerebral but also an intense romantic. She was T's friend first, and my own friendship with E developed organically, like the best ones do, when you don't remember how it started.

E and I were more alike than T and I in the way that were were both extremely intense. If T was my favorite pair of shoes, the ones that always fit and looked good, E was a strappy stiletto that sometimes pinched but made me feel sexy and alive and unlike myself. We wrote pages and pages to each other during class, quoting songs from The Indigo Girls and Survivor. We made sappy mix tapes. We talked on the phone even before leaving for school. "What are you wearing?" she'd ask in a mock suggestive tone. When we got older, we'd get drunk on bad wine and sleep in her single bed together, staring at the ceiling that she had painted herself and adorned with stars. My relationship with E was exhausting and heady and addictive. We exchanged "I love you" readily, in a way that, combined with her free spirit and my obsessive and sometimes impressionable personality, worried my mother. E was fiercly independant, with older parents who were absent for months at a time, leaving us space to indulge in our friendship at all hours. Rumors swirled that she was bisexual, and she embraced them, never confirming or denying. I was smitten.

Our arrival at separate colleges created the first schism we had ever encountered. The separation was painful. I fell into a new group of friends, and immediately began dealing with a set of unnatural tragedies that threw me for a two year tailspin. E was roommates with several women who were as freespirited and intense as she was, more beautiful and readily accessible than I. I came home from college, eager to reconnect and was greeted with an E who seemed colder, more distant, less alluring.

I sank into a depression my second year of college, which took me away from every long distance friend. I became an irritating type of after school special character, complete with overalls, a sour expression and penchant for extreme dieting. I never returned phone calls and shunned attempts to save me. When I got over my morose phase, I had to repair my relationships. T was easy. E was not so. I visited her in Israel, and tried to explain that which I myself did not understand. The wall she had built was thicker and seemingly impenetrable. To quote one of our favorite songs, it was as if she had "built a fortress around (her) heart." It was not until another friend let me off the hook, saying I had no need to apologize, that I grew to resent what E was putting me through to recapture a smidgen of our past.

In the years that followed I watched E replace me with another girl whose hair she played with while she lay in her lap. My photos disappeared from her bookshelves. We forgot birthdays and phone calls ceased. Still, I clung to threads. I married first, and asked her to create the artwork for my ketubah. At her wedding years later, I signed her ketubah, and strained to see her from my seat in the ceremony. I handed her a card that was filled with my good wishes and loopy expressions of pain from the current state of our relationship. "It is one of my greatest regrets in life" I wrote, with the melodrama that always seems to rear its head when a loved one is getting married. It was a pathetic ploy to leverage the importance of the day and regain my position in her life. It failed.

I still see E, because T is friends with her. But about two years ago I had the same conversation with T that she was having with me. About wanting to sever ties with E instead of the sporadic emails and dinners. "I have made my peace with it", I declared, despite the fact that there are photos of me, E and T all over T's apartment. And I believed it. Until E called me the week after Chloe was born. It had been years since we spoke on the phone. "I'm so sorry it took me this long!" she apologized breathlessly. "I have been thinking about you". And just like that, she sucked me back in, with promises to visit and earnestly inquiring about my well being. And just as quickly, she disappeared again. And as I reflect on the fact that I have mentioned her more than once on my blog, and devoted more space to her than my dear and deserved friend T, and I wonder why we always give chase to the ones who flee us.

I have been gifted in this life with many friends. Very few know me now, the good and the ugly. Even fewer have stood the test of time. It's hard to walk away, to avoid romanticizing relationships in hindsight merely because they are no longer present. But it's even harder to be disappointed over and over again. Now the stakes are higher. I need someone to watch my daughter, to hold my hand during a sonogram, to talk me down from a ledge when I find a lump in my breast. It's more than a good mix tape can offer. It means being a good friend too, when you are tired and can't bear the thought of the phone or a date. And it means letting go, and making peace with the people who look good flanking you in a photograph ten years ago, but no longer come to life.

Crimson

2007-01-04T12:11:00.000-08:00

There are two types of people. Those of us who blush, and those who don't. And I am not talking about a once yearly face flaming in response to a public spill at a restaurant, or down the subway steps.

I am talking about those of us who, like me, spend a large part of their lives with their faces aflame. My friend K coined this phenomenon "hot face" as in "I am getting hot face" or "I totally had hot face". It's when you literally feel your cheeks redden and heat up, your fingertips tingle, and the pink hue work its way down to your upper chest.

I have a big blushing problem. Mainly because it happens most often at work. My blushing kicks in when I am caught off guard, when I speak to a small group in public, when I am called out unexpectedly. This also happens when someone surprises me in my office (which often leads them to say "are you tan?" because I darken so quickly.) If it is a male colleague, I know he is getting the wrong idea.

Don't be fooled - it's not charming or endearing. I don't blush in response to a compliment or from praise. Those are cute and rare moments. It is not adorable when you are at a large conference table and asked to explain this or that relating to your work. Sweat usually accompanies, and I am not a sweaty gal usually. It's bad overall. It's a giveaway that you are uncomfortable.

I also blush when talking to authority figures. I once had minor surgery with a doctor is known for huge ego and icy bedside manner. When he came to talk to me pre surgery he remarked that I was the first girl to ever blush in his presence. Who wants to hear this while naked and wearing a gown that opens in the back??

I think that my fellow blushers were probably also shy children. There is an inherent insecurity to blushing, as if our bodies are proactively requesting forgiveness or indulgence.

An ex boyfriend was a worse blusher that I. He hated it about himself. His skin was very fair and his hair quite auburn, so you can imagine but the combination was not great. I should have guessed that our relationship would have been doomed to fail -- two pale kids trying our best to play it cool while burning up on a regular basis. It sounds like it could have been "hot", in a good way. But much like the blush, it was steamy for a moment, then uncomfortable, and finally over.

Top 10 Resolutions

2006-12-21T11:49:00.000-08:00

1. I will do more volunteer work
2. I will read more books
3. I will stop sleeping in my contact lenses
4. I will kiss my husband hello when he comes home before the chaos sets in
5. I will go to the gym
6. I will use a night cream
7. I will hang up my clothes at the end of the day, instead of piling
8. I will cook more, heat up less -- for Chloe
9. I will write more
10. I won't sweat the small stuff

Mamadramas will be on hiatus until the first week in January. Thanks to all my readers and fellow bloggers. Wishing you all health and the kind of wealth that really matters.

Stage Mother

2006-12-18T08:15:00.000-08:00

My childhood dream was to be an entertainer. I would awaken at an ungodly hour to watch Kids Incorporated. I was riveted by Stacey, (who went on to be Fergie in The Black Eyed Peas). She was blonde and blue eyed. She rocked the side ponytail. She got to sing and hang out at the soda bar. I was obsessed.

My mother had told me that when I was very young, she was often stopped by strangers and told that I should be on television. I had a mop of remarkable blonde curls at the time. In my re-creation of this tale, I envision my mother being approached by actual agents with business cards, but in reality it could have just been friendly strangers. Nonetheless, my mother always responded graciously but with an emphatic "No". She did not want me to have "that life". And I am sure she did not want that life either, the shlepping to castings, with three kids who were a combined four years apart in age.

I remember as a pre-teen, when my obsession for all things Hollywood piqued, I screamed at my mother in response to a re-telling of this story. Something about how she killed my dreams, how I could have been famous. I was furious. By that time my curls had frizzed and I was awkward with braces and glasses. Still, I felt that she had made a decision on my behalf that thwarted my dreams.

I dabbled in entertainment in any way that I could. I sang in my school choir. I danced ballet and jazz. I enrolled in modeling school.

In high school, I sang on in my bedroom to the Les Miserables soundtrack even though I had never seen the show. I was a tormented teen, haunted by "a world that's full of happiness that I have never known". A angst-filled Cosette, using my four poster bed as a stage.

I was les miz, to say the least.

Early into my college career, I had the opportunity to audition for this or that, but by that time, I was too accustomed to the audience of only my mirror and too afraid of rejection. One day, I was jogging at the park when home visiting my parents on some break. A commercial was being shot. My heart raced, as I watched the lights, the cameras, the whole production. I sprinted home and announced to my parents that "THIS" is what I wanted to do. They were not pleased. You'll never make any money, It's a diffficult life. What happened to law school? Still, I was renewed. I interned at production companies as a PA, anything to get closer to the business. The work was tiring, with early call times and menial tasks. But I loved the energy - even for a lotto commercial. I interned at MTV, in series development and production. My parents remained unenthusiastic when it came to "the industry". The implicit superficiality, the difficult personalities.

