A Momma Grows In Brooklyn

preparations

2012-02-07T09:18:00.000-08:00

Now that we have started the new year, I have been thinking regularly about my return to work. For various reasons, most of which are financial, I plan on going back to the office on March 1. And so the preparations - logistical, mental, and emotional - begin.

The logistics are not settled yet - but they should be soon enough.

Mental preparations are going to require some exercises to get my brain back in shape. I had to think long and hard the other morning about what seven times seven is. When the answer did not arrive automatically, I thought,

"Okay. What is seven times six? Forty-three? Forty-three plus seven is fifty. Fifty is not seven times seven. Fifty is ten times five. I get seven times six mixed up all the time. It must be forty-two not forty-three. Good. Good. So, seven plus forty-two is forty-nine. Ah! Seven times seven is forty-nine! Wow that took me a long time."

And the emotional preparations have been about as circuitous as trying to remember the sevens times tables.

Since the Squish was around eight weeks old, I have left him semi-regularly (every other week) for a few hours at a time to get some much needed acupuncture. Each of those separations has gone just fine. I started to think of them as test runs for my return to the office four days a week, and I started to think that this time around, the transition back to the office would not feel so traumatic.

Maybe it won't.

But I took the Squish into Manhattan last week to run an errand. At one point on the 2 train, I put down what I was reading and looked into the stroller to check on Squish. There he was - awake and mesmerized by the lights and the posters and the sounds and the vibrations - enjoying the wilds of the MTA. I noticed for the eighteenth time that day how perfectly round his cheeks are, how sweet his little nose is, how amazing his amazement is. And so, in the middle of the day on the 2 train, realizing that the luxury of looking at my perfect little Squish whenever I wanted would be drastically reduced, I started to cry.

Looks like the road back to my day job from maternity leave has not actually been paved.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Book Drive For Trilok Preschool

2012-01-24T09:25:00.001-08:00

Trilok Preschool is seeking book donations!

Clean out your kids’ rooms and recycle! Books should be in good condition and appropriate for children (target age range is 2 – 8).We welcome books in foreign languages as well!

Donation bins are conveniently located at some of our favorite local businesses until the end of March:

·Gnarly Vine – 350 Myrtle Ave, http://www.gnarlyvines.com/

·Cake Joy – 364 Myrtle Ave, http://www.facebook.com/CakeJoyBrooklyn

·Green in Brooklyn – 432 Myrtle Ave, http://www.greeninbklyn.com/

·Pillow Café – 505 Myrtle Ave, http://pillowcafenyc.com/

·Graziellas - 232 Vanderbilt Ave, http://www.graziellasmenu.com/

or you can donate directly at the school:

·Trilok School – 143 Waverly Ave (at Myrtle)

THANK YOU!

from all the parents and staff - and especially the kids! - of Trilok
Preschool!

For more information on the school, please go to:http://
trilokschool.org/

A man walks into a freezer (it's a walk-in) . . .

2012-01-04T07:39:00.000-08:00

Well, it's official. I now firmly believe that babies can hear everything you say about them. No matter where you are when you say it. Even if you are not with your baby. Even if you are saying it to yourself. In your mind.

So maybe you are about to say something like,

"He only wakes up about once a night now!"

"I think we are at the point where he is sleeping consistently until somewhere between 1 and 3 in the morning . . ."

"He just goes down for the night pretty much on his big brother's schedule. We did not have to teach him to go to bed - it just happened so easily!"

If you are considering saying those things - or even thinking them - let me offer you a word of advice: shhhh!

Last night was the kick-off for putting Squish to sleep in the crib - which is in the same room as Bug's bed. It was a huge fail - an absurdly huge fail.

Squish was asleep in my arms in the rocking chair after I nursed him. Bug did most of his bedtime routine outside of his room so that Squish could keep sleeping without having to hear me tell Bug to please use his quiet voice. (Query whether a two-year-old actually has a quiet voice to use.)

Bug came into the room and got into bed so that my husband could tell him a story. Squish woke up during the story. I started to nurse him. My husband said goodnight to Bug and left the room. I stayed behind in the rocking chair to nurse the Squish and try to get him back to sleep while Bug was purportedly on his way to sleep as well.

I put the Squish down in the crib. I said goodnight to the Bug. He grabbed my arm and said he needed me. I wrestled free and left the room. First, the Bug started to cry - protesting bedtime. Then he stopped, and the Squish started to cry.

I gave the Squish twelve minutes. He did not stop crying. I sent my husband in to comfort him.

While my husband was comforting the Squish (and the Bug, who seized the opportunity like a brilliant little monkey), I was at the computer Googling phrases like "3 month old sharing room with toddler."

The first message board I found had a mom's question about getting a baby and a toddler to sleep in the same room without waking each other. There was no response thread.

The second message board I found had a similar question and a long list of responses, most of which read as follows: Our home is A Perfect World. When we put our baby into the same room with our toddler, both children drifted to sleep peacefully. I hope that helps. Good luck!

Ten minutes later, it was my turn to comfort the munchkins. I tried to explain to the Bug something about being a Big Brother and helping Squish sleep by being extra quiet and going to sleep. The Bug he made a heart-warming effort to understand and follow through in his role, but he is nevertheless still a little guy himself.

Twenty minutes later, we put the Bug in our bed thinking he would get more sleep in a quiet room. I tried to sleep while my husband tried to get the Squish to go down for the night in the crib.

Eventually my husband succeeded. The Bug, however, was all hopped up on the crazy times. At one point, he turned to me, put both of his little hands out in front of him and said, "Tiny [Squish] is like a big horse." Perhaps this moment was the turning point in the evening. The point when we ventured into a black hole of absurdity - or at least sleep deprivation.

For the next hour and a half, my husband and I tried to get the Bug to sleep. We tried telling him to be quiet, to lie still, to relax, to close his eyes, to go to sleep. We tried to explain that it was late and that he needed to get sleep. Now.

I couldn't help but hear Samuel L. Jackson's voice over and over in my head.

At some point, perhaps the point in time just past utter exhaustion, my husband told the Bug that he needed to be quiet, lie still, and go to sleep because Mommy and Daddy needed sleep. Bug did not cooperate. So I got out the pack n play, set it up in a huff, and put the Bug in there so that, if nothing else, my husband and I could get an hour of sleep before the Squish woke up again. Apparently, the Bug can now climb out of the pack n play. So that's good to know.

Eventually, I picked up the Bug and rocked him in my arms until he was a sack of potatoes. Then I put him between me and my husband in the bed, and the three of us got a tiny bit of sleep.

Perhaps a smarter parent would have made some different decisions given the same set of circumstances. I was drifting to sleep last night wondering what lessons I was supposed to learn and how I should get the family more sleep tonight. Instead of coming up with any answers, I felt overwhelmed by the absurdity of my toddler keeping us awake while our newborn gets a room to himself and sleeps soundly. This absurdity reminded me of a joke I made up years ago at a bar with some friends:

A man walks into a freezer (it's a walk-in).

A giant cockroach is standing there, punches the man in the nose,

and says, "I thought I told you never to come in here."

Wish us luck tonight.

throw back night

2011-12-19T08:23:00.001-08:00

"Is a two-month-old old enough to have a throw back night?"

Oh, I know this one! Pick me! I know, I know!!!

"Momma-in-training?"

Yes! Yes he is!

My little Squish recently decided that instead of sleeping more at night, he will now be sleeping less. And, like his one-month-old self, he would like to do that less-sleeping right next to me - or on top of me - or latched on to me.

So when the Squish refused to go to sleep on his own last night, I gave in and re-enacted our lives from one month ago. I got him from his fussiness and pulled him onto the couch where my husband set me up with the remote, a couple of pillows, a bottle of water, a glass of wine, and a plate of Mexican take-out. The Squish latched on and fell asleep almost immediately. I ate with my left hand and tried not to laugh too loud while we watched the last third of a movie about a certain wolf pack in Vegas.

What about the Bug?

Oh, he had his own throw back night, too. Around 9 o'clock, the Bug started calling for us from his bed. And not the kind of calling for us that sounded like, "Hey guys - could I have some water? Could you read me another story? Could you sing me another, really long lullaby." Nope. This was the kind of calling for us that sounded, very simply, like what it was: "Mommy, Daddy, come! I want Mommy, Daddy. Mommy? Daddy?" So when my husband looked at me and asked if he should go into the Bug's room, I nodded yes (with a Squish on my chest and tears in my eyes).

Eventually, the Bug ended up in our bed, and when he wasn't flopping, kicking, pushing, or generally flailing between us, then the Squish was waking up for reasons not always clear (to nurse? to cuddle? to join the bed party?).

Two steps forward, one step back. One step forward, two steps back. Life on The Spiral. Old School. Regressing. Throw back night. Growth spurt. Whatever you call it, it is happening here, and it left all four of us exhausted this morning.

my chi moving

2011-12-17T16:45:00.000-08:00

Leaving no stone unturned in my quest to get a handle on the migraine problem, I have seen an acupuncturist and a neurologist in the last month.

The acupuncturist listened carefully to my history of migraines and gave me some ideas for prevention. She asked me if anything else was going on aside from the migraines. I told her I have a two-year-old and a newborn. She nodded a knowing nod, and I did not need to say any more.

Then she put the needles in. After she finished with the needles, but before she left me for a twenty-five minute rest on the table, the acupuncturist said:

If you feel any tingling, itching, or even aching, that's just your chi moving.

Twenty-five minutes later, I was done and on my way out.

About five days later, I went further uptown to a neurologist.

When she was taking my medical history and asked about any depression, I hemmed and hawed something about post-baby-blues-but-not-really-post-partum-depression. Her expression in response was some kind of hybrid between confused and impatient. Not exactly inviting. So I did not go on. I did not tell her about singing Bug the lullaby he always used to ask for and starting to cry because I no longer put him to bed or sing him lullabies, and I did not tell her how that left me feeling that I was not doing very well at shepherding all of us into becoming a family of four. I did not tell her about how, when Squish was only seven weeks old, he got his first cold and was up with a coughing fit at four in the morning that left me in tears and almost shouting at my husband to call the doctor. I did not tell her how I felt like I was failing to be that calm mom of a second baby who has peaceful perspective about everything. I did not tell her about the vertigo of feeling both that the world is unraveling a little and that I am completely incapable of remembering the world before this perfect little squish arrived.

Twenty-five minutes later, she gave me a prescription for a nasal spray (with the instruction that I should take it like cocaine - I kid you not), and I left.

The drug she prescribed has helped twice now - though apparently nothing will prevent or stop the aura. (When I told the neurologist that the aura were the most disturbing part of my migraine experience, she could not understand why. She even circled back to the topic later in the appointment, eventually suggesting that I treat the aura like a light show - I kid you not.)

The acupuncture has already helped reduce the frequency of the migraines.

So this year, my New Year's Resolution is to keep that chi moving.

reaching for the sky

2011-12-09T14:32:00.001-08:00

With the exception of the two weeks when my husband was home on paternity leave, I have been walking Bug to School every weekday for almost three months now. Our morning walk has been a bright spot in my day since . . .

we finally got over the hump of the you-have-to-hold-an-adult's-hand-while-you-are-on-the-sidewalk learning curve. (Picture a woman who is thirty-nine weeks pregnant with what will be a ten pound baby holding the hand of a two-year-old who protests the holding-hands-rule by either sitting or - more often - lying down on the sidewalk. The woman silently refuses to engage with her toddler during his tantrum, but she also refuses to let go of his little hand, hoping to teach the rule with her actions rather than with her words. She does this all while trying not to lose her balance and topple onto her son - which would cause serious injury to both the thirty-nine week pregnant woman and her little toddler. I was that woman. The good news is my Bug is a quick learner.)

During these walks, we sometimes sing songs (The Ants Go Marching is a big favorite) or talk about what Bug's day will be like at school.

Lately, and much to my delight, Bug does most of the talking.

Today we walked past an FDNY "communications truck" - whatever that is, and the Bug was ecstatic. "Fire truck!" "Oh wow!" "Fire truck!"

One morning, Bug told me he wanted to fly a kite. Then he pointed in the sky and told me he saw a kite [an imaginary kite]. I asked what color it was. "Pink!" Any other colors? "Blue!" Polka-dotted or striped? "Stripes!"

My favorite moment so far happened a few weeks ago when the Bug told me he wanted to touch the sky. As an adult, you can go one of two ways when a child expresses an interest in touching the sky. I chose the one that wouldn't crush his spirit. And so he gave it a try.

LeaveItToBeaverLand

2011-12-05T07:53:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I was having drinks with some colleagues. One of those colleagues exclaimed, "Oh! You're from LeaveItToBeaverLand!!" when she discovered that I grew up in the same town where she went to college. In response . . .
I smiled a polite smile - perhaps the smile you might expect from someone who grew up in LeaveItToBeaverLand.

My hometown is small. The population is under 5,000 when the college is not in session. There are fewer than five intersections with stop lights. Most everybody is in most everybody's business - at least a little bit. Friday nights in the fall are for high school football games. The arrival of a Wendy's on the town's outskirts in the 1990s was preceded by vigorous debate. I graduated with a little over 100 other people in my class, many of whom I had known since I was seven.

As a teenager, I probably would have loved the suggestion that my town was LeaveItToBeaverLand. I picture my high school self saying something very clever in response. Something like: "Yeah. Totally."

Luckily, I am no longer a teenager, and I have the good sense to appreciate my little hometown and to recognize that the luxury of feeling safe in my town at any time of day or night should not be confused with the fiction that life is simple.

One of my friends from this little hometown has a one-year-old daughter fighting a serious illness. The details do not feel like mine to share, and my own reaction to what she is experiencing is irrelevant - except for two things:

1. My old friend has some kind of well of strength inside her that is, in a word, humbling.

2. The people from my graduating class, many of whom I have known since I was seven, have shown the kind of love and support that makes me hope that my Bug and my Squish are lucky enough to grow up in a place like LeaveItToBeaverLand.

over and out . . . for now

2011-11-16T07:52:00.000-08:00

I am taking a break. I am at my limit. I have had three migraines in the last six days. I keep remembering additional people who deserve hand written thank you notes . . . and then forgetting . . . and then not writing any at all. I blamed my husband when Squish threw up (spit up is too mild an expression for what happened) all over himself and me in our bed at midnight the other night. They started potty training at Bug's school, and I have nothing close to a game plan for how we will keep up the training at home. Last, but most certainly not least, I have not slept for more than an hour and a half in a very long time.

So this blog, which has become part diary, part locker decoration, and part message in a bottle, is on hiatus.

Check back in a month.

Over and out.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Local Roots CSA - Winter Season

2011-11-09T07:28:00.000-08:00

I just got the following info from Local Roots about their winter CSA . . . enjoy!

Our winter CSA is a great way to provide families with locally grown produce and our winter season features vegetables from our farmer's greenhouses; this means spinach, kale, and swiss chard in the winter season when the season usually only brings us root vegetables. The shares may include everything from vegetables, fruits, meat, eggs, grain and beans, juice, cheese, and bread, all based on your preferences and all from regional farms that use healthy growing practices with pick-up in once convenient location.

The CSA’s unique model is designed to offer greater convenience, product variety, value, and payment flexibility. The winter season runs from December-February with members paying upfront for 12 weeks as opposed to the 24 weeks in other CSAs. Membership applications are due November 27, 2011 for locations in Carroll Gardens and Boerum Hill. Information on products, farms, and how to sign up can be found at www.localrootsnyc.org/csa/products

About Local Roots NYC

Local Roots NYC is a new organization dedicated to connecting New York City with local farmers and their food through CSA programs. Local Roots NYC hosts bi-monthly supper clubs and provides recipes, and other tips to make cooking at home easier. More information can be found at www.localrootsnyc.org/.

About CSA

CSA, which stands for Community Supported Agriculture, allows city residents to have access to fresh produce grown by a regional farmer. CSA members purchase a “share” of produce from a local farm. Shares of produce are brought to the same site for members to pick up each week. By joining a CSA, members learn what foods are in season in the North East, support small, local farmers, discover new varieties of produce, try out new recipes, eat healthier, and reconnect with their food.