In the end, I did not have the strength to pursue this passion without my parents support. Or, I did not have the ambition and the drive to make it happen on my own. I took the road more readily traveled, the consumer PR life that inevitably lead me to the world of non profit. Both careers have proven to be largely unsatisfying, uncreative and riddled with the difficult personalities that my parents feared on my behalf.

As I watch my daughter dance to music in a manner that has been so staggeringly intense and dare I say, gifted, I am convinced that she will somehow want to pursue a path of performing. And if she wants to do this as a job, and not just as a hobby, what will I say? Despite my wish that my parents had been more indulgent of my dreams, Lindsay Lohan scares the hell out of me. But is her way the only way to be successful in that area?

An old friend had a sister who danced her way into the New York City ballet. While there were difficult times when the family had to rally behind one child in a manner that may have lacked equity, they remained generally healthy and normal. I am sure this woman, who is still dancing in her 30s, can not imagine her life any other way.

I hope that Chloe will find a way to chase her dreams in a way that does not take her too far from us. And I hope that I can find the strength to support her choices, and to let her go.

The Best Laid Plans Part Two

2006-12-16T07:03:00.000-08:00

With regards to my last post, keep in mind that it really is the story of how my nanny "Jane" came to be. The bigger story about my return to work, involves the disastrous dismantling of my position based on my part time status, and the fact that my boss believed that "senior managers can not work part time". I believe strongly that women who try to maintain their corporate life in a flexible scenario generally have to make a deal with the devil, and will somehow get screwed in the end.

I did not want to mislead anyone to believe that the decision had a fairy tale ending. Once I leave my job, I will share the details of the erosion of my workplace persona.

Think Dilbert, but with better hair.

The Best Laid Plans

2006-12-14T06:35:00.000-08:00

It was spring 2005. My friend E and I were having our one millionth conversation about the type of mothers we wanted to be. But unlike the last 999,999 conversations on this topic, this one was actually valid, since I was in my third trimester. E did not know then that she would go on to get pregnant the same month that I delivered Chloe. So we were valid in having this talk, unlike our general prediliction towards obsessive, baseless speculation.

"I am definitely staying home full time", I announced. In my memory of this moment, I am stroking the belly which had finally outpaced my breasts and devouring grilled cheese. I am sure I looked at her confidently, with a smugness that only an ignorant mother-to-be can perfect.

"I believe that no one could take better care of my child than I can".

That was only half true. I mean, I believed the statement in hypothetical terms. It's one of those things that you say that no one can disagree with. But a big motivator for that statement was the fact that I hated my job, and was ready to leave. I had experienced a fall out with a colleague with disastrous consequences. I had outgrown my position with no real career trajectory. I was ready, and the timing seemed to perfectly align with the birth of my first child. I fantasized about my resignation, how I would come to the office with my perfect cherub on my hip, living proof of the bigger, better job I was about to take on.

E felt differently, a rarity in our relationship. She wanted to to work. She wanted her child, especially if it was a girl (it would be), to see her mother in terms of a woman in the workforce - a role model that she could embody despite the ongoing inequities between men and women in corporate America. She felt it would be better for her relationship with her husband to be working, to share experiences born of the complexities of work outside the home. She made a good case, but I remained convinced of my own. I packed up my desk slowly. I transferred files. And when I went out on maternity leave, I prepared to return only once, to give notice and say goodbye.

But that was all "B.C.E." (Before Chloe Era).

In the weeks following her birth, I was plagued with several blistering emotions, not the least of which was an ovewhelming identity crisis. My life was virtually unrecognizable. I was living in a new home, with a new body, new set of responsibilities and new baby, with a new title of "Mommy". My face was makeup-free, my clothes were still elastic and I had "working breasts". Who the hell was I? Despite my issues with my job outside the home, it was something I did well, something I could do on autopilot. And it was a surefire way to get the hell out of the house.

In those early days, I put Chloe in her bouncy seat where she sould sit for hours, staring wide-eyed at me. The kid never slept and always had a fierce independant streak. I took it as a sign. I opened the yellow pages and wrote down the list of day care centers. Along with my other platitudes B.C.E., I swore I would never use a nanny. "If anything, I want her to be in an educational enviornment", I would say. Never knowing that my child could barely see in those early months, and was readily entertained by the dance of stuffed giraffes that hung over her crib.

Still, I persevered in my thinking that returning to work would be a salvation. As I walked Chloe around on my maternity leave, in my post-partum pants and ponytail, I oozed jealousy at the women who were in eyeliner and stilettos, carrying briefcases instead of diaper bags. I wanted to be rushing off somewhere. I desperately missed email, and conference rooms, and powerpoint. I even missed the subway.

When Chloe was around six weeks, we visited the only day care center that would not tell me that I was too late to register Chloe. Who knew I should have filled out an application on behalf of my fetus? I walked into the building with my mother, who waited outside with Chloe while I toured the establishment. While the tourguide was a chipper, Love Boat Julie type, this was no fun cruise. The baby room, where Chloe would stay, was filled with stoned looking children in huge bouncy seats. The walls looked filthy, with wilting construction paper art. A teacher waved a pink streamer in front of the babies, who stared listlessly ahead. It felt germ filled and depressing. I ran outside, tears in my eyes, and proclaimed "I can't leave her here! So I can't go back to work!"

Another half truth. I was blaming the day care center, but actually, my depression had started to lift. At around two months I began to really enjoy motherhood, and missed my job far less. My physical pain had finally subsided, and my breasts felt less "alive". Chloe was more interactive and fun.

And I did not even mind my extra pounds and sweatpants.

It's this last sentiment that did not allow me to abandon the idea of working entirely. Ultimately, for me, the life of a stay at home mother was not meant to be. The way in which my days progressed at home did not allow for me to develop any sense of myself. Meaning, I had no time to shower, I had to wear clothes with give, and the household tasks (not my forte) were never ending. It seems like a trite reason to leave your child in someone elses care but the me I needed to be to be happy and fulfilled and stimulated and an all around better mother did not include stretch waistlines and all day baby talk.

Plus, we were deeply in debt.

But I knew I could not work full time. I was breast feeding, did not want to supplement with formula nor exclusively pump. And there was still the issue with my job dissatisfaction, I feared returning to that world all day, every day, and the potential emotional impact. And I missed Chloe when I was away, even for just a haircut.

So I was torn.

To add to the complexity, the only lingering component of my post partum baby blues was irrational paranoia. I was constantly afraid that something terrible would happen to the baby. SIDS, choking on a binky, slipping through crib rails. You name it, I thought it. So the idea of a stranger caring for my child, someone who could snatch her/molest her/drop her/contaminate her body or mind, was terrifying.

My mother, witnessing my torment but firmly believing that I should go back to work, found a nanny. It was a woman who had helped raise by sister's husband. Her name was "Jane" and she was an Orhodox Jew by conversion. She had eight kids of her own. At first, I balked. I did not want a nanny. My mother forced a meeting between us which she mediated. She sent me out to get some cookies and when I returned, Jane had arrived and was holding Chloe on her ample bosom. I cringed, took the baby, and sulked in the corner, nursing frantically. Jane talked for hours. She never stopped talking. She mentioned she had cared for someone with ALS, and I liked that. But that was about it. She was slightly unkempt and her comments sometimes sounded ignorant. But she knew babies. When she finally left, I mouthed "No Way!" to my mother and left the room. My mother called Jane, told her I was still trying to figure things out.

But the more I tried to figure things out, the more confused I became. When I was home, I was happiest with other mothers, but those "playdates" did not really benefit the kids, which left me feeling guilty. Classes, while a great distraction, were overwhelmingly expensive. I feared that Chloe would become too dependant and unable to manage new surroundings and new caregivers, especially due to my smothering nature. When my husband came home, and asked what I did all day, I worried that he would wonder what had happened to his wife. I tried days of staying in, sitting on the floor, no TV, no playdates. But after a few I felt suffocated and lonely, and dare I admit, bored.

But I never wanted to leave her.

So I was stuck.

As is the case with most big decisions, mine was made out of sheer necessity. My maternity leave was up. Time had run out. So I dressed Chloe up and went to work, just as I had planned many months ago. But instead of a resignation letter, I brought a proposal for part time work. My boss agreed. And I called Jane, because after weeks of marinating in this decision, I realized that she would be ok. And she was almost family, she was not a stranger. My mother promised she would drop in alot. It was about as good as it was going to get.

One morning before my first day of work, Chloe had one of her explosive poops, through the diaper, and into my hair. I was desperately trying to make the bed and put laundry away. On the phone with my brother, narrating these events, he said, "Aren't you happy that you are going to have someone to do all of this shit for you?"

And I was. Because in the end, the joys of motherhood are not 9-5. But there is alot to handle. And I was glad to have a helping hand, a bit of myself back, some comfort in my high heels.

I believe that Jane has been a great influence. While not classy nor kempt, she is engaging and energetic. I am sure that Jane's love of music is visible every day when Chloe dances to any beat. Chloe can play happily alone, or with any stranger without anxiety. And over a year later, Chloe bids me farewell with a cheerful, yet dismissive, "buh-bye" and greets me at the end of a day with an enthusiasm that almost knocks us both over.

And we are no longer in debt.

So it does not get any better than that.

New addition

2006-12-14T06:34:00.000-08:00

Note the new addition to my blogroll - Apartment 53. If you like my blog, you will love hers. In this way, we one and the same.

Sex and the City, Season One

2006-12-11T17:33:00.000-08:00

I am watching the first season of Sex and The City. I never saw this season, but its on HBO On Demand and I am killing time until 9:00 PM, the absolute earliest I can fall asleep in anticipation of a sleepless night with a sleepless baby.

I'm sorry, but what the hell is going on with SJP's HAIR? As a curly girl, I am appalled. The frizz. The horrid highlights. The terrible length. This series comes after movies like Miami Rhapsody, where SJP is platinum and ringlets and great. Did no one in makeup and hair on SATC the early years know of hair serum, long layers and lowlights???

I can not even speak of the makeup - the uneven complexions, the blue eyeliner. And Miranda's eggplant do?

And the fashion sucked. We are supposed to believe that these stack heel slides are $400 Manolos??

Anyone? Anyone?

Scale

2006-12-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

Things I will never have in my home: The Clapper, Wall-to-Wall carpeting*, white formica, a bidet....

...and a scale.

Growing up, my house had a scale that resided in my father's bathroom. But I never paid much attention to it. The numbers meant nothing to me. Even when my father surveyed me one day in feeted pajamas and remarked to my mother (in an adoring tone, of course), "She's growing a little pot" (as in belly).

My first understanding of the scale arrived via my friend Rachel. She was one of those jellyfish friends, to borrow a term from Bridget Jones. The ones who zing you from time to time with remarks that sound innocuous but leave a sting. Things like, "Why are your arms so hairy?". You know those friends. After realizing that we both weighed a whopping 88 pounds, we decided that we needed to "work out" and ran around the house in a fit of excerise. It was the 80s, mind you, so Jane Fonda was used, I am sure. When we finally allowed ourselves a healthy snack (which was probably about 20 minutes into this routine) it was carrots. With heaps of ranch dressing. We had alot to learn.

Even when I cared, which was a brief stint in college, I still never really knew what I weighed. And I liked it that way. Numbers are just too addictive. The ability to manipulate a number, to take one on as an identity, to succeed or fail based on a number...this is all dangerous territory as far as I am concerned.

Even when I was pregnant, despite being forced to hear the number associated with my weight on a regular basis, I did not internalize it at all. I was harboring another human being. All bets were off. The growing number was a sign that things were progressing correctly. I had an excuse.

Recently, I went to the doctor for a baseline physical and got on the scale, only to be greeted by a number that I have never seen before. The steel tab kept moving -- and landed on three digits that were totally unexpected. And I am not surprised. My eating habits have fallen apart in the face of fatigue and chicken nuggets. I haven't exercised a lick in almost two years. I no longer consume anything that contains Nutra Sweet. And just generally, I have not been able to let go of the bliss that comes from thoughtless eating, a bliss cultivated during pregnancy which should have been abandoned 17 months ago.

By the same token, I do believe that people need to accept their bodies for what they are in adulthood, and abandon the sizes they inhabited 15 years ago. I would rather be on the higher end of the scale and not live a life of salads and "on the sides". However, I do believe that working out keeps you young, and that it is very easy to fall apart in the face of other demands like toddlerhood, demanding jobs and general lethargy.

However, when it comes to the scale, I believe it is a needless torture device. Regardless of how little I worry about THAT NUMBER, I would give in to curiosity on the days when I was feeling low. And because eating disorders run rampant, and because I am not entirely unconvinced that my lineage does not include a genetic predisposition to anorexia/body dysmorphia if not merely extreme vanity, I never want my daughter to fall victim to numbers. I don't want her to believe that it matters at all, and even owning a scale is an endorsement of its importance.

* Sorry D, husband of E. I have heard you love the wall to wall carpeting. Just say NO.

About Last Night

2006-12-07T10:58:00.000-08:00

7:00 PM: Long day of playdates and girl gossip. Feeling as if whole body is already asleep. Toddler is running around house, demanding attention. Call in reserves (grandma).

7:30 PM: Dinnertime! All food offerings are rejected. Turkey, potatoes and milk are on floor. Oreos are offered and enthusiastically accepted. Mom and I are discussing mensa application when child adeptly twists open Oreo. Genius.

7:45 PM: Boosted by the advanced Oreo twisting and wanting to jazz up usual night routine, we put Chloe on potty for second time in life (first time ended in hysterical tears). Grandma brings book to potty which leads me to understand why I have both the need to read on the can, and hemorrhoids. She sits for 20 minutes. Water is run to set proper mood. After flushing and waving bye bye to toilet, Chloe promptly pees on floor.

9:00 PM: On couch recovering from bedtime, removing congealed turkey from the couch, drying hair and ears. Having riveting conversation with good friend J about the pilot that will make us famous as soon as we can a) find an idea b) write something. Can I start spending that advance now, though?

10:00 PM: I somehow am watching the Real World and have eaten three Oreos. If my hair was blonde and I was wearing acid wash instead of shirt with permanent breastmilk stains I would swear it was 1989.

10:30 PM: I am in bed, angered by stiff new cheap sheets. The first money I make from this pilot will be spent on expensive Oprah-like sheets.

11:30 PM: Chloe hysterical. Polar (pronounced like "My Car") has fallen out of bed, beady eyes side down.

12:45 AM: More tears. Chloe is signing that she is hungry. How can this be? Milk is the only option I can handle. It seems to do trick.

2:15 AM: More tears. More signs for hunger. Cannot locate sippy cup and near tears with thought of assembling new one. Finally find cup in sink, empty now warm milk and start again.

4:30 AM: Crying for Daddy. Did I mention he is away? Now I am crying too. Third milk is administered. Was smart enough to leave in refrigerator. Wish I had kid that would fall asleep dutifully in my bed as special treat. Also momentarily wish it were really 1989.

4:45 AM: I can't fall back to sleep. Crippling stomach pains. Wonder if it is guilt pains from wishing for time before children who awaken in middle of night. Start to plan out clothes for tomorrow to save time as well as pilot so I can hire someone to solely wake up in middle of night and fill sippy cups.

7:00 AM: Wake up. Chloe still sleeping, latest in life to date. Call to doorman instructing not to send up nanny whose head I will rip off if she tries to engage me on conversation. Shave legs in anticipation of husband returning but also plan to punish him for leaving by not allowing him any part of legs.

7:15 AM: Chloe is really sleeping late. Start to panic. Believe that she has run away and claimed neglect due to lack of midnight snacks. Check on her. Still sleeping.

7:45 AM: Chloe awakens and seems to not be holding grudge for last night. All thoughts of selling her to gypsies vanish when her two spindly arms are reaching out for hug.

8:00 AM: Say goodbye to Chloe, Nanny and Elmo. Eat Oreo.

Victimless Crime???

2006-12-06T19:11:00.001-08:00

In respone to The Ethicist/NY Times Magazine
Sunday December 3, 2006

Dear Editor,

I was outraged upon reading Randy Cohen's response to the internet technician who had found child pornography on his boss' computer and questioned if she should alert authorities and risk his job. Mr. Cohen's advice stated:

"...you have no legal obligation to contact the police, nor should you. The situation is too fraught with uncertainty. These photographs might depict — legally — not children but young-looking adults."