Priorities

2011-10-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

Special Agent Dos (a.k.a. The Little Squish) arrived safe and sound at 2:23 a.m. on Monday, October 10, 2011.

Labor and delivery went well. (Notably, in the early stages of labor, my water broke on Clinton Avenue about a block from our apartment. Left with no alternative, I walked home feeling like I was living one of those anxiety dreams I've heard about where you show up naked to school.)

Life with Little Squish has been great so far. During the days, though, I developed a list of priorities for myself:

(1) Eat
(2) Sleep
(3) Hygiene (brush teeth / shower / wash hair . . . in that order of importance)
(4) Clean.

Yesterday, I managed to get through the first two, and I think I brushed my teeth.

Today, I have already completed the first three - including having washed my hair. A day without a migraine is so much more productive.

The Great Divide

2011-10-04T07:33:00.000-07:00

I spent all day yesterday trying to get the birthing party for Special Agent Dos started. I cleaned Bug's room and re-organized his wardrobe to make room for all things 0-3 months. I dusted. I organized the linen closet. I walked a mile to buy a shower curtain and then a mile home. I ate all the spicy parts of my green papaya salad with my Thai take-out dinner.

Then, around 10pm, Bug woke up crying.

I made the call to go in after about a minute instead of waiting longer to see if he could self-soothe back to sleep. Bug seemed distressed and definitely did not want to go back to sleep in his own room. He even requested (adamantly) a lullaby [and then said his ears hurt . . . I chalk that timing up to coincidence and try not to take it as further confirmation that my singing voice is not meant for public consumption]. Eventually, he was saying, "Momma bed. Momma bed. Momma bed." When your two-year-old is a little smoosh in your arms and saying in his littlest voice, "Momma bed," you generally acquiesce. So I did. He slept between me and my husband with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet toward our heads.

While I was trying to console Bug, and before he ended up in our room, I stopped wishing that I would go into labor last night. It seemed like Bug needed me -- which led to a rush of advance guilt for the potential that, one night soon, I might go to the hospital while Bug is sleeping. What if he wakes up in the night asking for me, and I am already gone? Even if he just wakes up in the morning, what if he is confused and a little sad that my husband and I are not there?

Then I realized that chances are greater that I will go into labor while the Bug is asleep or at school than while he is with me or my husband. What if I go into labor while Bug is at school, and then he is confused and a little sad that neither my husband or I pick him up that afternoon because we are at the hospital?

Ultimately, the question I have is: How I am going to handle The Great Attention Divide that will be necessary after the arrival of Special Agent Dos? Especially at night? What if Bug needs me at night? I will have a newborn who needs me, too.

I know I have my husband to help. I know that all of us simply will have to make adjustments to life as Four instead of Three. I believe we will find our new family rhythm even if there are a few (only a few, please) hiccups along the way. Plus, I cannot wait to meet Special Agent Dos on the outside, and I am so excited to see the Fraggle Bug and Special Agent Dos become friends and play together. It's just those first few bumps in the transition that are making me anxious.

But I have to remember what my husband told me a while ago. He said not to worry. He said that even though there might be some rough spots for the Bug, he will not remember them. He will only remember always having had a little brother.

With Toddlers The Days Are Long, But The Jokes Are Hilarious

2011-10-03T08:14:00.000-07:00

Last week, Bug turned two.

7:15am - Bug wakes up, and I teach him how old he is.

"[Bug], how old are you?"

"Two!"

"How old are you today?"

"Four!"

"What?!?"

"Five!"

"What?!?"

"Two!!!! [hahahahahahaha]"

7:25am - I suggest we leave the Bug's room to get the breakfast routine started. In the living room, I see that I have thirteen work emails that must have arrived between 11pm and 7:25am. (Normally, I have about 0-2 emails waiting for me when I wake up.) I sit down to find out what all the fuss is about. As I am distracted by Email #3, I hear the Bug running down the hallway and into the living room. He hides out of my sight behind the couch, and I hear "Rarrrr!" Then I see two little eyes peeking at me from behind the couch. As soon as I look up, down goes the little head, and I hear "Rarrrrrrr!!" as he runs back down the hallway. The Birthday Monster has arrived.

7:45am - Pancakes, bacon, and blueberries for a birthday breakfast. Delicious.

9:15am - I drop off the Bug at School. The good-bye is easy.

10:10am - I am at an appointment with my mid-wife. Everything looks the same (i.e., I have a big belly with a big baby, and it looks like any contractions I have been feeling have not been 'productive'). I tell her that today is my son's birthday, so Special Agent Dos will not be born today. She appreciates knowing she has the day off. Then we realize that the next Monday afternoon would be a great time to have a baby. So we conspire to wish our way to seeing each other at the hospital for the new arrival in about five days.

10:30am - I am at a certain New York coffee-shop-slash-gourmet-luxury-food-store on the corner of Prince and Broadway, about four blocks from my ob/gyn/cnm office. This particular location is always crowded with a mix of slow tourists, people who live and/or work in Soho who are really, really, ridiculously good looking . . . and . . . after most of my pre-natal appointments, an enormous pregnant lady. I put myself through the sheer joy of being nine months pregnant and surrounded by slow tourists and skinny models because I love the almond croissants there. I get my special treat and take a cab home.

11:30am - I work from home, which is almost as fun as standing in line behind really, really, ridiculously good looking people waiting for a latte.

3:15pm - I pick up the Bug from School so that we can go to his pediatrician for the two-year check-up.

3:20pm - The Bug does not want to get in his stroller to go to the doctor. He sits down on the floor and cries and says no about thirty times. We are about five inches from the front door of the School, but we cannot leave until he cooperates. At this point in my pregnancy, picking him up to make things happen is a last resort that is often extremely uncomfortable. Legs kick. Arms flail. I try to shield the belly. We are a contact improv study in Grace. So I do not pick him up. I wait . . . and wait and wait. Then, the head of the school comes through. She picks him up, asks him what's wrong, takes him outside to the sidewalk, puts him in the stroller, buckles him in, and away we go. That was nice.

4:05pm - We are walking to Bug's doctor. I repeat an earlier explanation that the doctor is going to listen to his heart and his lungs, and that she is going to look into his eyes and his ears. Then I mention (casually) that she is going to take a little blood to check on iron and lead, and that she is going to give him some medicine [a shot]. We are about a block from the doctor's office, and when I ask (with enthusiasm), "Ready to go to the doctor?!?!!" The Bug responds, "No!"

4:08pm - We meet my husband on the corner of the block where the doctor's office is.

4:10pm - We enter the doctor's office. The Bug sees plenty of trucks to play with and forgets all of his protests.

4:11pm - We take two trucks into the exam room. Things are going well. Then, we try to distract him with trucks while he gets his finger pricked for the blood draw. Distracting the Bug did not go well. He lets out howls of betrayal.

4:15pm - The doctor arrives. The Bug is very skeptical at this point. All is fine until it is time for the shots. I remind him that this is the medicine I talked about before, which is one of those futile things I do sometimes. He gets two shots. More howls of betrayal. Snot and tears everywhere - including into my hair.

4:30pm - We put Bug's clothes back on in the waiting area because the exam room has been tainted. Bug calms down . . . until it is time to go. He does not want to leave in the stroller (again). So my husband carries the Bug.

4:40pm - My husband tries to put Bug into the car seat. Bug throws a huge Protest Party. I realize that I am going to have to delay the conference call I had scheduled to take place in ten-ish minutes.

5:10pm - We park the car near our apartment, and I start the conference call while my husband takes Bug Duty. My call goes quickly and smoothly. Bug runs around the courtyard. We head into our apartment building and ask him to join us. He creeps toward the door with his Sneaky Walk. Then, still about five feet away, he stops, grins, and yells "Bye!" Then, he turns around and runs in the other direction - laughing and thoroughly pleased with himself. My husband stays to play the game with Bug, but I have to go inside thinking that I am about to have another call.

5:42pm - No need for another call. Bug and my husband come inside.

6:00pm - Dinner for the Bug - more pancakes - his favorite.

6:30pm - Bath Time. [Currently my husband's domain because I do not fit in the bathroom anymore unless I am alone.]

7:00pm - PJs. Story Time. Lullabies. Bed Time for Bug.

A long day by any standard - but peppered with enough jokes and silliness to keep all of us laughing and enjoying my Fraggle Bug's Second [Fourth!] [Fifth!] [No . . . Second! Hahahaha!] Birthday.

I love you, my little bug, and cannot wait to hear all the jokes you are going to tell me this year.

music appreciation

2011-09-13T07:46:00.000-07:00

Bug has shown a keen interest in all things stringed-instrument lately. He points out guitars whenever he sees them - on building blocks, in books, at parks. He sometimes asks to see my violin, and we talk about the parts of the instrument, including the tuners. When he got excited about an autoharp at his grandparents' house, we talked about the strings, the chords, and the tuners. He also likes the banjo, and if a book has even one picture of a banjo, Bug will find that page and say, "Banjo!"

Two nights ago, while I was holding Bug and singing his lullabies before putting him to bed, he put both hands on my collar bone and said, "Tuners!"

Unsure if I had heard him correctly, I asked, "[Bug,] did you just say 'tuners'?"

He smiled his sneakiest smile and repeated, "Tuners! Tuners!"

This morning, while I was holding Bug in the kitchen and getting his breakfast ready, he (again) put both hands on my collar bone and said, "Tuners!"

I laughed and asked, "Are you calling my collar bones tuners?!?"

He laughed right back and repeated, "Tuners!"

Then, he smiled that sneaky smile again, put his hands on my head, and said, "Banjo!"

Thoroughly pleased with himself and his joke, he started cracking up. As did his Banjo-head-momma.

Labor Day

2011-09-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

Labor Day weekend is almost here, and as with all three-day weekends, it cannot come fast enough.

This year, as was true when the Fraggle Bug was in my belly, I feel so pregnant that my own "labor day" cannot come fast enough either. Nevertheless, I try (try!) to remind myself that what I really want - more than anything - even more than to not be pregnant anymore - is a healthy, happy baby (emphasis on the healthy).

This year, I also find my mind wandering frequently to questions about my job, my career, and that ever-elusive work/life balance.

Am I really a lawyer?

Should I continue to be one?

Is there a way to find a rewarding job in my profession and to have the leftover time and energy to be a [capable, loving, and fun] mom and wife?

Am I a woman who wants to stay home with my babies - at least until they are toddlers?

Am I a woman who enjoys going to a job outside the home - even before my babies can toddle?

Should I use a substantial portion of our savings to stay home with Special Agent Dos for as long as possible?

Should I stop feeling all knotted up about these questions and be thankful that, especially in this economy, these are questions [choices] that I have at all?

Those questions are not mine alone. Almost every woman I know who started a career before she got pregnant has grappled with her own variations on the themes in those questions (regardless of whether the choice to work outside the home or to be home with a baby was one she actually got to make).

Maybe it goes without writing, but I think it bears noting, that there is another set of questions that we mom-lawyers deal with as well.

Do my colleagues who do not have children (or whose wives have children for them) think of my maternity leave as a vacation?

Will I get less challenging work after my maternity leave?

Am I on the Mommy-track (whatever that means)?

Will I have a target on my back for layoffs (public or stealth) if I fail to bill 2000 hours the year I came back from maternity leave - even if that means not seeing my baby for more than an hour a day (or at all some days)?

Will I have any control over my schedule?

Will I be able to get as much work as I need to keep my job - let alone advance in my career?

Will I be able to carve out the time I need to be the kind of mom I want to be to my baby?

And, the ultimate question:

What if I dare to take two maternity leaves?

For better and for worse, I know the answer to many of the questions in that second category. At 35 weeks pregnant with Special Agent Dos, I am still trying to figure out the answer to that last question.

With that in mind, I surprised the living daylights out of myself when I was reading a recent New Yorker profile and wanted to defend a mom-lawyer whose opinions on many (all?) issues are anathema to me. To be clear, no part of the following commentary is meant to serve as an endorsement of, or even a potential respect for, the views or opinions of Michele Bachmann.

But here's what:

The profile of Bachmann includes about six paragraphs related to her four years spent working at the I.R.S. as a tax litigation attorney. First, the profile concludes that she did not actually do much litigating. Then, (in support of that conclusion?), the profile notes that she had two of her children while she worked at the I.R.S.. (gasp) The profile also includes a quote from two former colleagues of Bachmann's belittling her work while she was at the I.R.S. -- claiming that she was "never" around and that of her four years there she only really got "two, two and a half years of experience."

Apparently, I now know how Bachmann's former colleagues at the I.R.S. and at least one periodical would answer that last, ultimate question. If you (dare to) take two maternity leaves while you work for one employer, do not even think about running for office and trying to claim that you "worked" for that employer for the periods when you were on leave.

On the other hand, maybe I would be spared that critique given some fundamental ideological and political differences between me and Ms. B.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Habana Outpost Back To School Bash (with FREE school supplies)

2011-08-30T17:14:00.000-07:00

I just got a message about the following event at Habana Outpost - looks like a good one - enjoy!

We are having our 5th annual Back to School Bash at Habana Outpost!

It's a free event open to Brooklyn families!

Free School Supplies at Habana Outpost’s Back to School Bash!

Habana Outpost is helping Brooklyn kids and families prepare for the school year with our 5^th annual Back to School Bash! Enjoy free events in our courtyard from 12-4pm on September 5, 2011.

Don’t miss our special musical guest Jeremy Plays Guitar performing a kiddie concert for tots of all ages from 1-2pm.

Special back to school giveaways include: notebooks, pencils and rulers courtesy of Sean Meenan and Habana Outpost.

Check out all of our free, fun events below!

Back to School Bash at Habana Outpost

Monday September 5^th 2011 (Labor Day)

12-4 pm

· Free kids concert with Jeremy Plays Guitar at 1pm

· School supply giveaways

· Face painting

· Clowns

· Balloons

· Stilt walker

· Arts and crafts

· Games and prizes

For more information, please contact Tiffany Baker

at tiffany [at] habanaoutpost [dot] com

Go Packs, Bottled Water, and Unlimited Elmo

2011-08-28T18:07:00.000-07:00

What does it take to get ready for a hurricane?

I grew up in central Ohio. So - I had tornado drills growing up . . . not hurricane drills.

Further, I have lived on the East Coast north of New Jersey for the last nine years. So - I have come to expect Nor'easters, public transportation annoyances, and a collective obsession with baseball . . . not hurricane warnings. Then came Irene.

My first reaction to the talk about a hurricane coming toward us several days after we had been surprised by an earthquake was, "Oh. Okay. I'll keep my eyes peeled for the hurricane. Right. Got it. That makes perfect sense. First an earthquake, now a hurricane. Obv." Maybe I have experienced too many warnings about huge snow storms Heading Straight For New York City only to end up underwhelmed and trudging to work in dirty slush.

By Thursday morning, the idle talk in the hallways at work was focused on hurricane preparedness. That night, my husband and I decided to go ahead and get some bottled water and the ingredients to make enchiladas verdes from our online grocery service. (I apparently believed that hurricane-preparedness meant getting ready to eat comfort food, watch a movie, and listen to the rain.)

On Friday afternoon, after an email about evacuation from the head of operations at my firm, I started to believe that we might need more than bottled water and cheesey goodness to get through "the storm."

So after Bug woke up from his nap on Friday (I was home with him that day), we headed out to get supplies. First stop: our local hardware store. Out of flashlights. Any suggestions about where I could pick some up in the neighborhood? Nope.

In a thoughtful and some might say heroic move, my husband came home early on Friday. When he met us on the sidewalk, I was in the throes of imagining having to scour Myrtle Avenue for flashlights and batteries while other (more intelligent) people in the neighborhood went home and put checkmarks by each item on their perfectly organized lists of Things To Get Before Irene Shows Up In All Her Fury. Before I could even tell my husband that the hardware store was out of flashlights, he showed me his booty from the neighborhood where he works: a flashlight, a lantern(!), and batteries.