The technician makes clear in his letter that he is sure that the photos were of underage adults. Mr. Cohen's response is a long winded diatribe of concern for the employer. There are ways in which an investigation can be pursued and confidentially maintained should the employer be acquitted of this crime. The alternative, a possibility strong enough that it compelled someone to turn to the New York Times for advice, is life shattering.

As a mother, and a human being, I am chagrined that any person would believe that it is correct to ignore what appears to be child pornography. It is no wonder why our children continue to be exploited. But at least we can call ourselves "ethical".

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/03/magazine/03wwln_ethicist.html

Purse Peeping

2006-12-04T09:04:00.001-08:00

I have long believed that peering inside a woman's purse is like taking a glimpse inside her soul. Much has been written about this, about the memories associated with being a child and rooting through your mother's purse. In Style Magazine always features a section which lists the contents of a celebrity's cosmetics bag. I have always loved this, despite the fact that I am sure it is all strategic advertising and not actually the items of choice.

I recently cleaned out my own purse - purse, not diaper bag, and I thought the contents pretty much summed up the current state of my life:

1. 5-10 errant Cheerios (bottom of bag, not hygenically preserved)
2. Wallet (all but empty)
3. Work ID (four years and counting, how did I not lose this yet?!)
4. Grime covered pacifier (again, uncovered)
5. Solitary diaper (never leave home without one?)
6. Loose coins (despite fear of choking hazard)
7. Coupons for The Children's Place (to validate unnecessary shopping)
8. Vitamins (fear of falling ill and baby left to own devices/TV loving husband)
9. Mini ziploc bag with pretzel sticks (snacks+bribery)
10. Purell (see above fear of illness)
11. Makeup bag (never used mid-day, shout out to old life)
12. Disposable placemat featuring Elmo (again, germ phobia)
13. Mini Baby Einstein book, entitled "Birds" (lackluster attempt to quell potential meltdowns)
14. Crumbs of undetermined origin (I don't even want to guess
15. Sticks (collected by Chloe from street and confiscated by me)
16. Keys (I hope, but have been known to vanish)
17. Cell phone (which Chloe loves more than me)
18. Preschool application (already late)
19. Strawberry Margarita lip gloss (closest I get to a real drink)

Classy

2006-12-02T15:45:00.000-08:00

1. Ladies, when you see a clumsy looking woman struggling with her stroller and squirming toddler and packages, etc., help a sister out. Do not avert your eyes. Do not sigh in obvious irritation when my stroller wheels dare to touch your shoe. I know there is a sociological study to be done here (but I will leave this to Grahamad) but time and time again, my knights in shining armor come in the form of young African American men who are almost tripping over themselves to help me. They are always smiling. They are always saying "No Problem" in a way that you believe it. Women, never. And I am sure that at least some of them have been me, at least once.

2. When someone gives you a ride somewhere of moderate distance or more, always offer gas money. If you are the driver, and assuming state lines have not been crossed, never take it.

Marriage Equality

2006-12-01T05:23:00.000-08:00

I thought more about my post regarding Brokeback Mountain, and the movie itself, since my quick review. I wanted to mention the one part of the movie that I thought was the most important, and illustrated very effectively. It is captured poignantly and perfectly by my blogbuddy Weboynyc when he writes:

"The film is about how this affair - the course of true love - can damage so many things when it is closed off from its full expression."

The scene where Jack and Ennis are discussing what "could have been", made me think of my sister-in-law Davina's work in the area of marriage equality. The inability to have what you most want, the all consuming nature of that and the destruction that can be caused by denial and hypocricy, is a terrible fate.

Every year on Valentine's Day, Davina and Molly go to City Hall. Molly wears a wedding dress. Davina wears a suit. And every year they are turned away at the desk. "But what if I came here with a man that I picked up on the street five minutes ago?" Davina will always ask. And the answer will always be the same - that would be fine. 10 years together and a lifetime in between is somehow less of a case for marraige than two strangers on the street with different sexual organs.

While Davina and Molly are in a committed relationship, out and proud with supportive families and friends, their inability to marry reduces all of this to something less than what they want it to be.

Davina's book, "Why You Should Give a Damn About Gay Marriage" is available via Amazon. The website is http://www.marriageequality.org/meusa/index.shtml

Thanks Weboy, for reminding me that there are stories in fiction and real life that may not always be completely understood by all but are none the less true.

**I am open to comments about marriage equality but will delete anything that is not respectful, etc.

Brokeback

2006-11-30T13:57:00.000-08:00

I recently saw Brokeback Mountain. I need someone to explain to me how this is considered a great movie. I thought Michelle Williams was great, and Anne Hathaway was great - but the guys? I just did not buy it. And I could not understand a damn thing that Heath Ledger said.

Mainly - I did not understand where the love originated from, or why it was so important, since it looked pretty much like a convenience booty call to me.

My friend J told me that I should see it a second time to really get it, but I don't think I can deal with listening to Heath Ledger mumble for two hours again. But I am open to opinions here.

Crash, on the other hand, rightfully won the Oscar as far as I am concerned. Matt Dillon still scares the hell out of me.

2006-11-30T06:17:00.000-08:00

There is a time -- once your chubby infant develops a neck, the ability to move unassisted, perhaps feed him/herself -- when people will start asking you when you are having another.

And by people, I mean my in laws. And strangers on the street.

I always thought I wanted gobs of kids. This was before infertility, a complicated labor and delivery, a year of nursing, terrifying moments of illness and google searching things like "baby repeatedly slams self into highchair", unexpectedly expensive things like SHOES and DIAPERS -- mainly, a whole lotta change.

A friend told me once that two is the optimal number of children because it gives parents the ability to have "man on man defense". I think this a football thing, but I kinda get it since it seems to take double that to manage one little Chloe.

But another friend talks about her two sisters -- the camraderie of three, the fullness. I have two siblings and it always felt like enough, never too much.

As Chloe becomes more independant, and I get older, which raises the risks of just about everything, I think about having other kids, going down that road again. On one hand, I am thrilled that I will never live the overwhelming ignorance of new motherhood again. A friend with three boys under four years old said that it is easier, that anything is easier, than being a new mom.

My main concern, is that I can not imagine loving anyone as much as I do my Chloe. People who have worried about this aloud have always seemed ridiculous to me - but I totally get it. I feel like we have hit the jackpot with her. Despite all of my fears that something will be terribly wrong, she is perfection in the way that I define it -- meaning, she is the most incredible miracle on a daily basis. The fact that she is wrapped up in a beautiful package that is all her own is icing on the cake. Over the past few months, she is less my baby and more a best friend -- we dine together, laugh together, shop together. My heart swells with each "Ma, Ma, Ma". The thought of playing the odds again is terrifying. And in the manner that I believe that my husband is was my destined partner, that I could never love anyone more or deeper or again, I feel this way about Chloe.

But then I think back on the time before Chloe, when life felt complete and as good as it gets. And while I will always miss that time, our special twosome free of any serious responsibility, I would not trade it for what we have now. I know I will feel this way again, about this time now with just Chloe, when/if we have more kids.

But I can't help wondering what we did to deserve so many blessings, and praying that it's not too much to ask for more.

Past Tense

2006-11-26T16:16:00.000-08:00

At home for Thanksgiving weekend, my husband thought it would be amusing to drive past my old high school. It is at the bottom of a deep hill, where the urge was always to speed, much like the desire to race through those four years. A Staples used to share the lot, where we would buy snapple iced teas from the vending machine. The woods surrounding the school were filled with skeletal trees this weekend, but is dense and thick in the warmer months. Once, someone found a dead body in those woods and we all rushed to the windows to look. Later there was an assembly where the principal, a rabbi, chastised us for being so disrespectful of the dead.

High school was an anxious time for me. I entered as a nerd, with patent leather shoes, slouch socks and irritatingly new contact lenses. I was hyper aware of the social strata, and desperately wanted to be accepted. I soon found my niche, with girls that were smart and funny despite the fact that they were not a part of the crew that most of the boys desired. It was my first exposure to the heady, addictive nature of intense female friendships -- the ones that can keep you up at night, or make you cry like a heartache.