(I was not exaggerating when I used the word "heroic.")

The only thing we still needed from Myrtle Ave was candles. We stopped into our local Green Store (selling all things eco-friendly) and purchased a motley assortment of candles. My husband also picked out a dishcloth. I never asked him why (perhaps because my own impulse buys at this Green Store were hair products).

Later that night, I snuck out of bathtime to try to add applesauce to our online grocery order -- only to find out that almost all grocery orders for the weekend were cancelled.

By Saturday morning, the mood in the neighborhood (and, more importantly, in our apartment) was anxious. My husband and I took turns somewhat compulsively checking the internet for information about what to expect and when to expect it. I learned about Go Bags, which did not exactly mitigate my anxiety.

We came up with a plan of sorts. First, our local grocery store, a place I generally try to avoid because of, among other things, its smell. We let go of the idea of enchiladas and got bottled water, granola bars, bread, peanut butter, almond milk (for Bug), toilet paper, cereal, and applesauce.

Next, after I got fixated on having our car parked off the street and in a garage, we decided to pick up our CSA distribution, drop off the car, and come home before the wind or rain started. We stood in the hall outside our apartment with Bug in his stroller, our compost ready for drop-off at the farmer's market, and our reusable bags ready for the CSA pick-up, and we pushed the button for the only one of two elevators that was functioning in our building this weekend. That's right. Only one of the elevators worked on Saturday. While we waited, we heard the bell from the "operational" elevator. The bell is rung by people who get stuck in the elevator in our building. In an effort to avoid waiting for a stalled elevator (or, worse, getting stuck in an elevator ourselves), I offered to watch Bug while my husband took care of the car, the compost, and the CSA.

By "watch" my little Fraggle Bug, I meant that I would lie down on the couch next to him while he watched Sesame Street. I suppose at this point, I am supposed to confess some sort of guilt for having let my child watch as much television as he requested this weekend. Instead, I have to confess that I treasure those little educational muppet monsters for all they are worth - especially when I am over 34 weeks pregnant and trying to prepare for a hurricane.

By Saturday afternoon, we needed to get out of the apartment for some last breaths of fresh air before Irene would bring whatever she would have in store for us. Oh, and I should confess that I "needed" to get some chocolate before the storm. Apparently, I am the stereotypical pregnant lady, and the longer I have to wait for a potential emergency situation, the more time I have to daydream about all of the junk food that is non-perishable.

We purchased some chocolates, some cookies, and a few more bottles of water.

After Bug's bedtime and our own dinners, it was time to admit that we were going to bed, and that while we were sleeping, a hurricane was supposed to arrive. So we engaged in the strange dance of getting the apartment ready. I put batteries in the flashlight and put the flashlight next to my side of the bed (along with my cell phone). I filled the bathtub with water. I put our new candles in the bathroom with a lighter, in case the three of us needed to move to the bathroom in the middle of the night to escape windows. My husband shut the windows and did the dishes. He put trash bags up on the sides of our window a/c units -- including (very stealthily) the one in Bug's room. We put an old sheet on the window sill in Bug's room to sop up any water that managed to come in around the a/c unit. We put dish towels on the window sill in our room for the same reason. I turned up the baby monitor.

The thing that really worried me was that Irene was supposed to start up around 2am. I was afraid that I would not know if we needed to move to the bathroom for the night until it was too late. I was afraid that I would not be able to grab Bug from his crib fast enough. I told my husband I was not sure I could sleep while Bug was in the other room by himself. About ten minutes later, using his Baby-Momma-ESP, Bug called out for us. So he ended up in our bed, which probably comforted me as much as him.

Around 1:30am, the real wind and rain started. I kept getting up to check the trees to see if they were coming down or flying out of the ground or whatever they might do. I got up to add more lining to the window sills, which were getting soaked. I got up to pee (several times). Around 5am, Bug started grumbling and getting upset. Then he was crying and could not get comfortable. The poor thing was having some GI issues, but they didn't really resolve themselves until around 6. And then again at 630. And again around 8.

By mid-day the hurricane was gone, and our afternoon trip to the playground has never been such a sweet relief. All of our windows are intact. The bathtub of water was unnecessary. The cookies were delicious. I am happy to have bottles and bottles of water. The flashlights, the lantern, the batteries, and the candles all went unused, but the impulse buy of a dishtowel came in quite handy.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Local Roots CSA - Fall Season

2011-08-14T04:23:00.000-07:00

I just got a note about the Local Roots CSA Fall Season... they have locations in Boerum Hill, Cobble Hill, Williamsburg, and Tribeca and offer share options of vegetables, fruit, beef, duck, grains/beans, eggs, and bread.

Their farmers are organic or use healthy growing practices. Members can pick and choose which shares they would like and are not committed to a vegetable share, as is the case in most other CSAs. Membership applications are due August 19th and they can sign up online at www.localrootsnyc.org

Five U-Turns

2011-08-13T19:23:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, my husband, the Bug, and I went on vacation with one of my husband's brothers and his family. We spent almost every day bumping back and forth between the beach (a five minute walk) and the pool (a thirty second walk). Tough life. By the end of the week, in an effort to break out of our routine, we decided to do something different.

A day trip to Savannah! "Oh that sounds fun!" "I have never been there!" "Me neither. It is supposed to be great!" "It is only a half-hour from here!" "Perfect!" "Yeah!" "Yeah!" "Yeah!"

After our verbal group-high-five, we got ready for our adventure.

We packed up the Bug, and his cousin, Sweet Dino, into our rented mini-van. I sat in the middle section and looked at guide books about Savannah. About four minutes into our ride, I announced, "Savannah is not a half-hour away. It is an hour away."

I am instructed to find an alternative that is actually thirty minutes away.

The guidebooks point to a town with historic architecture but not much else. Despite the well-known and universal love of historic architecture by toddlers, the answer is no.

The guidebooks mention a nature preserve on a nearby island. The dads up front want more info. I tell my husband to get on his phone and look up the website noted in the guidebook. It turns out the website is simply the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's website, which offers too much info. Again, the answer is no.

I suggest a nature preserve on our own island. The answer is finally yes. We make a U-turn. We get to the gate, and we need to pay five dollars. The dads up front have nothing. I offer my cash only to find I have none. We turn around. (U-turn #2)

Refusing to admit defeat, we begin the search for a nearby ATM. Five minutes later, I hop out of the mini-van and head into a supermarket for some cash. I buy three one-liter bottles of water for myself and get cash back at the register.

We head back to the nature preserve (after U-turn #3, if you count the supermarket diversion as one large U-turn). We pay the five dollars. I drink about a liter of water in eight minutes.

We see a sign directing cars in one direction and walkers/hikers/bikers in another. We choose the direction for cars (because we are in a car). We soon realize that if the sign had been more specific, it would have read, "Left for cars that intend to drive around the nature preserve - Right for cars that will park and whose passengers will walk around the preserve." We correct our mistake. (U-turn #4)

We park. We check the trail map and choose Lake Joe as our destination. I cannot remember why the other adults chose Lake Joe, but I know that I voted for Lake Joe because it had restrooms.

We walk. The Bug rides on my husband's shoulders. And once we are fully enveloped by the nature preserve, Bug hunches low with both arms wrapped tightly around my husband's head. He presses his little face against the side of my husband's face. A true city kid.

Not one of us grabbed a trail map before we headed toward Lake Joe, so we do our best with the forks in the path as we meet them. When I mention to my husband how badly I have to pee, he suggests that I pull off the path and use the woods. I adamantly refuse.

Eventually, we get to Lake Joe. My brother-in-law points across the lake to The Rooftop and suggests I will find the restrooms there.

I leave the group - wanting to run but forced by a fear of incontinence to walk slowly and carefully.

I make it to the other side of Lake Joe. On my left are a bike path and a roadway, and straight ahead of me I see that The Rooftop is not for a restroom. It is for a little hut with trail maps and brochures. I look at the map and see that the restrooms are on the other side of the lake - what would surely be a ten minute walk from where I am standing.

I sit on the bench behind the maps in a vain effort to prevent the inevitable. I notice a small group of trees and bushes ten feet from the bench (which is also, technically, ten feet from the afore-mentioned bike path and roadway). Without a realistic alternative, I go in, and I pee, praying the entire time that no bikers, drivers, or hikers happen upon me. I luck out.

A couple of minutes later, the dads, Bug, and Sweet Dino arrive. We hang under The Rooftop in the hut and get some much needed shade. The side of the hut leaves a gap about two and a half feet high between the ground and the side of the hut - almost perfect for a sixteen-month-old. Almost perfect. About two inches shy of perfect. As Sweet Dino heads out of the hut, the side of the hut stops Sweet Dino short, knocking him down to the ground. Sweet Dino, ever-resilient, lets out a good cry or two and then appears to accept that some Cheerios and water might make everything better. The Bug looks hot, tired, thirsty, and sick of fighting the bugs that keep coming for his face. I admit that I just peed in the bushes nearby. We all admit that we are ready to leave Lake Joe.

We go back to the car and head home for lunch and naps all around. (U-turn #5)

COMMUNITY NEWS: UPDATED Jam on DUMBO Summer Family Music Festival - Aug. 20

2011-07-31T11:04:00.000-07:00

I just received a message about the following family music festival in Brooklyn later this month -- enjoy! Note the end time has changed to 5pm!

Jam On DUMBO Summer Family Music Festival

Bringing Free Entertainment to Brooklyn

BROOKLYN, NY – Sidewalks in the city may be getting steamy, but on Saturday, August 20^th, Brooklyn is really going to sizzle as Jam On DUMBO brings a full day of family entertainment to the Manhattan Bridge Archway.

From 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., on Adams Street between Front Street and Water Street, kids’ entertainers will jam on as local vendors sell their wares in our community marketplace. The Summer Family Music Festival is free to attend.

Musical performers include: bluegrass act Astrograss; an interactive Afro-Haitian drum and song performance by Bonga; the funky Erin Lee and the Up Past Bedtime Band; kiddie cabaret band The Itty Biddies; ukulele duo The Mini Max Players; rockers Rolie Polie Guacamole; and teen alternative-rock group Still Saffire. The festival will also feature a performance by P for Puppet and a family yoga class led by Bija Yoga.

Jam On DUMBO was founded in late 2010 by a group of local parents looking to bring more children’s music programming to the cobblestone-lined neighborhood known as DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass). After hosting a series of successful winter music concerts, Jam On DUMBO began to think bigger: Along with planning its Summer Family Music Festival, the organization has brought a weekly drop-in music classes to a local café and is planning a Music Week at P.S. 307, a local elementary school that primarily serves the Farragut public housing complex.

For more information about Jam On DUMBO, please contact Jaime Pessin at jlpessin@gmail.com. Visit us online at www.jamondumbo.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/JamOnDUMBO, or on Twitter (@JamOnDUMBO).

Bring Your Partner To Blog Day

2011-07-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

My husband makes his guest blogging debut below -- enjoy!

Clear eyes, wet butts. Can't lose.

A few weeks ago, I was hanging out full-time with the Hot Toddie [a.k.a. The Bug], and we decided, after some discussion, to check out the kids' music concert at our local park. It was a nice summer day, and a band was performing that had the under-four-years-old set amped up. The Hot Toddie begged me to let him bring his bootlegging equipment, but I was like, “nah, save it for Rolie Polie Guacamole.” He was like, “Dump truck!” Cool.

We headed out. Did I mention how nice it was outside? 85, no clouds, dry as a mouthful of cheerios. (Of course, as I write this, I am sweating, and it is 9 o’clock at night, so that may be why I am fixated on how amazingly nice the weather was that day.) In any event, I was pretty impressed with the time we were making since the Hot Toddie had climbed right in his stroller without the usual struggle that I can only compare to the time that I tried to force a half-badger/half-freshwater-eel into the backseat of a two door Honda Civic. We even had time to stop and get an iced coffee from the local coffee place that sells a five-dollar small iced coffee. Five dollars is a reasonable price to pay for a small iced coffee, right? No? Even if it's cold brew? Okay.

We made it up to the top of the hill at the park early, and we were one of the first twenty or so families there -- headed by 87% nannies, 12% moms, and 1 dad. Me.

I got us a nice shady spot, and the Hot Toddie watched the band set up their equipment. He noticed the stand-up bass, and we both agreed it was a nice touch. Soon the lawn was filling up with over 200 nannies and moms, and I couldn’t help but notice that they all had blankets to sit on and spread snacks out on. They all had them. My initial response was to justify sitting on the ground (which was starting to make our butts wet) by thinking that all those blankets were just a bit too precious. City kids need more wet, dirty, uncomfortable places to sit, not fewer! However, after 20-30 minutes, it was clear to me that a blanket is an essential piece of equipment for an hour long kids' concert. I would have stood, but the adults were specifically told not to -- out of respect for the shorter fans.

About half way through the show, I saw the only other dad and his daughter rocking out to a song about spaghetti, both with wet, dirty butts. I was not alone.

COMMUNITY NEWS: KIDS' DIY PIZZA PIES / BIRTHDAY PARTIES IN THE THEATER DISTRICT

2011-07-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

I recently got a message about the following kid-friendly dining option in the Theater District . . .

Trattoria Dopo Teatro is now opening its door to host children’s birthday parties!

Parents can rent out one of the rustic, spacious rooms in this expansive, high-ceilinged 1878 landmark space. With the help of a brick oven in the main dining room—exposed for diners to see and bearing artfully composed thin crust pizzas—Dopo Teatro is offering kids do-it-yourself pies that youngsters can assemble themselves right at the table.

Children also have the option of choosing from the all new kid’s menu:

PENNE WITH FRESH TOMATO SAUCEORCHICKEN FINGERS WITH FRENCH FRIESORTWO SMALL BURGERS WITH FRIESORPIZZA MARGHERITA

ONE SCOOP OF CHOCOLATE GELATO

UNLIMITED OJ AND SODAS

$ 20.00 PER CHILD

What if I . . .

2011-06-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

This week, the Bug has been his usual complex, young self with all of the ups and downs that naturally accompany being a self in this world. Included in that complex, young self is a budding yet keen desire to test limits. And lately, the moment before he tests those limits, he looks at me, smiles a sneaky smile, and his eyes actually sparkle a little -- all as if to say:

"Momma, I am going to do this thing. You are going to say no, but I am going to keep doing it. Maybe I can wear you down. Maybe this time I can exhaust you to the point that you will not say no ever again, and I will be the greatest toddler ever to toddle the Earth!"

When I have the energy, my responses tend to fall somewhere on the Great Patience Spectrum between

Understanding Early Childhood Development While Gently (And Successfully!) Redirecting Attention

and

Hiding Frustration While Easily (And Successfully!) Providing Strong Guidance.

When I am tired, a more common state lately, I am less awesome.

Yesterday morning, for example, the Bug decided that his default mode was to test limits.

He asked (in his own way), "what if I put my hand very close to the fan while it is on?" Not long thereafter he asked, "what if I pushed my rocking chair over and then pulled it back up a little too fast so that it bumped my nose?" He repeated, "seriously, what if I kept pushing this rocking chair over and pulling it back up so that it kept bumping me in the face?"

My default mode was lying on the floor of his room, hoping that I could convince him with long, drawn out verbal explanations that he should behave differently. That went well.

And so, here we go. The Bug undoubtedly will continue to ask (in one way or another) what would happen if he were to . . . push his feet against the dinner table in order to tip his chair way, way back / put his finger in the fan / climb on the coffee table / pull the electric plug of the baby monitor out of the wall socket / turn the air conditioner on and off again three hundred times / turn the floor lamp in his room on and off again three thousand times . . . and I undoubtedly will continue to translate the world for him. Wish us luck.

three little birds

2011-06-17T08:15:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant with The Fraggle Bug, my body grew and grew and grew (as did my dear Fraggle Bug). Early in the second trimester, my doctor at the time gave me a little talk about my weight gain in the four weeks since I had last seen her. What I took from our conversation were two warnings:

(1) at this rate, your baby will be enormous; and

(2) at this rate, you will never lose the pregnancy weight that you have gained, so you should probably just plan on looking five months pregnant for the rest of your life.