As the years progressed, my curls smoothed, lips were glossed and learned that my bony clavicle was actually attractive. Friendships deepened, and not only with girls, but with boys who I called late at night and watched Headbanger's Ball with but never even thought of kissing. I am sure I was an accidental tease, but an Orthodox Jewish day school breeds an innocence that rarely exists anywhere else in a teenage wasteland.

While highschool as a whole was an exhausting and tumultous venture, there are moments that I sometimes miss, and when I do, I miss them hard. I miss the whole notion of sneaking out past your parents, of driving around with loose cigarettes rolling around on the dashboard, only to be smoked at a diner that was filled with transvestites at 4:00 in the morning. I miss my friend Elizabeth's closet, where we would scrawl our secrets in marker on the inside of the door. Her parents were older and calmer than mine, and they would never care that she defiled her closet. I miss mixed tapes, particularly the ones with St. Elmos Fire tunes. I would use a quote from a song on the mix to title the tape depending on the recipient. Tapes were named things like "Walk forver by my side, all my days are yours" and "Hold on to 16, as long as you can". I miss notes penned in class, with loopy handwriting and doodles and dreams of better things. I miss laughing until we could not breathe, which happened once a day at least and often got me into heaps of trouble.

I only have one friend from high school left. And it makes alot of what I miss feel smaller than it really was, much like the school itself, the lockers, the workload, the worries -- the good and the bad -- shrinking with time.

Birthdays are like assholes - Everybody has one.

2006-11-21T13:02:00.000-08:00

Five years ago, I realized I really wanted to be a mother when a close friend, C, had her first baby. She told me that she was pregnant outside of the office building that we shared. We stood, huddled together, pondering a fuzzy sonogram printout and imagining how life would change. She said that no one else knew other than her family. She is one of those friends who you believe when they say things like this.

Her son, J, is still the most beautiful newborn I have ever seen. He was the color of a valentine with lips that pursed like petals. A boy so beautiful, he looked like a girl. And still today, five years later, he has the same soft, ethereal quality that he had when he was born.

We took Chloe to his birthday party past weekend at a large indoor playspace that Manhattan parents like me use to quell anxieties about not living in the sprawling suburbs. I have not spent much time around mothers who were not my friends first. I have somehow missed the NYC subculture of Mommy-Mania, where women travel in packs of strollers and designer day care. Mobs of Manhattan moms make me uncomfortable. There is an undercurrent of competition that turns me off and leaves me wondering if I could be doing better.

But when your child is school age and a party means inviting the class, moms follow. So I was privy to more kids than I have been around in a long time. And I am reminded of Samantha on Sex and the City, who calls a baby an asshole. And I realize that she is right. Kids can be assholes. And more likely than not, so is one of their parents. I watched a child berate his mother for offering him juice. Another grabbed toys from my daughter with a force that almost knocked her over. Another pried the fingers of her playmate off a rock climbing wall, one by one, sending her tumbling. All in the name of a party. Are we having fun yet?

And that's just the kids. While some of the moms (like some of the kids) were lovely, there were others who stuffed as many party favors as possible into their purses, took extra cupcakes to go before the candles had even been blown. Impossibly small bodies were squeezed into impossibly expensive jeans as my friend C, hoarse with the exertion of party planning, smiled in perfect hostess form. I holed up near her friends from college, from her husband's business school -- the ones from before -- and held on for dear life.

And then there was my beloved J, the birthday boy, sitting amidst the chaos like the perfect prince. Much like his mother, he is a flower blooming among concrete. The apple does not fall far from the tree. Too bad sometimes the tree, and the apples, are full of worms.

A funny thing happened on the way to...

2006-11-19T06:37:00.000-08:00

I was walking down the street, child asleep in the stroller, waiting for the light to change. "What a cute jacket!" someone said next to me. A woman about my age standing beside me, gesturing to Chloe's faux fur. I am accustomed to this by now -- from the moment your pregnancy blooms visibly, you are suddenly open to a slew of commentary from strangers. "Thanks", I say, and lurch forward as the light changes. "I just spent $150 on this and it doesn't fit!" she is saying, talking to me as if we are old friends in the midst of a conversation. I look at her, size her up as I always do in order to gauge the level of "crazy" of the stranger talking to me. Her hair is brushed, glossy even. A diamond engagement ring sparkles. Her pants were a little strange, black checkerboard print, an 80s throwback. But her skin was clear, her sweater clean. Still, I must have been staring back in some state of confusion, since she felt the need to clarify. "Look!" she says, as she bends down to roll up her baggy pants. I instinctively start to panic, afraid of what is going to be unearthed. In the seconds that she takes to pull up her pantlegs I am reminded of the story of a male friend who claimed that a woman on the street lifted her skirt as an invitation for anonymous sex. He denied it was a hooker, and claimed that he followed her home until his legs started shaking as soon as they got through the door and he ran away. I could not run -- I was burdened with a heavy stroller, groceries, and the fear that I would create a spectacle on a busy street. I had to look. At first, I thought she was showing me prosthetic legs of some sort, they were an artificial flesh color. I quickly realized what she was showing me as she held her cuffs above her thighs. Compression stockings. "I am pregnant", she says, and I suddenly notice her small bulge. "And they said I needed these because of problems with my last pregnancy". "Um, yeah, they seem sort of loose", I said, noticing how they sagged in places. "Aren't they supposed to be tight to work"? "Thats what I thought!" she said. I am hoping this conversation will end, but she continues to walk beside me, talking about her baby on the way, the three year old at home. Finally, I see an out. "Is there a Tasti DLite around here?" she asks out of nowhere. This I can handle. I direct her to the ice cream store several blocks in the direction away from where I was headed. "Thanks!" she says. "Good luck," I mutter, and pick up my pace.

I know that all mothers share a special bond -- we readily talk about nipples and sex and episiotimies without a hint of a flush. But when it reaches the point of literally undressing ourselves, perhaps we have gone too far.

Love Hurts

2006-11-17T06:40:00.000-08:00

Cheating

2006-11-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

My rule when it comes to cheating is simple. Never do anything behind your significant's back that you would not do right in front of him/her. The rabbi who married us drove this point home, along with the fact that love is not a feeling, it is a decision, and to love someone is a contract that you must consistently check on and uphold. It is intended to keep things very black and white. But there are shades of gray.

As a woman in the workplace, in a "sales" type position, I am often on the other end of conversations that could be construed as flirtatious. The men I deal with are much older and likely on marriage #3 or one that has lasted since JFK was in office. My job is to sell them -- not on me -- but on a product, an idea. This requires smiles and compliments and nodding when you don't agree. It requires "thank you" when you are told that you are pretty, even when it has nothing to do with what you are talking about, and when the mere idea that he is looking at you that way makes you want to heave.

And it's not just business. Today on the bus, the driver greeted me with, "do you have a smile to go with those good looks?" and then proceeded to flirt with me for the entirety of the ride. Moving seats would be mean. His face was thick and wrinkled, and his beard salted. He is not a threat to my gorgeous husband, even if he was attractive. And I do not get off on this talk, mainly because it feels desperate and embarassing. I know it does not take much to receive these comments -- some bright lipstick, a tight sweater. I am not a model. And by New York standards of honey highlights and size 25 waists, I am nowhere near. And maybe that's what makes me safe.

But I think of my husband, and how I would feel if he smiled wide in response to a compliment. I know my intentions are pure. They are guilt laden, not wanting to offend. My sister-in-law, who works in a prison, told me that she learned that women who are nice are more likely targets of assualt because they don't want to offend. So they answer directions from someone in a car, or they don't change sides of the street when they are walking near someone who gives them the creeps. They smile back at strangers even when they don't want to.

When my husband is at work functions, does he allow an arm to linger on his shoulder? When his tie is complimented, does he mention that I picked it out? I trust him completely. But that does not mean that I would not be hurt with the accidental carelessness of business banter, or conversations with he woman who sells him coffee who tells him that he does not even look 30.

A female subordinate once asked him: "Is this shirt too see-through?" He knew immediately that there was no good answer. That any answer would imply that he was looking at her chest. So he said, "I think that's a better question for a female colleague" and went back to work. The best answer he could find. And soon after, he fired her. I wonder if he would have been so dismissive if it was a colleague who he could not risk offending. And would I blame him?