Four weeks later, I returned to the doctor for a check-up. This time, I had gained half as much weight as the month before, but we still had the talk, and those warnings felt exactly the same. I am sure that she did not intend to initiate what would become a several month long obsession with food and my weight gain, or to make me cry, but both things happened about two minutes after I left that appointment. As my pregnancy continued, I ended up referring to my check-ups as my weigh-ins. I made my appointments with the other doctors in the group and never saw my original doctor again because I felt a terrible blend of anger and shame.

Eventually, two things happened.

One: my baby was big when he was born. I mean very big. So big that the delivery nurse pressed the call button upon his arrival and said to the nurses' station, "Call Peds. We have a . . . big baby here!" But my baby was also born healthy and beautiful and has been thriving ever since.

Two: I lost the weight that I had gained while I was pregnant.

Now, here I am, pregnant again and steam rolling out of the second trimester and into the third. When I started this pregnancy, I thought that I would go to the gym and yoga classes until Week 40, that I would be much wiser about the cupcakes and ice cream, and that I would gain much less weight. Apparently, the pain of child birth is not the only thing that Nature helps us to forget before we get pregnant again.

This past month, and especially the past ten days or so, included quite a growth spurt. I had an appointment with my midwife yesterday, and even though she has been nothing but wonderful and supportive so far, all I could think about for the last week was my weight and my "weigh-in" (especially because she is part of the same practice I went to during my first pregnancy).

It turns out I did have a growth spurt (as did Special Agent Dos), and I did gain quite a bit of weight this month. It also turns out that because The Bug and I made it through the first pregnancy and delivery so well, my midwife is not worried and did not provide any warnings. She suggested, quite simply, that this is probably just how my body does pregnancy. And just like that, I was on my way.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2011-06-17T04:26:00.000-07:00

A Momma Grows has been nominated to the Top 25 NYC Moms list at Circle of Moms. You can vote once a day until July 7, 2011. While you do not have to vote early . . . voting often apparently is allowed.

COMMUNITY NEWS: DUMBO Stoop Sale - Saturday, June 18

2011-06-14T04:59:00.000-07:00

I just got a message about a DUMBO community sale (in coordination with with the DUMBO Improvement District, the DUMBO Parents Organization and Half Pint Citizens):

SATURDAY, JUNE 18
11 am - 4 pm
The Archway

(under the Manhattan Bridge)

If you are hoping to pick up gently used clothes, accessories, children’s toys, or books, please stop by.

If you are interested in selling some of your "extras," there are still tables available (and there is a discount for reservations made through Krrb).

(For more info, click here.)
Enjoy!

Monday 4am to Friday 11:59pm

2011-05-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

This week, I have been on my own with my belly and the Bug while my husband has been in New Orleans for his school's seventh grade class trip.

Highlights and lowlights:

Monday - The First Day

4am: My husband leaves to meet his kids at the school so that they can take a big bus to the airport.
8am: My husband's dad comes to the apartment to spend time with Bug and be the childcare provider for the day.
Day: Work involved nothing noteworthy, which is good and bad.
7pm: Home again. In an attempt to get Bug's bath started, I take away the new truck toy that his grandpa gave him. I spent the next three minutes watching Bug on the floor of the bathroom expressing his complete dissatisfaction with my preference for bath time in lieu of more truck time. To quote one of our favorite books about a toddler who throws a fit, "it lasts until it doesn't." Bug stands up, looks into the full bath, and says, "bath?!?!!?" Bath, PJs, story time, lullabies, and bed follow relatively easily.
9pm: I eat dinner.
10pm: I pass out.

Tuesday - The Long Day

1am: Bug cries out; I go in; he falls back asleep on my chest; I put him back in his crib and go to my own bed like a zombie.
4am: Bug cries out; I bring him to my bed because I do not think I will have the energy to put him back in his crib after he returns to sleep.
8am: Uploaded a short home movie for my husband to watch because it is his birthday. While I wax film maker, I let Bug watch Sesame Street on the couch. I feel like a bad mother.
Day: Work - as joyous as usual.
7pm: Home again. I wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed. Instead, I managed to give Bug a bath, get him into PJs, read stories, sing lullabies, and put him into his crib.
8:15pm: Bug starts to cry out. I believe that he is too tired and needs to get himself to sleep even if he cries for a few minutes. The phone rings. It is my husband, and it is his birthday, but I am distracted by the increasing volume of Bug's crying. I feel like a bad mother and a bad wife.
8:20pm: Bug's cries turn into shouts for me. My voice cracks as I tell my husband I have to get off the phone. I start crying myself as I walk down the hall to get Bug. I go in; he falls back asleep on my chest; I put him in his crib.
9pm: Dinner for myself.
9:30pm: Fall apart briefly. Feel I should have known that Bug is missing my husband as much as I am, and that this week I need to err on the side of attentiveness. In other words, I decide that for the rest of the week, when Bug calls out, I will scoop him up, and I will not worry that he will unlearn how to soothe himself back to sleep this week.
10pm: I sleep.

Wednesday - So-called Hump Day

1:30am: Bug cries out; I bring him into my bed; he stays there, sleeping like a baby elephant until the sun comes up.
Morning: Cannot remember any details except that the groceries are delivered in a box that is soaked with the balsamic vinaigrette dressing that was in my order. Also, I remember feeling very angry with various strangers at various points in my commute. Something about them not making way for the pregnant lady . . . when, truly, it was about them not (somehow and magically) giving me back the sleep I had lost in the last two days.
Day: Work - long and busier.
7pm: Home again. I want to lie down. Instead, I managed to get a bath going. In the middle of the bath, I realize that I should probably wash Bug's hair. Instead, in an effort to avoid any battles, tantrums, or other exhausting three-minute ordeals, I decide it can wait.
8:15: Work through dinner and beyond, and I wonder if I will ever again feel like a truly rested human being.
10:15: Sleep.

Thursday - Things Are Looking Up Day

5:30am: Bug calls out; I bring him to my bed in the vain hope that he will go back to sleep. He uses my face as a pillow and is ready to start his day about ten minutes later.
6:45am: We go for a quick walk because I am so tired I do not know if the morning is really happening, and I figure fresh air might give me an answer to that question.
7:15am: Bug eats the blueberry muffin we picked up on the walk, and I read to him on the couch. It is one of the coziest and most wonderful moments of the week.
Day: Work - very busy, and the day is gone quickly.
7pm: Home again. It is no longer feasible to put off washing Bug's hair. He protests. I offer to sing a song. He says, "no." I start singing The Wheels on the Bus. He cuts me off with, "no." I start singing London Bridge. He cuts me off, "no." I start with She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain. "No." I say, "I don't know if I know any other songs that might make you feel better." He says, "car." I sing Mercedes Benz by Janis Joplin. Bug loves that song. He is starting to learn the words. I sing it to him before bed, and now, apparently, when I wash his hair.
8pm: Bug in crib heading for sleep, and I am trying to figure out dinner.
9:45pm: Bug crying out and then calling Mama. I go to him; he falls back to sleep on my chest; I go to bed myself.

Friday - Almost There Day

3am: Bug cries out; I bring him to my bed; he sleeps like a baby elephant.
5:20am: The Bug is awake and wants to get this day started. I refuse.
5:50am: My refusal is still not working. We are up and out of bed.
5:55am: Bug requests "melmo" (a certain red, fuzzy monster beloved by all small children). I say yes. I do not feel guilty this time. I turn on the television, snuggle with Bug, and close my eyes hoping for another twenty minutes of rest.
7:40am: Bug wants to cook. "Cook!" I let him help me make his oatmeal (i.e., he helps pour the oats and then the water into a bowl before I zap them in the microwave). He notices a picture on the back of the oatmeal container. "Cookie!!"
7:50am: Bug and I make oatmeal cookies because when you have been up for hours, and it is not 8am yet, and you have the ingredients and an excited toddler, and it is Almost There Day, making oatmeal cookies before work sounds like a brilliant idea.
9am: I leave for work and announce that I should be home early today because it is a Friday before a long weekend, which means we get "Early Dismissal" at work. Yes, early dismissal. Like in middle school.
Day: Work - very busy, punctuated by moments of anxiety and stress . . . and the following . . . I realized that changes I had made all afternoon and evening yesterday had not been saved "on the system." I had a hard copy of the changes though and asked my assistant to use that hard copy and input the changes on the system. She was plugging away when AVerySelfImportantPartner arrived for the day (around 11am) and told her to stop working on my project so that she could work on his VeryTotallyCompletelyImportantProject. I took over inputting the revisions and put off the other work that I had been doing. As I was working in my office, I could hear someone playing music. What kind of music? Oh, you know, the kind of rock and roll music that forty-something ass clowns listen to to try to pretend they are in their thirties (because they are under the misguided assumption that their thirties are where it's at). I walk out of my office and see that, in an office down the hall from mine, VerySelfImportantPartner has his feet up on his desk and is leaning back in his chair doing not-much-of-anything except listening to music like he is a bored lifeguard. So if you were wondering what type of person makes a million dollars a year, now you have a lovely example.
6:30pm: I leave work - no early end to my day.
7pm: I am home to see a smiling Bug enjoying an oatmeal cookie. I am exhausted and not sure we are going to make it through the bath, PJs, stories, lullabies, and sleep routine. But we do.

This week has been one long week, and I will be so, so glad to see my husband when he gets home. To all of the parents out there who do this on their own for long stretches of time or permanently, you have my sincere admiration and my hope that your little bugs give you plenty of reasons to smile along the way.

Bangs

2011-05-20T05:04:00.000-07:00

One morning, a woman I work with said that she liked my hair - and especially my bangs. I thanked her but wondered if they were really bangs? Are bangs still bangs if they are unintentional?

I have avoided discussing the following topic on this blog in an effort to protect Future Mommas-In-Training from running far, far away from ever trying to get pregnant, but now it is time.

This morning, in an effort to avoid Day Three of piling all of my hair on top of my head and twisting it into the sorry result of what would happen if a pony tail and a bun got together, I got out the curling iron.

Several things are worth noting at this point.

First, my hair is naturally curly. Not the kind of curls that bounce. Not the kind of curls that fall loosely around my shoulders. Not even the kind of curls that are tight and have character. My kind of curly is the kind that warrants [necessitates] a beauty product that I have never found. My kind of curly is the kind that reacts to rainy, humid weather by becoming a wild mass of fuzz. The curling iron actually (and ironically) is my quick way of fake straightening my hair. It brings things back together rather than allowing them to fly apart into their more natural fuzz state.

Second, Nanny was fifteen minutes late today. Normally, when she runs late, I run late. And when I run late, I try to cut out the "extras" - like making a lunch for myself or spending more than two minutes on my hair. (See e.g., Day One and Day Two of piling all of my hair on top of my head and twisting it into PonyTail and Bun's secret love child.) But pregnancy has a way of increasing the pressure to put some effort into the the parts of my appearance that I can control (which are mostly above the neck).

Last, today is the third straight day of rain.

This morning, I began the process of curling my curly hair into submission, hoping for something at least tame enough to pull into a pony tail and that would seem semi-professional. As I wrapped each section around the curling iron, I couldn't help but focus on the Post-prego Hairline. Oh, the Post-prego Hairline. Those bangs I have? They are not bangs. They are the visible evidence of the Post-prego Hairline. They are the result of two separate events: (1) the loss of massive amounts of hair starting when Bug was about three months old; and (2) the return of new hair when Bug was about seven to nine months old. Apparently, this is a completely normal and natural process that most mothers experience.

It came as a bit of a surprise to me, and today, it did not feel natural or normal. It felt like one more obstacle to looking presentable - let alone professional. Here's to hoping the rain stops soon.

The Art of Making Dances

2011-05-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

I always imagined that any baby of mine would be a dancer - of some sort. When the Bug was a newborn, my husband and I each carried and bobbed the Bug to music in the living room. When he was a few months old, I put Bug into a baby carrier and tried to re-enact the Waltz of the Flowers. As he grew older and developed more gross motor skills, I tried again and again to tap into his little dancing spirit.

All of this was to no avail. I finally resigned myself to the possibility that the Bug was not motivated to move to music. No big deal. He does not need to love dancing. Momma Lesson learned.

Then, one day last week, he started dancing, and his moves are awesome. His path is best described as meandering. When he travels, he travels fast. When he is in one place, his feet move quickly forward and back and a little to the side. During one of his recent dances, those feet were in a frenzy and ended up stepping over each other in some sort of stationary grapevine, resulting in his landing on the floor, legs crossed, and looking up with a big smile.

Doris Humphrey believed that all dances are too long, and I agreed with her until last week. The Bug's dances will never be long enough.

what's in a name

2011-05-09T17:27:00.000-07:00

I want to use this opportunity to change Baby's name on this blog. I hereby pronounce that Baby is not a baby anymore. To continue to refer to him as Baby is inaccurate and erodes the authenticity of the word. Further, and more to the point, there is the expected arrival of Special Agent Dos in early October. Therefore, henceforth, Baby shall be known as The Fraggle Bug, or Frags or Bug for short.

COMMUNITY NEWS: New CSA for Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill, Carroll Gardens, Williamsburg, and Tribeca!

2011-04-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

I just got an email about the following opportunity to join a CSA for those of you in Cobble Hill/Boerum Hill, Carroll Gardens, Williamsburg, or Tribeca . . .

The Local Roots CSA is now accepting members for the 2011 Summer Season!

Local Roots is a unique CSA model designed to offer greater convenience for its members with features like enhanced product variety and payment flexibility. Members have the opportunity to pick and choose product shares, allowing members the convenience of picking up a week's worth of fresh, locally grown groceries at one distribution location. We offer vegetable, fruit, duck, beef, egg, grain/bean, juice, and/or bread options. Our summer season runs from June - August, so members pay upfront for 12 weeks of produce as opposed to 24 weeks (don't worry, we'll have a Fall CSA as well). By paying for half a season upfront, we hope this will be a bit more flexible for our members. CSA locations are in Cobble Hill/Boerum Hill, Carroll Gardens, Williamsburg, and Tribeca.

Check out all the details on the website and sign up for shares before they are sold out! Membership applications are due May 23, 2011.

Violin Baby

2011-03-23T17:32:00.000-07:00

Tonight, Baby seemed interested in my violin case. So for about five minutes before his bath, I opened the case and got out the violin.

I have not played my violin in earnest in at least a couple of years. The G string is broken and hanging off of the violin like a cowlick. The D, A, and E strings were all loose and wobbly - I tightened and "tuned" them while I let Baby play around with my spare bow (which, incidentally, looks like it might be the same fiberglass bow that I started using when I was in the third grade).

While Baby held the bow, I plucked the strings. He was interested. Then I pulled the bow across the strings to play a few notes, and Baby was genuinely impressed. Eyes wide; eyebrows raised. For the crowning achievement of our mini music exploration time, I had Baby hold the bow on the strings while I pulled the violin away so that he was the one making sound. He was doubly impressed.

Then it was time for the bath. Baby looked down at the empty space where I was about to put the violin. The inside of the violin case is lined in soft, velvety material and would look inviting to anyone - but especially so to those under three feet tall. So without much ado, Baby climbed into the case and tried to lie down and get comfortable as if he were my little violin.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Children's Yoga in Clinton Hill

2011-03-16T18:11:00.000-07:00

I just got the following info about a new Clinton Hill location (and a grand opening party!) for Bija Kids Yoga . . .

Grand Opening Party for our NEW! Clinton Hill Location
The first Brooklyn studio devoted exclusively to children's yoga!

900 Fulton Street btwn Waverly and Washington Avenues.
Sunday April 10
10am - 3pm

Free children's yoga sessions, concert with Michael of Preschool of Rock, Food and Drink, Chair Massages for Grown Ups and More.