Many female friend reference women who are "their husband's friends". From the office, from high school. I don't think I could take this. Maybe I believe, fundamentally, that men will not befriend unattractive women. I know that I could have male friends that I don't find attractive -- but I just don't think it works the other way around. There is something bothersome to me about conjuring up an emotional relationship, albiet a friendly one, between my husband and another woman. What would they talk about? What needs would she fulfill that I can't?

My close friend J is dating a guy who is divorced because his wife cheated on him. She worried recently that he might have jealousy issues, which would be bad because she is a big flirt despite the fact that she is the most committed girlfriend imaginable. Maybe I am wrong, but I do believe that women can dialogue with men, even in a seemingly flirtatous way, even with an ex-boyfriend, with no ulterior motive. Just because we like to be chatty and feel desired. But does that make it okay? And if the tables were turned, how would we feel?

I am discussing hetero relationships here -- but I am sure the same issues exist in gay relationships. Perhaps it becomes even more complicated when you are dealing with two women who may be (sterotypically) more sensitive and less trusting?

I was cheated on once, in my first serious relationship. It happened at his company's Christmas party, after which he called me with the ever dreaded "I have to tell you something"that makes your room suddenly glitter. He had kissed a co-worker who he had been arguing with for months. I should have known -- men generally can not conjure up passion, even bad passion, for someone they are not attracted to. Where women seem to be able to detest quite platonically. Anyway, I had heard what she looked like -- severe, too much eyeliner, combat boots. I had imagined her as ugly, though the thought of him pressed against her at the Marriott Marquis, in a clandestine embrace, was nauseating. I would conjure this up in my mind over and over, just for self-torture. I believe that company parties, like business trips, can engender this type of behavior -- the surreal nature of "unbuttoning" for an evening. Nothing feels real. I married someone who boycotts his own company Christmas party because it is not spouse friendly and he has witnessed this debauchery firsthand. He is not worried that he will be tempted, but is morally opposed to the construct. On business trips, he is home by 10. I wonder if this is part of what attracted us - the importance we place on representing our relationship in an upstanding light. Perhaps it comes from betrayals of our past. I like to think that it is more a commitment to our future -- the paths we choose that are not always friendly or easy but just more right. For us.

Titles

2006-11-14T10:31:00.000-08:00

It all begins with the BEST FRIEND. The broken heart necklaces that you wear around your neck, 14 carat gold plated. Until you fight and then find a new one. My first boyfriend gained his title as such when he handed me a rose, and asked if I would be his girlfriend. It was all very romantic until our relationship ended because he was suspended from school for xeroxing his bare ass. Not for the xerox, but for crashing through the glass and breaking the machine.

Titles are important. Whether they were emblazoned across your rugby-style shirt (hello: BENETTON), or a validation that you are in a relationship. They provide a frame to exist within. Without a title, we feel less defined. Sometimes. A and I never discussed "boyfriend"/"girlfriend" and then one day he proposed and that was it. Fiance. Or Fiancee? Those titles were huge. So huge that after proposing on a trip to Antigua, he bit down on his tongue, creating a huge blister that rendered him speechless for the rest of the trip.

I often title myself "infertile", despite the fact that I have a child. Once tagged as such, I will always feel infertile, despite medical interventions that have blessed me with a child and may or may not again. Sometimes I feel guilty, for those who share my title and are still struggling to become parents. Is it wrong to keep this title?

In the corporate world, titles are a big deal. I inherited my title when I joined my company: "Senior Director". It struck me as ridiculous. Over-the-top, isn't Director enough? My predecessor had fought for this title. She wanted to prove career growth. The rest of my title made the sum of its parts embarassingly long, so I would often refer to myself as "Director" to save the inevitable "That's a big title for such a little girl" that happens when you deal mainly with men of 60 years and older.

The "Senior" was removed from my title when I returned to work part time after having a baby. It was an unnecessary move by my boss to send a message. I tried to fight it, not because I cared for the "Senior", but because it was punishing. After 4 years, I had finally earned my title, and because I chose to work part time, I was being diminished.

Some Stay-At-Home Moms prefer the title of Work-At-Home Mom. It is definitely hard work to stay home with your child , harder than any work I have ever done outside the home. But the WAHM title reeks of defensiveness. My sister-in-law, a lesbian, calls straight people "Non-Gay". I guess it all depends where you are sitting.

The title of "Mom" is the most surreal. I am someone's MOTHER. How can I be this, when I still cling to my own? When I refer to myself as "Chloe's Mom", which only happens at the pediatrician, it sticks to my tongue like molasses. Who is this person? I am still working on MILF.

My husband's porn

2006-11-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

I found my husband's porn on our computer:

(safe for work)

http://www.electionprojection.com/

Whatever gets you hot....

Bad Medicine

2006-11-12T10:18:00.000-08:00

Ok, so here's what I won't miss if I leave New York: The Duane Reade prescription counter. And I think it is limited to Duane Reade, and not all Manhattan pharmacies, but I could be wrong.

For those readers outside Manhattan, Duane Reade is the corner drugstore, on every corner. It's like a CVS, or Walgreens. I personally loved Walgreens while at Brandeis -- I would fill my prescriptions for the Pill or some acne concoction with great ease. All of my "grocery shopping" was also done at Walgreens, which consisted of diet coke, candy corn, Honeycomb cereal and Marlboro Lights. Four years of this -- it's no wonder I ended up infertile!

Generally, I love drug stores. When I leave to allegedly pick up toilet paper, my husband knows I won't be back for at least 30 minutes. I love to finger the cosmetics, hoping for a new find. Peruse the candy aisle and wish that I was not glucose intolerant. Pore over the magazine rack: "REESE AND RYAN DIVORCE DRAMA!", etc. This summer I even purchased flips flops at CVS which my brother swore looked like Prada until they split mid-step after one month.

Duane Reade is a whole 'nother story. Their merchandise is fine, stores generally clean. But the pharmacy, the pharmacy....It's a necessary evil. Be it the pill, prenatal vitamins, penicillin, whatever. You find yourself at the end of a long and ignored line of people whose ailments are always highly contagious in your imagination. You try not to breathe. The line does not move. The singular cashier is rifling through baskets of paper bags, asking again and again for the spelling of names. "When did you call this in?" Sometimes, she will dissapear behind plexiglass, only to vanish for what feels like hours as you are surely acquiring the Bird Flu as you wait. With a last name like mine, you are screwed. K? C? And then the inevitable insurance issues -- "do we have your information on file?" My blood boils, a fist tightening in my chest. I hate the cashier, her frizzy hair, her bad skin, her open bag of doritos, her poor vocational choice. I once made the mistake of wearing Chloe in the Baby Bjorn for such a venture, only to cover her head with a blanket ala Michael Jackson for fear that she would somehow breathe in someone else's toxic virus. No, I don't want to touch that pen which is crawling with cooties if such a things exist.

It takes alot for me to feel rage when there is an US Weekly a few feet away. But Duane Reade does it every time.

Housekeeping

2006-11-12T10:09:00.000-08:00

New additions to the blog roll (see sidebar): NYC Web Boy is a fabulous blog for gals like me who care about the political scene, but just a tad more about Marc Jacob's Spring 2007 collection. A friend of a friend who I have met over the years and is just as humorous online as he is in person.

Post Secret: I have mentioned this before. It is a voyuer's (and secret exhibitionists') dream. It's updated every Saturday night at midnight.

My good friend Grahamad is in the spotlight once again. Or is she ever really not?

Littleviews is still there - I have a new article coming out soon about the store, Babies R Us in Union Square.

I also wanted to share a great idea.: A offered his services to a firm looking to conduct research. In return, they offered to donate $100 to the charity of his choice. How great is that? It's even better when you have so many places that you want to donate to, it's hard to choose just one! A great incentive to all of you who are in businesses where you need to nominally compensate others for services.

Happiness Is

2006-11-11T10:31:00.000-08:00

When I was young, there was a book about happiness called "Happiness Is".. It was a Peanuts characters book where each character would define happiness. I remember Charlie Brown said that "Happiness is sharing a pencil". I happen to hate pencils -- their impermanance, their inability to create a good solid mark, but, to each his own. My third grade teacher asked us to develop our own Happiness Is book. On one of the pages I wrote, "Happiness is getting to kiss a boy that you like", which I am sure was inspired by Andrew, the boy I liked in third grade. My mother thought it was hilarious, and I was immediately embarassed and made her swear not to show anyone the book. Of course, she proudly showed it to a friend and I was devastated and cried behind a closed door, filled with humiliation.