10% Discounts off all spring class registrations, summer camp, teacher trainings and birthday parties on Sunday April 10.

Bija Kids Yoga is a comprehensive children's yoga program for crawlers - age 9. We offer classes, birthday parties, teacher trainings, workshops, summer camp and more. In addition our new home at 900 Fulton Street will offer music classes, art classes, French classes and more to support families in our community. Conveniently located on the same block as the C Train (3 blocks from the G) our beautiful 2500 square foot studio space is the place for kids yoga in Brooklyn. Location doesn't work for you? We offer satellite classes throughout Brownstone Brooklyn. Licensing Opportunities Available.

COMMUNITY NEWS: Parenting, Pizza, and Political Action - March 14

2011-03-09T05:06:00.000-08:00

Brooklyn parents,

I just got an email about the following event . . . it looks very interesting.

EVENT: Parenting, Pizza & Political Action on 3/14!

You know that parenting is hard work, but did you know . . .

• That new parents in California and New Jersey get paid leave, but state lawmakers have failed to pass paid family leave in New York?

• That half of public school parents in New York City don’t have any paid sick days to care for their kids (your child’s classmates)?

• That pregnancy discrimination and unfair treatment of mothers at work is on the rise in New York?

• That part-time workers, disproportionately women, are routinely denied access to fair pay and benefits?

• That in New York City, the cost of child care is increasing $1612 per year?

New York parents are invited to

speak out!

You may be tired . . . but we’re all sick and tired of politicians who talk about family values but don’t value our families.

Old First Reformed Church
729 Carroll Street
(corner of 7th Ave.)
Monday March 14th, 2011
5:30pm-7:30pm

Join other parents to let our public officials know that supporting families is good for workers, good for business, and good for our economy.

Release of “Failing our Families,” a new report from Human Rights Watch, Presentation of A Better Balance’s Working Families Bill of Rights, speak out moderated by Ann Crittenden—author of The Price of Motherhood, and information on campaigns around paid leave that are going on right now.

Bring your kids and join us for free pizza and political action!

Please RSVP by visiting A Better Balance’s events page on Facebook or by sending an email to ABBevents [at] gmail.com

Sponsored by: A Better Balance, Human Rights Watch, and the New York State Paid Family Leave Coalition

Co-Sponsors: Center for Children’s Initiatives, Park Slope Parents, Public Health Association of New York City, Restaurant Opportunities Center of New York, Women of Color Policy Network, The What to Expect Foundation, Working Families Party, NYC Dad’s Group, National Physicians Alliance - NY

The Boss of Me

2011-03-02T05:11:00.000-08:00

We have been brushing Baby's teeth in the evening after the bath for many months now. At first my husband and I would hold Baby up so that he could see the mirror and sing a song (a singable song for the very young) while one of us brushed the two or three teeth to Baby's name. Eventually, the song got old, and Baby asserted some independence - taking the toothbrush and doing the work on his own. Nowadays, the routine has morphed into an occasional mini-battle that ends with the toothbrush thrown on the floor to let us know exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.

This evening, before the mini-battle could begin, I thought I would try letting Baby brush his own teeth while standing on his own - which is how he brushes his teeth in the mornings with a high success rate. I brought the toothbrush down to him while he stood in his yellow duck towel. He spent the next minute or two using the wrong end of the toothbrush in his mouth in what seems to be his budding comedy career.

So, I thought it might help if I brushed my teeth while he brushed his - which is how the morning routine works with that aforementioned "high success rate." I grabbed my own toothbrush and started brushing. He kept reaching for my brush. I kept saying, "this is Momma's toothbrush - that is [Baby's] toothbrush." Baby still grabbed for my toothbrush. Eventually, I acquiesced . . . which led to Baby brushing my teeth with my toothbrush while I brushed his with his toothbrush. Just in case I was wondering exactly who is the Boss Baby around here.

How to Ask Your Mother Rude Questions: newyorker.com

2011-02-12T17:04:00.000-08:00

Well, if you can pick up a copy of this week's New Yorker, or if you want to subscribe online, then I recommend without reservation Tina Fey's piece about working motherhood. It is smart and funny - i.e., par for her course. Enjoy!

Cognitive Dissonance And Pre-School: Part One

2011-02-02T10:29:00.000-08:00

Recently, I learned a bit about cognitive dissonance and self-justification, and I could go on for many, many posts about examples of both in my life, but here I focus on pre-school.

Pre-school?

Did you, or did you not, write recently about your child's first birthday?

Do you, or do you not, still refer to your child as "Baby" on this blog?

Yes.

Yes, I did.

And, for as long as I can, yes, I do.

But I live in New York, and pre-school is a Thing here. It is exciting and wonderful, but it also requires research, tours, applications, at least one (albeit very brief) expository writing sample, and a deep, deep reserve of patience.

Here is the dissonance:

I have an image of myself as a woman who speaks truth to power, who is more artist than pragmatist, who thinks that she is above any competitive aspect of New York Parenthood.

Yet here I am: an attorney who represents the powerful more often than those most in need, who has not gone to a dance class since I was pregnant, and who found herself falling in love with a preschool where, by mid-December, 185 families had already submitted applications for approximately twenty-five spots.

I have been on four tours so far.

My first tour was at PreSchool ABC, and I loved it. It is welcoming; the teachers have been there for a very long time; it is in a nearby neighborhood; it follows a certain school of thought about kids learning best when they choose their activities. I submitted an application because even though my chances are absolutely tiny, there would be no chance that Baby could attend if I had not submitted an application.

My second tour was at PreSchool RAD, and I really liked it... But it bears noting that about fifteen minutes after I started the tour, I couldn't help but think that the head of the school is the type of adult who uses the word "rad." Thirty minutes later, she proved me right.

My third tour was at PreSchool BK, and I did not like it. It is not conveniently located; the facilities are very small; they have no outdoor space; they staff classrooms using the minimum number required by the Department of Health; they combine 2s and 3s in one class. These things are all fine... but not worth it to me.

My fourth tour was at PreSchool LUV, and I liked it. It helps that I was, by chance, on the tour with a mom and dad that I already know and like from the neighborhood. It also really helps that the school is around the corner from my apartment. The head of the school seems loving and thoughtful. Oh . . . and, relevant or not to the early education of Baby, she had me at "I moved to New York when I went to NYU to get my Ph.D. in dance . . ."

Where will Baby go? Still unclear. The competitive schools with limited spots will let me know in early March how Baby fits onto the waiting list. The uber-competitive schools that require interviews of babies were already done accepting applications by the time I started looking, so at least there will be no outright rejections. Except for maybe one. There is one awesome school that is starting a 2s program soon . . . there may be an interview; I may subject Baby to the experience; and we may be rejected.

To be continued . . .

Family Values

2011-01-25T19:29:00.000-08:00

There has been a lot of talk lately about types of mothers. Are you a Tiger Mother? A Western Mother? A Wimp Mother? All of the talk, the criticism of mothering-types, and the declarations of values led me to wonder where I fit on the spectrum. What values am I imparting - consciously or unwittingly?

At the beginning of the process, I have to admit that I wondered whether I actually had any values to articulate. Frequently, especially at the beginning, I felt like I was not making values-based decisions but was just getting by. (See e.g., I describe myself as a momma in training -- not a woman in charge -- and certainly not a woman with a clear set of values guiding my parenting decisions). Then I realized that I had spent a lot of time thinking about my motherhood through the lens of my childhood. My own feelings about what I liked (and probably more about what I didn't like) about growing up informed a very substantial part of my approach to parenting. Last, and on a less myopic note, I looked to friends' choices and the advice I could read in the limitless variety of parenting books, magazines, and - yes - blogs.

When I told my husband about this post and my values-evaluation, he told me that the following are his sources for his parenting values [and I believe that they are in order of importance]:

Ninja movies;
Survival shows [e.g., Man vs. Wild]; and
America's Test Kitchen.

So we have all that going for us, which is nice.

thank you

2011-01-05T18:31:00.000-08:00

Baby woke up too early for us one morning last week. We pulled him into our bed hoping to lull him back to sleep with a spell cast by our own exhaustion. Baby was not lulled, he was ready to play. We tried to ignore him. We tried to snuggle him into quiet-time. Soon Baby had his head on my belly and his feet on my husband's belly. Then I heard a little voice in the dark: Baby saying his version of "thank you." Over and over again. I know his understanding of those words is rudimentary, but I like to think that Baby was thanking us in advance for waking up and playing with him before the sun was officially above the horizon. So you're welcome, Baby. You are always welcome, my little goofball.

It's What's For Dinner

2010-12-16T16:46:00.000-08:00

For the first few months of Baby's adventures in solid foods, he refused bananas consistently until my husband and I finally decided that Baby, unlike most babies, did not like bananas. In the last few weeks, as if to make up for lost time, when Baby sees a banana in the fruit basket, he points at it with an unparalleled adamancy.

Two nights ago, I came home to see my husband feeding Baby dinner. Baby had not wanted soup. He had not been interested in turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, or carrots. He had, instead, chosen a banana for dinner. When I sat down to join Baby and my husband, Baby had already eaten an entire banana.

But there was still one banana left in the fruit basket. He pointed. I peeled. And that was dinner. Two bananas.

Resilience

2010-12-05T16:32:00.000-08:00

I swear I have been trying to come up with at least one potentially fun and witty post . . . but then . . .

Baby got sick on Tuesday night. He called out for us, I went in, and as soon as I got to him, the poor thing puked. Repeat twice. We ran out of sheets and crib liners, at which point I said I would just sleep with Baby on the couch in his room. But sleeping with Baby is, to coin a phrase, like sleeping with a baby elephant, and that couch is small. So I put Baby on a blanket on the floor, hoping he would not puke again, while I got rid of the couch cushions, pulled out the sofa bed, and got us some covers. Baby and I snuggled down. He proceeded to flop around like a confused baby elephant, and an hour later he finally fell asleep. Baby woke up, flopped, then puked around 7 a.m.. He did it again after half of his oatmeal breakfast. Then, all was clear through his toast and apple juice lunch and after his nap. Around 4 p.m., the worst of an awful, gusty, rainy day was over, and we both needed some fresh air. I took Baby down to a coffee shop where I had some tea and a cookie while he pointed at everything in sight. I was almost done with my cookie when he puked again. I jumped up, grabbed a stack of napkins about four inches thick, and tried to clean up Baby, his shirt, and the sleeping-bag-type-thing that keeps him warm in his stroller. I did my best, but I still felt embarrassed in the elevator up to our apartment with a nice couple who must have smelled a not very nice smell coming from the afore-mentioned sleeping-bag-type-thing.

I should note that Baby (perhaps like all babies) is resilient in a way that puts me to shame. His expression is so small and sad when he gets sick, but within minutes he is pointing at something else and smiling. Seriously - smiling.

Over the next couple of days, Baby slowly but surely stopped puking and started taking more substantive food than toast.

My husband got sick on Friday night. He had a fever and felt sick to his stomach. Then he came to the bathroom just as Baby finished his bath routine, and he puked. He has not been feeling well since then (though he is better than he was on Friday and Saturday).

I have no kernel of wisdom from this experience to share here. I am, very simply, very tired (and wondering if - or when - I will get sick, too).

Just when you thought . . .

2010-11-28T16:47:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was thinking about the state of my mommahood and noticed that the challenges have changed as Baby makes his way to The Great State of Toddlerhood. I even had the nerve to say out loud to my husband, "I think that my biggest challenge right now is walking the line between giving [Baby] gentle nudges to try new things and making sure I do not push him too far out of his comfort zone." Implicit in this statement is my ridiculous assumption that the earlier challenges of spit up catastrophes, poop explosions, and sleepless (days and) nights were all distant "memories" (i.e., "blog posts" because Mother Nature has been kind enough to give me amnesia about the early wilds of living with a newborn). Baby - again - proved me wrong.

It was a weekday morning. All was well. We were in the middle of the routine. Oatmeal, apple sauce, a scrambled egg. Done. Then a little fuss and cranky-face I like to call, "Get me out of this high chair before I come at you like a spider monkey." Down you go, Baby. Then his morning constitutional, and it's off to the changing table. I open the diaper and am on wipe number forty-two when Baby decides he is done with this part of the morning. He starts to kick his legs. One of his legs gets right into the good stuff and then smears it everywhere. As I try to use wipes to mitigate the situation, Baby's legs continue to smear while he reaches down to see what all the fuss is about. Casualties: changing pad cover, changing pad liner, PJs, Baby's hands and legs and belly, my own hands. A morning bath never seemed more appropriate.

Lesson learned, Baby. I promise not to get ahead of myself (or you) next time I think about the state of our momma/baby-hood.

Calling All Mommas!

2010-11-11T18:25:00.000-08:00

Do you have a Mother's Day tradition that you are carrying on with your own Babies?

If so, please share your stories. Tricia Romano is writing a piece on these traditions for a major women's mag and wants to hear from you!

Send your traditions/stories to tricia @ triciaromano dot com.

The Tickle Monster: part book review, part regular old post

2010-10-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

Baby received a very nice birthday present today: a book (The Tickle Monster), which comes with a pair of tickle gloves. The gloves are shaped like big, furry, cartoon hands with holes for your fingers (for ease of tickling, of course). I read the book to Baby while my husband wore the gloves and tickled Baby at the appropriate moments in the storytelling.

Baby loved it. He loved it so much that as soon as I finished the story and closed the book, he demanded a second read - immediately.

(Many thanks to our pals in Oregon who provided the vehicle for the joy tonight.)

Sleeping With A Baby Elephant

2010-10-20T18:10:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, two nights before his birthday, Baby started waking up at night and crying, and he has continued to do so off and on since then. We have gone to him almost every time. One night, after about a week of his new (old) routine, we let Baby cry it out. It felt about as awesome as it did the first time we "sleep trained" him (i.e., he and I both cried it out that night). Every other time he has cried in the night, we have gone to him, and he ends up sleeping on one of our chests or between us in our bed. (One morning, my husband looked across a sprawled-out Baby and said, "Sleeping with him is like sleeping with a baby elephant.")

He has not needed this level of cuddling and closeness since he was about two and a half weeks old, and I have been left wondering what kicked off this nighttime-neediness. Did he miss the comfort of nursing? Was he cold? Was he getting a cold? Was that quick trip to New Hampshire throwing him for a loop? Was returning from that trip throwing him from a loop? Is he regressing? Is this what would happen if Separation Anxiety combined with Day-Night Confusion?

I read recently that kids grow and learn in a way that looks more like a spiral than like a straight line heading up and out (which sounds familiar . . . the old, "one step forward, two steps backward" theory). Apparently, there is not only comfort but also developmental value in going "back" (for both the kids and the parents). So now, instead of judging myself for indulging Baby [and my own selfish desire to hold onto my baby as he transitions to toddler-hood], I will [try to] accept that I live life on The Spiral.

Post-Bedtime Glass of Wine Demographic

2010-10-05T16:51:00.000-07:00

In an article I read about the woman who started net a porter.com, she noted that there was an obvious uptick in sales around 8 - 9 p.m. in time zones around the world. Her explanation? The post-bedtime glass of wine.

Just now, I put Baby to bed and walked into the kitchen where my husband was making dinner. Exhausted, I asked if I could just veg out on the couch while he continued without me. No problem, of course. I turned on E! for the comfort of meaningless babble and a little fashion schadenfreude. What were the first two commercials I saw within five minutes of turning on the television?

One: Weebles for preschoolers.

Two: microwaveable brownies.

Apparently the woman at net a porter is not the only one who knows about the post-bedtime glass of wine demographic.

With kids, the days are long, but the years are short.

2010-09-29T17:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Baby's first birthday, and it was a long day.

At 8:00 a.m., Baby was standing on the changing table (yes, standing), naked as the day he was born (ha!), and refusing to slow down for a clean diaper or any day time clothes.

At 8:01 a.m., Baby peed. Still standing, still naked.

By 8:20 a.m., Baby was dressed in a very cute birthday outfit (thanks to my grandmother for the awesome striped onesie... Baby looked like an adorable baby bumblebee, which completely made up for my pee-soaked shirt).

By 10:30 a.m., I was leading a conference call. Perhaps "leading" is too strong... I was trudging through the mud of the call and waving my arms frantically at the other participants as if to say, "Over here, guys! Oh hey... I'm over here!!"

Then it was 6 p.m., and I was in my office crying because I did not think I was going to make it out in time to see Baby before he went to sleep. About fifteen minutes later, I had the following internal monologue:

Even if I left now, I would only get to see Baby for his sleepiest five minutes, and he will not care one way or another if he sees me for those five minutes.

What am I thinking?

Isn't that how the distance grows between a baby and his Momma In Training? And this isn't any old Wednesday night. This is Baby's first birthday. And that is a big deal.

Baby may not know it is his birthday, but I certainly do, so why am I here? Is there a brief due tonight? Is there a client emergency? Is someone threatening my job if I don't stay? No. No. And, no. Someone called me at 6 p.m. with two questions and said that she wanted the answers tonight.

This is ridiculous.

I am going to take my work with me, get in a cab, and go home right now. I will work in the car, and I will work at home after I see Baby. My answer can be delayed by fifteen minutes, which is probably the only time I am going to get before he goes to sleep anyway.

And I did.

I got home in time to find Baby standing in the bath. (Yes, standing. That is his current modus operandi.) All ten minutes of my time with him before bed were wonderful and worth it.

So that was the long day. The year, on the other hand, has gone way too fast.

He was born. He only slept on our chests or snuggled in right next to us. He spent all day every day with me. He found his hands and feet. He smiled. He swiped and batted at things. He kicked and kicked and kicked. He put his hands in his mouth - constantly. He laughed. He put his feet in his mouth - constantly. He took two naps a day - sometimes three. He rolled. He only took naps in his swing. He sat up. He babbled. He spent five days a week with Nanny. He ate solid food. He spent four days a week for a few weeks at DayCare. He took naps and slept through the night in his crib. He spent four days a week with Nanny. He got some teeth. He waved. He clapped. He brushed his teeth. He crawled. He said "mama." He said "dada" and "dadadadada." He went in the swing at the playground. He opened and shut doors. He played peek-a-boo. He pulled himself to standing. He stopped taking his morning nap. He called everything "da." He cruised. He pushed his stroller. He had no time for snuggling except in the mornings and night with delicious almond milk. He nodded his head yes, eyebrows raised, with a sneaky smile. He pointed at everything. He got even more teeth. He reached out to me with both arms.

I love you, little bug. Happy Birthday.

Cupcake Time

2010-09-25T17:27:00.000-07:00

Today was Baby's First Birthday Party, and it was amazing. We met up with friends and family in the park. There were balloons, toys, sidewalk chalk drawings, cider, cookies, cupcakes, mac&cheese, and smokey greens. Today - September 25 - it was sunny and 82 degrees. The whole day was amazing from the clear blue, sunny sky to the group of loved (and loving - so, so loving) ones celebrating with us to the reason for the celebration itself. What else was amazing? Hmmmm, let's see... maybe it was watching Baby eat his first cupcake. I think I can break it down into the following three steps:

1. Upon presentation of cupcake, plant face on top of cupcake and vacuum up ninety percent of the frosting;

2. Wait the forever amount of time (i.e., four seconds) that it takes Momma-In-Training to remove the cupcake liner, and put one-half of the cupcake into mouth -- if and when that half of the cupcake does not fit in mouth, use hand to keep cupcake from falling out, chew what fits in mouth, simultaneously push the rest of the cupcake into mouth;

3. Second half into mouth - scooping crumbs up while chewing.

Steps One through Three lasted about four minutes and surprised every single person at the party. It was like Baby got a secret message from other babies letting him in on the joy of cupcakes. Or, perhaps more accurately, Baby remembered his very regular supply of cupcakes In Belly and already knew the joy of cupcakes and had been waiting over a year for me to get him one already. Whatever it was, it was amazing and a true joy.

COMMUNITY NEWS - More Yoga!

2010-09-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

I received the announcement below earlier this week -- my apologies for failing to get this up until tonight. (in swamp of work lately... oh, and, Baby's First Birthday Party is tomorrow... )

NEW TO KIDS YOGA?

LOOKING FOR A GREAT AFTERSCHOOL ACTIVITY THIS FALL?

CHECK OUT BIJA KIDS YOGA CLASSES FOR FREE!

We are offering 2 free Bija Kids Down Dog classes this week for 3 - 8 year olds

THURSDAY 9/23 in DUMBO

Pomme

81 Washington St (@ Front)

4PM - 4:45PM

TUESDAY 9/28 in PARK SLOPE

Ellie Herman Annex

463 4th Street (btwn 7th and 8th)

3:30PM - 4:15PM

Down Dog Classes introduce kids to the practice of yoga. Yoga poses and principles are explored in a variety of fun ways and nature, basic anatomy and imagination are all key aspects of the class. Students are encouraged to explore the ways their bodies move through creative projects, collaboration, storytime, and songs. Chanting, breathing exercises and simple mediation techniques relax the mind. Practitioners are empowered to use yoga anytime they want to calm down, find more focus and express themselves positively. No yoga experience necessary.

please email yoga@bijakids.com in advance to hold your spot. space is limited!!!!

VIEW OUR ENTIRE FALL SCHEDULE ONLINE AT www.bijakids.com/schedule.html

COMMUNITY NEWS - Yoga!

2010-09-01T17:35:00.001-07:00

I received the following press release this week (take note future yoginis and yogis!)...

BIJA KIDS EXPANDING INTO MORE SCHOOLS AND YOGA STUDIOS

Popular children’s yoga program a hit in Brooklyn

BROOKLYN, NY – In its sixth year, Bija Kids, the highly acclaimed Brooklyn-based children’s yoga company, is adding several new programs to meet exceptional demand from area schools, parents, and children.

This fall, Bija Kids will expand to five Brooklyn yoga studios open to the public. Plus, it will enter more classrooms than ever before – 12 schools will have its yoga classes as part of their school-day curriculum or after-school programs. In addition, Bija Kids still offers free or sometimes paid special events throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan.

On Sept. 12, Bija Kids will host a free day of classes at its new Clinton Hill location. All ages are welcome.

Since Bija Kids’ founding in 2005, about 500 kids have participated in its classes at yoga studios, schools, special events, or birthday parties. Levels range from those who can crawl up to nine years old. Its philosophy is based on the idea that all seeds – or bija in Sanskrit – have the ability to flourish with proper care and nurturing.

"I am incredibly pleased by the response that we've had from kids, parents and school directors alike to the benefits of our yoga program,” says Bija Kids founder Lauren Maples. “I started planting these seeds five years ago and the response has been amazing. We are growing rapidly to meet the demand of all those interested in the tools we have to offer."

As it grows, Bija Kids is looking for more teachers. It currently has eight, and an additional 25 people have gone through its teacher training program. Maples says this is a segment of the yoga teaching market that is not oversaturated, unlike the adult side. The opportunities for new Bija instructors are many and rewarding. The next Teacher Training takes place October 2 and 3 with mentorship opportunities available with Maples scheduled based on trainee availability.

Bija Kids is unveiling a variety of new classes this fall. One such class, Yoga Playgroup, provides preschool children, with their parents present, a way into yoga in a classroom setting. Also, for the first time, Bija Kids will offer a number of school-year workshops on holidays when school is not in session.

Through Bija’s yoga classes, Maples says, children learn discipline, focus, strength, and techniques for dealing with stress. They also build the foundation for a healthy, peaceful and happy life.

“In this day and age when kids are generally over scheduled, over programmed and plain overwhelmed, offering them the powerful benefits of a yoga practice just seems natural to me,” Maples says.

For more information on Bija Kids’ classes, teacher training, and history, please visit www.bijakids.com.

BOOK REVIEW - The Very Busy Spider

2010-08-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

The Very Busy Spider, by Eric Carle

I enjoy this book, Baby enjoys this book, but my husband has some trouble with the protagonist - that very busy spider. As she spins her web, several farm yard animals stop by and invite her to join in their favorite activities. Does she join?

SPOILER ALERT!!!!!

No. She is very busy (doing what spiders do best).

I see the spider's determination and focus. My husband sees a recluse who ignores offers of friendship and instead favors her own, solitary tasks. He sees her putting her work before her friends, and he disapproves. I see a book with great illustrations and a series of animals that provide the opportunity to work on each of my animal voices. For example, I am currently working on making my sheep voice distinct from my goat voice.

Nourishing Mother

2010-08-28T12:43:00.000-07:00

The three of us went to Kenyon for a wedding a couple of weeks ago. The morning after the wedding, we were up early - of course - and on the hunt for breakfast - of course. The inn where we stayed did not serve anything until 10 or 11... so we put Baby in the stroller and began our trek around Gambier, Ohio to find nourishment. The local coffee shop was closed; no students yet, so no coffee on weekends. The Deli was closed. The Market was closed. The bookstore looked so different from when we were there as students that my husband and I assumed we would not find any bagels in there either.

We went back to the lobby of the inn to re-group.
A man sitting there with his coffee and newspaper mentioned that his daughter had told him that he would be able to find bagels at the bookstore. We explained that, although you could - and we did - get bagels at the bookstore a long time ago, we just could not see how it was possible in the newly remodeled version. Soon enough we found ourselves explaining that we had graduated from Kenyon ten years ago, and the man found himself explaining that his daughter was about to start her first year. She was there for a pre-orientation week for writers. He told us how she had applied early-decision, and that she had been accepted. He described - with admiration - of course - the stained glass windows that illustrate great works of literature in Peirce's Great Hall.

We crossed paths again in the parking lot of the inn not much later that morning. He had a bagel in hand, from the bookstore no less, and his wife was with him in her Kenyon fleece vest. After formally introducing ourselves to each other, they went on their way, and we went on ours.

A great deal has changed since I was a student at Kenyon. The little house with the dance studio sits on top of a hill overlooking an enormous, new athletic center at the bottom of the hill, where there are multiple dance studios (presumably with better floors and fewer spiders). The bookstore moved its bagels. My boyfriend from my sophomore year became the man I married four years ago. Baby.

After we got our bagels from the bookstore, we walked to the Gates of Hell, propped up the camera, and stood on Middle Path for our (first?) family portrait at Kenyon. When I looked at the picture as we walked back to the inn, it hit me - all of it - all fourteen years leading to standing there with my husband and Baby - and my eyes filled with tears. That Kenyon heart sure beats strong.

COMMUNITY NEWS: After-school art program

2010-08-21T04:14:00.000-07:00

A new after-school art program for 7-11 year olds starts this fall at the Old Stone House in JJ Byrne Park in Park Slope: Art in the House! The program will use the American Revolution, colonial life, and the Park Slope/Brooklyn community as a springboard for "fun and funky hands-on art activities."

Kids in the program will work on painting, print-making, sculptures, and a weekly group mural. The last day of the program will be an art opening party for family and friends.

I am a fan of the arts, and my husband (the history teacher) is excited about using history as inspiration for kids' art... so please check it out!

Also, stay tuned for arts-related posts...

(yesterday, Baby ate some chalk at the playground, which is a start if nothing else)

Seeking The Joy

2010-08-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

When my husband was growing up, he went to summer camp and then became a leader at that camp. One of the traditions at Camp Belknap is lighting the lamp of love. One of the rays from this lamp of love is the instruction to be joyful - specifically, to seek the joy of being alive.

At our wedding, we lit the lamp of love (of course). Later, one of our favorite wedding presents came from a former Belknap leader: two hammers, one for each of us, with handles that were engraved with the reminder to "Seek the Joy."

It is not always easy to remember to seek the joy of being alive. In fact, it is often much easier to feel as if joys and sorrows come to each of us regardless of whether or not we seek them. But, as he often does, Baby recently reminded me that seeking the joy is a much better way to live.

Baby learned to wave a little while ago, and when he did it was his favorite activity for the next few days. He would wave to us at dinner. He would wave to us in the bath. He would wave to himself while he rode in his stroller. And, one night, on his way to sleep, eyes closed, fully relaxed, he waved to nothing in particular. He was - very simply - seeking the joy.

BREAKING NEWS... and Update

2010-08-02T16:16:00.000-07:00

Fire and huge amounts of smoke pouring out of building near Waverly and Myrtle...

Waverly between Myrtle and Willoughby is already closed off with a fire truck and two police cars on one end (the Willoughby end).

Hoping that no one was hurt...

UPDATE:

From the Myrtle Ave blog, and The Local, it seems the fire was on the roof of a building near Myrtle and Waverly, and that there were no serious injuries.

RED JACKET ORCHARDS CSA - Carroll Gardens and East Village Pick-Up!

2010-08-01T17:18:00.000-07:00

I just received the following tip about a CSA with pick-ups in Carroll Gardens and the East Village...

Interested in getting farm fresh fruit at an affordable price? Would you like to support a local, family farm? These are two great reasons to sign up for a CSA! Through a CSA (Community Supported Agriculture), members pay a farm up front for share of produce that they can pick up from a distribution location once a week. The price they pay for this share is cheaper than purchasing the same quality of produce at a grocery store or farmers' market. At the same time, a CSA ensures a certain amount of revenue for the farm. By joining a CSA, members can also familiarize themselves with their farmer: they can learn more about how their food is grown and who grows it.

Though most vegetable CSAs are sold out in the city, you now have an opportunity to sign up for something completely new - a fruit CSA! The Red Jacket Orchards Fruit CSA will provide members with weekly shares of farm-fresh fruit from August - November. Fruit CSA shares in the city are currently additional product shares of vegetable CSAs - you must be a member of a vegetable CSA to partake in the fruit share; this is not the case for the Red Jacket Orchards Fruit CSA, who is completely independent of any vegetable CSA. The Red Jacket Orchards Fruit CSA shares will have a variety of fruits grown on their orchards in upstate NY, such as peaches, plums, pears, apples, and grapes. In addition to fruits, members will receive apple sauces, jams, and fruit juices.

The Red Jacket Orchards CSA will have two distribution locations, which are listed below. Full and half shares are available. Full shares are priced at $22 per week and half shares are $13 per week. Membership applications should be sent in by August 5th. To see a sample share list and for more information on how to sign up, visit http://redjacketorchardscsa.wordpress.com/about/ or e-mail redjacketorchardscsa@gmail.com.

Distribution Locations:
1. Brooklyn Farmacy and Soda Fountain
513 Henry Street, Brooklyn (Carroll Gardens)
Corner of Henry Street and Sackett Street
Tuesdays, August 10 – November 9 from 4:00pm – 6:45pm

2. Jimmy’s No.43
43 E. 7th Street, Manhattan (East Village)
Corner of 7th Street and 2nd Ave
Saturdays, August 14 – November 13 from 12:30pm – 3:30pm

Sand in the Place Where You Are

2010-07-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

On July 1, we picked up my husband's youngest brother on the corner of Flatbush and Myrtle at 8:05 a.m.. Nearly eight hours later, we arrived at Camp, my husband's family's cottage on a lake in Maine.

My husband and his three brothers spent their summers at Camp as boys (yes - he is one of four boys - this might be a good time to raise your glass to his parents and their tireless efforts at parenting). During those summers, they spent most of their days catching frogs and snakes and getting into all sorts of secret mischief with the other kids around the lake. Every Fifth of July, they would scour the lake for the remains of the fireworks from the night before. They would compete to see who could find not only the most but also the best dead fireworks (apparently, multi-shot cakes were the "best" and Roman Candles were a close second). The winner's prize was a simple but very real pleasure - pride.