I think that there was a spin-off book entitled, "Love Is". So today, I can safely say, after nearly a month of Chloe capturing every virus under the sun, Love is allowing your daughter to vomit all over you, four times in an hour. When the disgusting nature of the event overwhelms you, and you start to vomit yourself, you listen to your husband who is screaming "hold it in, hold it in!" because your dry heaves are frightening the baby.

Love is also getting into the shower, the three of you, covered in goop. When everyone is clean and slippery, and the shower threesome you may have once imagined is anything but. Love is this.

Turbulence

2006-11-09T12:43:00.000-08:00

Air travel reminds me of field trips of my youth in terms of special indulgences. I grew up in a home with no sugared cereals, with carrot sticks and early bedtimes. Lunch was an onion bagel with tuna fish (now, that's a friend-maker), sometimes an apple, in a paper bag. All crafted by my father, since there is no way that my mother had the time nor the stomach to deal in tuna at such an early hour. I longed for my friend Tamar's lunch, where a white bread sandwich was nestled beside a Devil Dog or Funny Bone (which is a peanut butter relative of the Yodel). And a box of orange drink, not juice.

Rules were suspended on field trip days. My mother would pull out all the stops - a can of soda, bag of greasy chips, tooth numbing candy like Nerds or Gobstoppers. I don't know why she chose to celebrate field trips in this way, but I loved it. My mother is very good at creating celebration out of the mundane, or even the painful. On the ocassion of an abnormal pap smear, she greeted me with deep crust pizza and a shopping spree at Macy's.

Where was I? Field trips. So, as a bus rolled towards a museum of some sort I would clutch a bag filled with goodies that I was never generally able to partake in. This is how I handle air travel. I hate to fly. The lines, the anxiety. The stale coffee grind smell of the airplane. As a child, I would regularly vomit into the bags that they no longer provide. To me, it's all very turbulent. To offset this, I create my own indulgences. I always dress up for an airplane. As a teen, I was convinced I would meet a boyfriend at an airport. I would play it all out in my mind -- our eyes meeting, he would be flying to the same destination as me, and I would abandon my family for a week long romance. So I always tried to look my best when traveling. It never happened, but I still pull myself together to fly. I admire the women who wear the patent leather loafers, the jeans, the crisp blazers and white shirts. The glittering engagement rings, manicures and Louis Vuitton luggage. They touch up their lip gloss before landing. My own spin is far less glamorous but is still purposeful.

And I spend lots of money at the airport newssttand. Unless it's Jet Blue, I can not fly without a thick stack of magazines. I know they are overpriced, and I could buy them in advance, but it would take away from my ritual. I ususally choose In Style and Glamour because they are the fattest, though I never read them at any other time. And I load up on candy and snacks. I easily spend $20 at the airport for travel supplies.

Traveling with a baby, you would think that I would stray from routine. But I can't - at least not until I have to travel alone with her. A holds her, as she squirms for activity. And I bury myself beneath glossy pages, sucking on a Starburst, and silently pleading with him not to talk to me until it's all over.

Museums

2006-11-04T14:12:00.001-08:00

Museums remind me of popularity contests. Of walking around with the cool kids, or not. Of hurt feelings, and getting lost. Of haunting darkened rooms and glowing displays. Of gift shops, hunger, and aching feet. Of bad dates -- with feigned depth and reluctant hand holding and stiff conversations.

I never had much patience for museums. I am too ADD for this. Unless they are in tribute, or of photography. I could spend a year in a photography museum.

Today, at the Museum of Natural History in Manhattan, with Chloe and A and my in-laws, I really enjoyed it. One of the many things which take on new meaning through Chloe's eyes. Dinosaur bones and teeth, growling and roaring at the mammals, trying to pick up designs that were carved into the floor. Overpriced food court food -- buttered corn and decadant brownies. Watching her fall into an exhausted sleep so deep that she missed the busride home.

I loved it all.

Poetic Waxing

2006-11-03T13:09:00.000-08:00

When it comes to the maintenance of being a girl, there are two extremes and lots of in betweens. There are the women who cut, color, gloss, trim and perfect every part of themselves because they can, to always look their best. And then there are women who don't give a shit -- no makeup, shaving the essentials (or not) -- no products, a medicine cabinet filled with advil and toothpaste and a lipstick that someone forced them to buy.

And then there's the in-betweens, where I would imagine most of us live. I am close to the high-maintenance girl, but not as close as I once was. Recently I have re-connected with an early love for Victoria's Secret -- I finally fit their (albiet largest) cup size again. I love that store. The candy striped bags, the tissue paper, the outrageously heavy perfume. I love the catalogue, the cleavage, the unapologetically sexual marketing. I started wearing Victoria's Secret bras at sixteen, and soon moved on to their pajamas (cotton not silk) and fragrances. As a girl in Orthodox yeshiva, this was the closest I ever got to sexy**. I would cradle my round glass bottle of rose perfume in my floral pajamas and dream of romance. Victoria's Secret now has a line of cosmetics which intrigues me called "Very Sexy" with amazing slick black packaging. I am all about the packaging - a marketer's wet dream.

Where was I? Oh yes. So before I became world weary, I was much more high maintenance. I dared to blow out my curls, to travel long distance for double process color. I wore acrylic tips over my nails. All to magnify the very best me.

I am married to a man who asks for little more than a bikini wax (I will get to that later). So the aforementioned primping became a waste. I started wearing minimizing bras which are impossibly ugly (worse than nursing bras, if it's possible). He never noticed new hair color, so I would just go anywhere to conceal roots. (I should mention here that I will be dead before I will ever go gray). He hates my hair straight. So I cut corners, a more organic me, perhaps. It was certainly cheaper.

Post-baby, I have started to crave these high maintenance rituals. So I find myself back at Victoria's Secret (wondering if their PINK line is too high-school hoochie.) And at the bikini waxers.

A note about the bikini wax. First, the waxer must have an accent, and be old and ugly. Somehow, it's less embarassing. They should never look like one of your friends doing this to put themselves through grad school. Also, take two advil before the rip. It's not like kittens licking, but it's a helluva lot better.

I did the brazilian once. I cannot even speak of it.

**Except for the time I was obsessed with tights/socks that ended right over your knee. Think Alicia Silverstone in Clueless. I would wear those beneath jean skirts. Rebel!!

Fashion Don'ts

2006-11-02T07:02:00.000-08:00

In response to my friend Leigh's post on the boots-in-jeans phenomenon, enjoy this NY Times article about my own personal offense: leggings. I love me some leggings.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/02/fashion/02PANTS.html?_r=2&ref=fashion&oref=slogin&oref=slogin

I can't embed HTML. Deal.

Negotiations

2006-11-01T19:33:00.000-08:00

My housekeeper just asked for a raise. And much like Berger from SATC, she did it on a post it. To quote: "Next time please leave me $80 because you have many laundry and I work hard."

She added a smiley face.

I should try this with my boss.

Bad Mama

2006-11-01T17:35:00.000-08:00

I just put Chloe to bed -- bathed, read to, brushed (teeth and hair!), feeling very smug. I can do it all -- even with husband away and ready to collapse with exhaustion! I sent some email for work, warmed some pizza, still buzzing from my super-mommyness.

And then realized - I never turned off her light.

Size Matters

2006-10-31T08:54:00.000-08:00

The most liberated I ever felt when it came to wardrobe were the months after I had a baby. I fit barely anything, and it was warm outside, so I was resigned to yoga pants and stretchy tank tops. My breasts were enormous and always on display. My clothes were spotted with spit up. So you can imagine that the clothing options were slim (and I don't mean in size!)

But it was easy. It had to be. I never worried about what to wear, since I was rotating around a few items that could take a beating and hold in all of my parts that dared to escape at any moment. It wasn't pretty, but I made do. And it was relief -- new motherhood is all about questioning and re-questioning -- I was thrilled to spare myself an internal dialogue on the topic of what to wear.

I have learned one cardinal rule when it comes to dressing. Dress for the size you are, not the size you want to be. You will look much thinner in an 8 than a 6 if you are really an 8. Your lines will look leaner when material is not clinging. The same goes for bras, but I will leave the bra fitting hype to Oprah. I learned this post partum and have never forgotten. I wore bigger sizes and felt smaller. I had no shame. That's another thing about childbirth -- shame is tossed in the garbage. Right beside your placenta.