It is probably fair to write that both my husband and I expected that Baby would love Camp and the beach and the lake and the general relief of being out of the city (at least temporarily). Baby corrected us - yet again.
As soon as my husband parked the car, he brought Baby down to the beach and set him down to stand in the sand by the water. Our little CityBaby looked up at us as if we had landed on Mars and were thinking about setting up a space colony with Baby as our Satellite Beach Commander. Then Baby started to breathe quick little inhalations as if the air around him could disappear at any second. I scooped him up, and we decided to try the beach experience the next day.

How do we help our children conquer their fears?

I am afraid of sharks. When I went scuba diving with my husband on our honeymoon, I tried to ignore my fear in favor of the fun he and I could have together. Scuba Instructor Gilles did not help matters, though, when he pointed out the name of the boat and made a joke that referenced Open Water.

On our first dive that morning, the group was swimming along happily looking at fish. The dive leader turned to the group and put his hand on top of his head as if it were a fin (the international underwater sign for "shark"). I stopped swimming. The group continued. Jokes McGilles turned back and motioned for me to continue. He even seemed to be smiling - as if I would want to see the shark. I was upright, treading water, and I shook my head no. No, I would not swim past the shark. No, no, and no thank you. About one second later, I realized that I could either swim past the shark with the group, or I could stay behind alone, where an even bigger shark could swim past me. It bears repeating: alone.

So I acquiesced and swam forward to join the group. On my way, I swam past the shark. It was a nurse shark [hiding] head first in a reef. Honestly, not much to fear. I should have been much more concerned later when we swam past a group of barracudas (the underwater signal for which looks like a fist chewing on something). But I was so worried about a rogue, jaw-chomping mega-shark coming to get us, I had very little energy to devote to The Barracuda. Distraction can be a great substitute for bravery.

As such, by the sixth day at Camp, we decided to distract Baby. We put a toy he was obsessing with near the water, and he eventually moved toward it and disregarded sand under his feet and the lake lapping at his toes. Then I carried Baby with me into the lake. My husband and I started to sing silly songs while I moved into deeper and deeper water. Eventually, Baby was in up to his belly. Project Goofy Distraction was a success. Baby was even willing to get into a Floating Baby Cabana while my husband and I swam around him.

I know that Baby will face other fears and worries as he grows, and I know (sadly) that singing Down By the Bay while I bounce him in and out of his fear might not always do the trick. But make no mistake, that won't stop me from trying.

Random Family

2010-06-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

A good friend recommended repeatedly (and over the course of several years) that I read Random Family, by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, and I finally did this spring. My husband, who read the book last fall, warned that I might not want to read Random Family during my commute because so much of the material can be heartbreaking. I ignored my husband's advice and plowed straight ahead. While I was waiting for the R train to take me home a few weeks ago, I finished reading it, and there I was, on the platform at Rector Street, finishing Random Family and starting to cry.

Apparently, my husband was right. But the reason my eyes welled with tears that day was that LeBlanc had done something truly amazing at the end of her book -- she gave her readers the gift of a happy ending. Random Family follows the lives of two women for eleven years through their multiple teenaged pregnancies, their varied relationships with men and with the criminal justice system, and - most importantly - their even more varied relationships with the members of their families. After having chronicled an eleven-year series of substantial parent-to-child disappointments, in the end, LeBlanc gives us a brief scene of joy and love between a father and his daughter.

In the ordered and comfortable world of baby books, mommy blogs, and parenting education, the starting point is always a celebration of the relationship between parent and child with the underlying assumption that each of us is the best parent for his or her baby. But can that simple notion withstand complex circumstances? Is a teenaged mom who goes out to clubs, bribing her own mother to watch her small children in exchange for cocaine, the best mom for her baby? The answer is yes. Heartbreakingly, yes. There are many lessons from Random Family, but the one that has serious lasting power for me is that no matter who you are or what you do, your baby will still need your love and support more than anything in the world. And so it will be my life's work to remember that fact and to honor it.

Attack of the Wiggle Monster

2010-06-23T17:16:00.000-07:00

Baby is officially a Wiggle Monster.

Pros:

Baby is curious.
Baby has an adventurous spirit - ready to explore the world.
Baby is getting strong enough to get himself around, which means he really wants to get himself around (an amazing positive cycle that builds confidence and independence).

Cons:

Bath-time has morphed into: "Oh, [Baby] look at this awesome ____ [insert: frog, penguin, duck, puffer fish, turtle, star]!" "Ummmm, [Baby], try to enjoy the bath while you are sitting down . . ." "[Baby], please do not try to climb ____ [insert: out of the bath, up the wall of the tub, onto the soap dish]."
Diaper changes are starting to resemble putting a diaper on a rotisserie chicken -- if said chicken had wiggly arms and legs and let out great sounds of frustration and irritation with said attempt to put said diaper on said chicken.
Changing Baby's clothes is a process that sometimes involves two people, or, at the very least, it involves several moments of pause while Baby flips over, gets on his hands and knees, and rocks back and forth in what appears to be an attempt to launch himself off of the changing table and out into the World, where he is obviously meant to be, clothes or no clothes, Momma.

Tonight, after the bath (See, Con #1), I brought Baby to his room to get him ready for bed (See, Cons #2-#3), and an epic wiggle battle ensued. Baby rotated on his own axis at least three times while I tried to fasten his first diaper. Yes, first diaper. One of the tabs on the first diaper broke free from the rest of the diaper, which resulted in more rotating, more wiggling, and - oh, yes - a prolonged diaper experience.

By the time Baby and I were working on his PJs, I found my mind wandering. I flashed to my adventures in Kruger where I tracked lions on foot, stood several yards from a rhino, and walked through a herd of water buffalo. [To be clear, water buffalo are no joke.] If I could handle those wild animals, surely I can handle a Wiggle Monster.

But here's my question: If, during a mere diaper and clothing change, I summon the inner-strength it took to face lions, rhinos, and water buffalo, what when Baby becomes Toddler and delivers his first (and second, and third) . . . temper tantrum?

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T16:48:00.000-07:00

Happy Father's Day to all the dads -- may the giggles and shouts of laughter be extra loud today!

A Morning in the Life

2010-05-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

We are currently at the mid-point in the morning, and this morning has involved almost the entire spectrum of Baby's moods and feelings. The morning kicked off with some good, old-fashioned Floor Time during which Baby enjoyed rolling, scooching, and inching . . . until he didn't. Then, Baby and I made ourselves half-way presentable for the outside world and headed out to the corner coffee shop. Baby was calm and happy. He sucked his thumb while he carefully studied everyone he saw.

We came home. I asked a woman who had just lit her cigarette in the hallway on the ground floor to wait to do that until she gets outside next time. (How did that go over? Well . . . hmmm . . . not great. But before she could tell me what she really thought about my request, I got on the elevator up to our apartment. Unfriendly Neighbor Crisis averted.)

Back in the comfort of our apartment, Baby enjoyed some pureed squash for breakfast. He even smiled while he was eating it, which is his rarest (and therefore highest) form of praise for solid food. He drank three drops of juice, which is par for the course. He seemed sleepy, so we started the morning nap ritual. He fell asleep while I was nursing him, which is also par for the course.

Then he fussed and seemed to be protesting the nap when I left the room. I tried to let him soothe himself until his cry became a serious, all-out, get-in-here-momma-right-NOW-cry. Baby kept crying as I held him. He was dealing with what has become a not infrequent predicament. (I do not want to completely embarrass my almost eight-month old, so I will just note that this predicament started soon after solid foods, I tend to blame oatmeal and/or bananas and/or cooked carrots, and I have started giving him little bottles of diluted prune juice as an antidote.) After some major cuddling and a little back rub, he calmed down and his predicament had passed. (Try not to judge me for making poop puns... this is a mommy blog, not an issue of Harper's.)

Five minutes later, Baby was changed and playing his favorite game as if nothing had happened. He put a washcloth over his face while I repeated variations of, "Oh hey... where's my baby? Anyone seen [Baby]?!?" He squirmed and kicked with delight until he pulled the washcloth off of his face in triumph. And I mean triumph.

Soon, Baby and I were back in the living room where he decided he would, in fact, love some prune juice, "thankyouverymuch, Momma," and he drank an entire ounce of the good stuff. Then I read Corduroy while he ate the pages.

When it was time to try the morning nap again, I placed Baby in his crib with his monkey. For the next fifteen minutes, I could hear Baby telling monkey all sorts of wild sounding things. Now, all is quiet. Baby sleeps, and I feel like we have lived ten days in four hours.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T04:49:00.000-07:00

To all the Mommas In Training, may the smiles be big, the naps be long, the diapers change themselves, and may you be reminded all day that you are the best moms for your babies.

(Baby woke up at 4:45 this morning. I normally walk the cry-it-out-line before 6 a.m., but for whatever "reason" (a term I use loosely) I thought that Baby had had a bad dream - so in I went, and so the day began. May the naps be long today, people. May they be long!)

Night And Day Care

2010-05-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

Baby spent a month with Nanny because I went back to work one month before Baby was eligible to start Day Care. I am the first to admit that that month was peppered with challenges, most of which centered around my slow (and reluctant?) recognition that Baby and I could spend some of our days apart and he would still recognize me, enjoy my company, and not feel abandoned. I never worried about the quality of Baby's care, I was just jealous that I was not the one providing it.

Then Baby spent about four weeks at Day Care. I could go on and on about why Day Care was a bad fit for us. Instead, I will simply note, for the record, that it was a bad fit. During those four weeks, my insecurity about whether, as a family, we were happy with Day Care was rivaled only by the guilt associated with having chosen the wrong child care option. I felt like an idiot. Apparently, I was more likely to cross examine a cab driver about traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge than I was to discern what my baby's days would be like at Day Care. Had I been careless (careless!) about this decision?

Last week, we asked Nanny to come back permanently, and she agreed. When I opened the door to greet her on the first morning of her return, Baby smiled immediately and looked very happy to see her.

On the third morning after Nanny's return, Baby was suddenly a confident, easy little eater of solid foods. On the third full day of Day Care, I got a call to come retrieve my little dearheart because Day Care thought he had had too many big poops.

Now seems like a very good time to publicly acknowledge how thankful I am that we are in a position to work with a woman who is so kind, capable, and all around amazing. The woman who referred Nanny confided in me that she believes that Nanny is an angel. Nanny definitely manifests goodness, purity, and selflessness - and, perhaps even more importantly, she loves Baby and makes him happy. So... angel it is.

BOOK REVIEW - Jeremy Draws a Monster

2010-05-01T07:50:00.000-07:00

Jeremy Draws a Monster, by Peter McCarty

We have two Peter McCarty books right now, and Jeremy Draws a Monster is the current favorite. Jeremy is a little boy who stays in his room and draws - even when he can see other kids playing outside his window. One day Jeremy draws a monster who begins to rule Jeremy's life. The monster dictates a long list of necessities, which keep Jeremy inside drawing for him all day, and the monster even takes Jeremy's bed at night. The monster, who has the number "3" on his belly just as Jeremy has the number "3" on his tee shirt, easily could be Jeremy's fear of making friends. Will Jeremy let the monster rule his life forever?

SPOILER ALERT!!!

No. Jeremy is a crafty little guy who figures out exactly how to deal with his fear monster.

I Am 1/4 Danish: I Am Jealous Of Denmark's Parental Leave Policy.

2010-04-26T14:13:00.000-07:00

Today, I wore a suit, which means little more than that I finished getting dressed by having thrown on the jacket that actually matched my pants. I wore the suit because I had a meeting in a federal judge's chambers at noon to discuss a new pro bono program in which I had the opportunity to participate.

This morning, Baby cried the entire time I changed him into his "daytime clothes." His eyes were puffy, his nose was stuffy, his cough that will not go away was still not going away, and to top it all off, two of his teeth have been "erupting." Yes, erupting. Babies are born with all of their baby teeth - albeit inside their gums - so we cannot call this process an arrival. Instead, it is an eruption, a term that sounds almost violent, but trust me, the description is apt.

Despite Baby's discomfort, the two of us proceeded on course to Day Care. However, when we got off the bus, I realized that I could not see all of Baby at once. Somewhere in the lower right regions of my scope of vision, there was a void. So here it was. After three and a half months of a migraine-free life, here was my migraine. I decided to walk Baby to Day Care because he would be in better hands with people who could see. My vision deteriorated, a terrible zig zag line was flashing just right of center of my field of vision. I waited for the light to change so that I could cross Flatbush and was secretly worried about crossing a major avenue while the aura were in full effect, but I was so close to Day Care, I just wanted to hand Baby to someone who was capable.

By the time I got to Day Care and passed Baby to one of the young women who works there, I could barely see anything right of center. This kind of vision impairment is normally upsetting, but it felt about three thousand times worse when I tried to say goodbye to Baby without really being able to see his little face.

The aura seemed to have subsided by the time I got to the subway. I thought I could go to work, pump, maybe have a bagel, go to the meeting with the judge, and then head home to recover from the migraine. This thought was a foolish one.

On the subway, I closed my eyes until I got to the Wall Street stop. When I opened my eyes and stepped off of the train, the aura had returned. By the time I got to my office, the nausea was hitting me in full force. I must have looked like a nauseous little mole when I asked my secretary if I could talk to her in my office where I turned off the lights. Even though I really wanted to go to the meeting with the judge, I asked her to email the judge for me. I told her some phrases that could go in the email about vision impairment and sincere apologies. I cannot really remember because the nausea had enveloped me. Say a little prayer that my last minute cancellation was somehow professional and dignified (the chances of that are slim). I got in a cab and headed back to Brooklyn. The last five minutes of the ride were the worst, but I did manage to make it into my apartment before I vomited (no small feat).

I woke up this afternoon and saw the remnants of my crazy morning. The purse and keys that were left just inside the door because I had to run to the bathroom to be sick. The shoes just outside the bathroom door because apparently even when I am sick I hate to bring outside shoes all over the apartment. The suit crumpled on the bedroom floor because it was so obviously unnecessary anymore.

How Do U Want It

2010-04-24T06:39:00.000-07:00

The other morning, I dropped Baby at Day Care and caught the train to work. I stood mid-car and read my book. A woman sitting about three people to my left was casually singing along to whatever song was on her mp3-type player. There were long pauses between the lyrics that she knew. She caught my attention and the attention of others around her because this was not typical morning commute behavior, but in classic city style, attention caught was quickly released. We went back to what we were doing for several stops . . . until she started singing How Do U Want It, at which point I had to stifle a guffaw. A white woman wearing a scrunchy was singing along with Tupac while she was on a New York City subway. My conclusion? She has a very free spirit, and I mean very free.

BOOK REVIEW - Applesauce Season

2010-04-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

Applesauce Season, by Eden Ross Lipson and illustrated by Mordicai Gerstein

This book has been on high rotation since it came into our lives (thank you, generous extended family). It is less plot driven than some of our other books. Instead, this story is told by a little boy who lives in the city. His family has a weekly tradition - perpetuated by his spunky grandmother, of course - of making applesauce during applesauce season.

Three things about this book appeal to me: (1) the narrator is a cute city kid; (2) it underscores the value of family traditions; and (3) the subtext suggests eating local is eating right. The family gets their apples at the local farmers' market, and they make their applesauce according to the apples that are available each week.

So, for the locavores out there, you will enjoy reading this book with your little one(s) as a way of instilling and reinforcing your locavoracious values. For the rest of you, I imagine you will also enjoy reading this book simply because it is about a little boy joining a family tradition.

(N.B. The illustration of their farmers' market bears a striking resemblance to the green market in Union Square except that there appears to be room to run in the illustration. My experience at the Union Square Saturday Morning Food Hooplah has taught me to be patient because there is no room for turning around, let alone running.)

Thank You For Riding The MTA

2010-04-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

Last night, Baby woke up and announced his displeasure with his lingering cold at 10:00 p.m., 10:30 p.m., 1:00 a.m., 3:30 a.m., and 4:00 a.m.. In addition, as luck would have it, at 2:30 a.m., I heard the sound of a sad song by Sarah McLachlan blasting from the television of our upstairs neighbor. This morning, I woke up feeling a little worse for wear.