When I shop, I never look at sizes. I just look at the racks and pull what looks like it will fit the largest part of me. This is not easy. Hardest is accepting that the size you were at 16 is permanently out of reach, unless you have the time and discipline to cultivate an anorexic habit. We all look at our photos of years gone by, when we mindlessly consumed food, did not break a sweat, wore small sizes and still had the audacity to call ourselves fat. They say youth is wasted on the young. I say that thin is wasted on the young -- when we are too insecure or unaware of ourselves to really enjoy it.

Even if I had the inclination to diet to return to a shape where I felt my most fabulous, it is now out of the question. Mainly because two sets of huge blue eyes are watching me at all times. And I can't scoop a bagel, fan a sweet and low package or order fat free anything without sending her a message. I can make healthy choices -- steam over stir frye, brown over white bread -- but anything more than that creates risk. She watches me to learn what is safe (Elmo) and not (hot oven). So my endorsements and my actions mean something.

And I can't say one thing and do another. At music class recently, I was chastised for throwing the instruments into the bucket, when in the same breath telling Chloe not to throw her egg shaker at her little friends head. She does not understand how one toss is safe and another is not. So for her, and for me, I need to model the right behavior about things that have the risk of danger. Which may mean more calories and cellulite. But it also means more of a chance for Chloe to rise above an inclination to ever be something she's not.

Naps

2006-10-30T05:39:00.000-08:00

I hate naps. Not hers, mine. Unless they are happening during summer, on cool sheets and small clothes where you will definitely wake up while it is still light.

During any other season, naps always end at around 5:00 or 6:00, when daylight is dimming and the silvery feeling of night encroaches. You wake up, and you wonder how long you have been gone. Even when entwined with another, there is a desperately lonely feeling about awakening from a nap -- combined with hunger, panic and confusion. Naps make me feel weak, which may also be why I always lie when anyone calls in the middle of the night and ask if they have awakened me. It could be 2:00 AM, but I always say, "no, no, I am up".

I guess I feel that naps are for the old, the depressed, the overwhelmed. I just hate missing any part of the day -- the sun, the light, the possibilities.

Big Apple Thoughts

2006-10-29T10:22:00.000-08:00

I am in love with New York City, but not in a Carrie Bradshaw way. It does not hold memories of expensive shoes and cocktails. But it is brimming over with my experiences -- as the only place where I have ever really lived. Sure, I lived in New Jersey twice as long -- but I wasn't really LIVING, in a suburban colonial with my parents and rules and school. The neighborhood was not my friend. My friends lived elsewhere. So I never became attached to New Jersey, nor to Boston where I spent my college years. College living happened much more on campus in a small Boston suburb where days would amble into nights - heaps of girlfriends in denim and wool, too cold to go out for much more than a meal.

But New York -- New York was immediately a crush that I used to nurture from afar. Birthday weekends as a pre-teen meant Rockefeller Center, pretzels with dripping mustard and unfortunate fashions purchased at Bloomingdales. As a senior in highschool I became friends with a wealthy New York teen socialite, who introduced me to the finer things -- clubs that did not card and the cloying sweetness of wine coolers. Jeans were worn long and belted. Shirts were tight and snapped at the crotch. Cigarettes were smoked in dark corners (yes, inside), hoping nobody recognized you. Mix tapes were made to capture it all - songs from Stealing Home and Erasure.

When I moved to New York City in 1997, it was a mindless decision to follow friends and others, close enough to my parents and far enough away to feel independant. It was a luxury one bedroom that lost its allure when stuffed with three girls and only two bedrooms. Wall to wall carpeting grew stained from ash and soy sauce and Diet Coke. Murray Hill was a refuge for recent graduates, an area that lacks a firm Manhattan identity but is reachable to everything. The boys we knew lived on the Upper West Side -- where a cab cost more than we could afford and landed us in places with unfortunate names like Brother Jimmy's and The Racoon Lodge. That living situation became a combustible mix of despair and claustophobia which thrust me into a world were avenues had letters. Stuyvesant Town -- with it's cheap rent and big rooms and flea markets where a basketball court hosted tables of wares and clothes and most importantly, the killer leather skirt that never really fit but is totally vintage and perfect.

As I consider leaving Manhattan, every bus ride or subway ride overwhelms me with memories. My midtown offices, where my 28K paycheck was stretched over vodka tonics and cheap suits. Gramercy, where I finally learned that I do better living alone. Carnegie Hill, where my husband made me rethink that idea about myself. Union Square green market. Times Square cheeziness where as an MTV intern, I believed that the blinking Virgin sign was actually taunting me, outing my sexual status. The boyfriend who dragged me to ESPN Zone and became the last sports enthusiast I ever dated. Broadway -- where I still believe in dressing for the theatre and I will never recover from missing Les Miz.

En route to my first job in Manhattan, my father used the steering wheel to explain the city's geography, using the line in the middle of the rubbery orb to represent central park. It all seemed huge and overwhelming. I am now proud to know the city like the front of that steering wheel, or the back of my hand. Except the village still escapes me somehow. I don't want to leave, even though I know that my husband craves grass and my budget is no longer comprised of questionably cheap sushi and tank tops. I am torn -- I feel that the city has given me so much, but I owe more to my family now, even if that means hills to sled down, carpool and swingsets.

Oh, and square footage.

Novembers

2006-10-19T08:22:00.000-07:00

November is right around the corner - the month that I loathe in a way that makes me want to lock my doors, shut the lights, and hole up for 30 days of watching nothing but The E True Hollywood Story and eating Cheez-Its.

Everything bad happens in November, I am convinced. It's hard to believe that a month generally reserved for cornocopias and gourds, thankfulness and turkey, tweeds and tights can strike such fear in me.

The only deaths I have personally encountered have all happened in November. The first of which was losing a new friend at Brandeis, a mere three months in to school. All who have been touched by the torture of knowing what happened to Jeremy do not need to relive it on my blog where it would neither be effectively re-told or paid tribute. But it all happened in the bizarre seasonal backdrop of November - sun shining, leaves turning, getting ready for holiday frocks and fervor. I think about this time very infrequently - because it is a sickening memory. Also, ever the fiction writer and reviser, I do believe that I could have prevented this accdient had I been blessed with a bolder spirit as an 18 year old when it came to boys. Hours before IT happened, I had my hand on a doorknob that would have lead me to his room for an evening of not much more than flirtation I am sure because I was a yeshiva girl, after all. I can see myself with the hand on the knob of the dorm known as Scheffries, the "should I or should'nt I" mantra in my head, rehearsing first lines and reasons why I was there. I never made it inside. But was later convinced that had I pushed through that door, my company (or at least my tight jeans) would have been infinitely more compelling than the ride that ended up being his last. Or maybe I would have gone too. Who the hell knows. It is because of this that I almost have a heart attack whenever my phone rings in the middle of the night or if someone wakes me too suddently. Still.

The next year, almost the same time, another friend from Brandeis died in a car accident. He was a lovely boy, really. David. I like to remember the fact that three months into a friendship that was really based on borrowing class notes and gum, I realized that he thought my name was Wendy. It's easy to happen, really, how often do you use a person's name in discourse? It sounds formal. So he must have misheard me the first time and then I was stuck, three months in - it seemed embarassing to correct. So I would even *gasp* answer to "Wendy", much to the hysterical delight of my friends when I told them the pickle I was in. Somehow he figured it out - probably because he began dating a friend of mine - but it was pretty funny. I also like to remember that he was one of those always smiling types who was genuinely concerned whenever I was despairing that year that he died (which was often). These are better memories than the fact that when I learned of his death I was telemarketing Brandeis students for UJA (not a fun job). Or that Denise promptly vomited into the toilet, which was the first time I knew that shock could bring about a physical reaction.

November 2001, I lost my grandmother. I should have been prepared, because it was November, after all. And she had suffered a stroke two months before. There were no words -- really. I quoted Bette Midler in my eulogy, otherwise speechless. We had a pseudo Thanksgiving that year, because when you are grieving you always think those rituals will help and they almost never do. We sat around my uncle's sagging table, part shiva, part stuffing. His girlfriend brought candy apples -- plump and gleaming, coated with rainbow sprinkles and all things carnival. I still haven't forgiven her.