I packed for the day and realized I was going to need to carry three bags with me: (1) a bag for my work-issued laptop, which weighs at least thirty-four pounds; (2) my purse, which necessarily included bottles, pump accessories, a freezer pack, a wallet, and various gadgets; and (3) a bag for Baby, which included bottles, a freezer pack, a blanket, and two back-up outfits because the poor little guy pooped his way through everything he had at Day Care yesterday. As such, I could not imagine carrying all of those bags plus Baby in my carrier. I decided to take the stroller and the bus.

The bus arrived right on schedule, and it lowered to the sidewalk so that Baby, Stroller, and I could hop on. I thanked the bus driver and said good morning as I swiped my Metro Card. The bus driver, a man the size of three men who looked like an enormous bullfrog on a lily pad, responded by telling me to fold my stroller. I pretended that this was not the most ridiculous request I had ever heard, most notably because Baby was in the stroller, and I said that I would work on it when I got a seat.

Did I work on it when I got a seat? No. There were about three other passengers on the bus, and the stroller was not blocking the aisle.

Within about three more stops, I was looking out the window and watching some kids play soccer when I heard someone saying, "Miss? Miss? Miss!" By about the fourth "miss," I think I realized that The Bullfrog Magistrate of Lily Pad B69 was talking to me. I pretended to be very engrossed in that soccer game, but The Bullfrog Magistrate persisted. So I relented.

"Yes?" I ask from about the sixth row of the bus.

The Bullfrog Magistrate repeated his instructions. I was supposed to fold my stroller. He was clearly upset. He muttered that he had already asked me to fold the stroller.

"Oh . . . okay. I will see what I can do. Yep. Okay. Oh, I hear ya."

I made a pile of my three bags on the floor by my feet. I pulled Baby out of stroller and set him on my lap. I managed to fold the stroller - a stroller that requires two hands to fold - while I was holding Baby on a moving vehicle without damaging Baby, the stroller, or any of the other passengers (who number around seven at this point in the trip).

Two lessons here. First, The Bullfrog Magistrate lets the little stuff get to him. Second, I am a badass.

But I wonder, do any of you feel that strollers should always be folded on a bus? Do you think it depends on how crowded the bus is? Or do some of you feel that buses, like bars, are no place for strollers - folded or unfolded?

Big Day - Part Three: I Always Take 718 Calls

2010-04-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am trying to get to the subway, and I am being thwarted by the slowest group of tourists ever to walk past Ground Zero. I have said, "Excuse me," to try to get past them at least three times.

I repeat, "Excuse me."

"Excuse me!"

"Are you kidding me?" as I move past them (and by "move," I might mean push).

Five minutes ago, I was in my office pumping when I saw that my cell phone, sitting on top of my printer, was buzzing. I looked at the incoming call ID, and it was a "718" number. I always take "718" calls at work because Day Care is in Brooklyn, and because my husband works in Brooklyn. I turn off the pump.

"Hello?"

"Hello, [Momma-In-Training]?"

"Yes?"

"This is [one of the directors at Day Care]. [Baby] is fine, but . . ."

Pause. Probably just half of a second? A terrifying length of time.

" . . . but he has had three diapers that were filled with diarrhea today, and we call when there are three because there is a risk of dehydration. You may want to call your doctor for some [hydrating potion] . . ."

"I understand. I will be there in . . . "

"If you can get here within an hour, that will be just fine. [Baby] is in good spirits, but he should probably see a doctor."

"I will be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most."

I am on the train heading to Brooklyn. That kid's headphones are so loud. Why is he listening to such crap music? Is techno even music? I hope the woman standing next to me, humming her way through the subway ride, is getting off at this stop. I think I know which stop I am going to . . . I have never ridden to Day Care, only from Day Care. Am I right that this is the stop? I think that this is the stop.

"Hi!"

"Oh, hi. He is so tired this afternoon."

I look over and see Baby reclining in a portable baby seat, thumb in mouth, bottle under his other arm, gazing off into space. Baby sees me and smiles a dazed, toothless smile. I plop him in the stroller and pack up the million and two things (including several soiled outfits) we need to go. After we leave and turn the corner, I pull over on the sidewalk to check in on Baby. He is, indeed, in good spirits, and so mine lift as well.

Epilogue

Baby was fine and got the all-clear from his doctor. He did have a little bug, though, which brought on a fever, a cough, and an extraordinary amount of snot. Today he seems better.

Big Day - Part Two: Routines

2010-04-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

What do babies need (aside from food, shelter, clothing, and cuddles)? I have been informed - through myriad sources - that babies need routines. Routines purportedly provide our little ones with a sense of security in a complex world, which they are only just beginning to explore.

I am the first to admit that I am not prone to routines. Nevertheless, this past week was Baby's first week at Day Care, and the time seemed ripe for developing a morning routine for both of us. I imagined a routine that involved a lot of night-before organization followed by an easy morning of putting Baby in the carrier, grabbing my bag(s), and taking the bus to Day Care.

By Thursday morning, however, no routine had materialized. I woke up feeling groggy and with a bit of a sore throat. Baby and I played for a little while, and then I made some oatmeal for my breakfast. As I was enjoying my own food, I looked at Baby and thought, "Maybe now would be a good time to introduce [Baby] to bananas..." (I do not know why.) I put Baby in the high chair, mashed up some banana, and gave it a try. It did not go well. Baby started to fuss, which I interpreted as, "Mom, why did you think I wanted a banana when what I really need is a nap?"

I responded by hatching a plan to leave in fifteen minutes, put Baby in the stroller, walk slowly to Day Care, and give Baby a chance to nap in the stroller. After a whirlwind of bottles, back-up onesies, business casual dressing, sun hat grabbing, and general Momma-In-Training hijinx, Baby and I headed out the door.

I took what can only be described as a meandering path to Day Care. I thought that Carlton Avenue cut straight through the neighborhood to within a block of Day Care. So, I walked to where I thought I would find Carlton, which is where I found Clermont. I decided to try my luck with Clermont. (Baby napping yet? No.) Soon, I saw a construction crew in the block ahead of me ostensibly preparing for a wild rumpus of noise and road dust. I got off of Clermont and took Adelphi instead. (Baby napping yet? No.) Within a couple of blocks, Adelphi ended, forcing me to go right, which was where I finally did find Carlton Avenue. (Baby napping yet? No.)

One block later, I was standing on Carlton and Atlantic. I needed to cross Atlantic to get to Day Care, but the pedestrian bridge was closed thanks to the highly controversial Atlantic Yards construction. There are plenty of reasons to rally against Atlantic Yards, but on this day, my reason was pragmatic. Atlantic Yards closed my bridge, which meant that I had to walk Baby down Atlantic Avenue to the next available bridge. Atlantic Avenue is a loud, gravelly, no-trees kind of nastiness. (Baby napping yet? Ummmm, no.) I started feeling pretty guilty for having created this haphazard, nonsensical, no-routine life for Baby. I felt like I was failing to give Baby what he needs, and that is the worst feeling for a Momma-In-Training.

Just before I turned the corner to Day Care, I looked down at Baby. Fast asleep. We pulled over on the sidewalk, and I let him sleep in the shade while I checked work emails. A young family walked by. The mom and dad were walking their toddler in a stroller while the dad sang to his son. The dad sang, "All you need is . . . " The kid responded, "love." The dad sang, "All you need is . . ." The kid responded, "love, love, love." The dad sang, "Love is all you need."

Big Day - Part One: Old School Yogini

2010-04-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

Today, I went to a yoga class for the first time in many, many months; I renewed my distaste for the Atlantic Yards "project"; and I yelled at several tourists. It was a big day - so big, in fact, that I have decided that it warrants three separate posts because God knows I do not want to subject any reader to a never-ending story about one day. (I let the professionals handle stories like that.)

With no further ado, here is Part One of a Big Day:

Toward the end of my yoga class today, the teacher asked us if anyone knew the name of the pose that we were practicing. I answered quickly, "Dead Bug!" (I am not a whiz at yoga pose names, but, honestly, how can you not remember a pose called "Dead Bug" once you learn it?)

My teacher said that yes, indeed, the pose has been known by the name "Dead Bug." However, he continued, the name of the pose is subject to some debate. He explained that people are now calling the pose, "Happy Baby." Although the Momma-In-Training part of me loves the idea of practicing "Happy Baby," I smile to think that I am an old school yogini in Dead Bug Pose.

Wipes

2010-04-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

On the way home from Baby's six-month check-up, a pigeon pooped in my hair. I was stunned. My husband, still able to form rational thoughts, suggested that he use the diaper wipes to clean my hair. And that is exactly what he did. On the sidewalk on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, my husband used diaper wipes to clean pigeon poop from my head. After he finished, I used the anti-bacterial gel in the diaper bag to clean my hands, and then, on a pigeon poop induced impulse, I put some of the gel on my head, too. Moral of the story? Wipes are for everybody, not just babies.

Celebreality

2010-04-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

When I studied for the bar (a lifetime ago), I followed a very specific routine every day. One of the essential components of this daily ritual was my lunch break when I watched a certain celebrity-gossip-focused cable channel for exactly one hour. It provided the absolutely perfect respite - juicy enough to capture my attention completely, and dumb enough that it never lingered in my thoughts after I turned off the television.

Fast forward several years, and you find me in a different city, on a different couch, after a long day at work, and with my baby asleep in his crib. What am I doing to relax? Oh, just watching a certain celebrity-gossip-focused cable channel - the addiction to celebrity gossip as stress relief is strong. When a commercial aired for a certain celebreality show, I suddenly found myself extolling the virtues of both the show and a former playboy bunny or mate or girlfriend or whatever her status was.

Is Kendra really my new hero? Maybe. At least the commercial for her show might be.

When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of my time being self-critical about my weight gain. I imagine that this self-flagellation was due in no small part to the fact that my doctor was herself a loud critic of my weight gain. But I admit that I contributed to the problem by having set some unrealistic expectations before I got pregnant. I thought that I would be one of those Stylish New York Moms-to-be (e.g., that pregnant woman standing on the corner of Great Jones and Bowery, sipping her latte from Dean and Deluca, wearing something chic (not just chic-for-a-pregnant-lady), and with a lovely hobo bag hanging effortlessly from her shoulder. I was not that woman. My lattes tended to drip onto my belly, my outfits were not chic for anyone, and my purse always overflowed with the million things I needed for the day.

After Baby was born, I knew that "nine months up / nine months down" made sense, but I set some unrealistic expectations for myself again. I irrationally felt that I should (perhaps magically?) get back into shape and back into pre-prego jeans much sooner than was possible for my body.

I am not here to blame "unrealistic media images" for my unrealistic expectations (I am a rational, smart adult who understands the limits imposed by physics without a personal chef or plastic surgeon). Nevertheless, we seem to live in an era when young, famous, and sometimes beautiful people are getting pregnant, having babies, and losing their baby weight on television, on the internet, in US Weekly, and anywhere else I look. And these famous people are doing it all so quickly.

Enter my new hero. Three cheers for the commercial I watched where a woman famous for her figure appeared to be fighting - and I mean fighting - to get into shape after having given birth. Thank you, Kendra.

ADDENDUM:

I just watched five minutes of a certain reality show, and I feel compelled to state that, in the future, I will be more mindful of the meaning of the word "hero."

BOOK REVIEW - The Lorax

2010-03-30T18:09:00.000-07:00

The Lorax by Dr. Seuss

Of course The Lorax is great, it is by Dr. Seuss. It is a wonderful story that reminds us that the world we live in is beautiful, that every living thing is connected, and that we need to conserve our natural resources. But what's more is that it rhymes and offers us awesome words and phrases like "where the Grickle-grass grows," "his Snuvv, his secret strange hole in his gruvvulous glove," the "Whisper-ma-Phone," and "Brown Bar-ba-loots" in their "Bar-ba-loot suits." Reading this book to Baby is a verbal joy.

Head Over Heels

2010-03-26T18:05:00.001-07:00

I had the luxury of staying home for five months of falling head over heels for Baby, but I am back to my day job now.

My typical day involves

rushing (to work),

trudging (through work),

wondering (if I have enough work to earn my keep),

realizing (that it is time to pump),

listening (to dipwads),

repeating (instructions to dipwads),

wishing (I could go to the gym and instead realizing that is time to pump - yet again),

searching (for that thing that I swear I just set down),

pumping (oh yes, one more time),

plowing (through whatever work I can finish before the end of the day),

packing (bottles and their various accessories, work ID, blackberry, cell phone, keys), and

racing (home to see Baby).

Yesterday I added tripping to the list. At some point between searching and pumping, I opened my office door. I turned to my left so that I could walk to the ladies room. The next thing I knew, I crashed into the wall as I tripped forward and sideways simultaneously. Somehow, I did not fall over - but I did succeed in making a racket. (My kind of poise and grace is noisy.) The Southeast corner of the 19th Floor stopped and looked up at me with a couple of gasps and "are you okays," but then it was back to business as usual for everyone. Nonetheless, I still had to walk from my crash site to the ladies room, past all of the people who had just seen (and heard) me spaz out of my office door and into a wall. I was bright red, hot in the face, and praying (seriously, praying) that I would make it past everyone without falling over again.

As soon as I returned to my office, I put my heels back in their drawer and returned to the flats I had commuted in.

BOOK REVIEW - Knuffle Bunny

2010-03-25T17:34:00.001-07:00

Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems

Adorable. I fell in love with this book the first time I read it to Baby. It takes place in (Park Slope) Brooklyn, which is nice. Willems perfectly captures the way parents and babies try to communicate with one another before they share a common language. Trixie tries to tell her daddy something important but has to make do with only her baby babble sounds, her cries, and her physical expression of distress. After several blocks of miscommunication, Trixie and her daddy end up back at their door a little worse for wear. Who immediately knows what's on Trixie's mind?

SPOILER ALERT!!!!

Mommy.

Set a book in brownstone Brooklyn, mix in some adorable illustrations and pictures, add a pinch of cuteness between a little girl and her daddy, bake until the dialogue between parents (who have words) and babies (who don't) is golden, let cool, and frost with the brilliance of a mommy -- and Voila! a perfect Knuffle Bunny.

What does Baby think of Knuffle Bunny? He tried to eat several pages this morning, which is one of his highest forms of praise.

BOOK REVIEW - Chicka Chicka Boom Boom

2010-03-25T17:32:00.001-07:00

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr. and John Archambault, illustrated by Lois Ehlert

An excellent book. It rhymes. The illustrations and graphics are simple and bright. All of the lower case letters try to climb up one coconut tree. Can they all fit?

SPOILER ALERT!!!!

No. They do not all fit on one coconut tree. There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet, and although they are little, lower case letters, there are simply too many to fit onto one coconut tree. Obv.

The tree bends down with their weight, drops them all to the ground, and the upper case mamas and papas and uncles and aunts have to help them up.

Baby loves, loves, loves this book. This morning, I was reading a different (but equally awesome) book to Baby. He spotted Chicka Chicka, Boom Boom on the cushion next to me, and he promptly rolled right off of my lap, arms reaching out for his dear, brightly colored (and delicious?) book. If that is not a ringing endorsement, then I don't know what's what.

Coming and Going

2010-03-17T16:24:00.000-07:00

When I leave in the mornings now, Baby usually looks up at me from his nanny's arms and smiles. Then the smile fades, and he looks confused. The nanny says (for him), "See you later, Mommy." I look back as I walk away, and he knits his eyebrows and watches me go. I tell myself not to look back again. I tell myself not to run back to Baby. I remind myself that this is the Great Recession, and that I need my job. I put my headphones in and try to pretend I am someone else. My solace is that I will get to see Baby smile when I come home. That smile makes my heart beat.

But there are days when circumstances conspire to keep me from getting home until after Baby is zonked. On those days, when I walk in the door, he looks at me with about as much recognition as he might give to the UPS delivery person. I try to fight it. I smile really big and exaggerate my excitement to try to get him to smile back. But he won't. I know that he is just tired, but I feel like crumpling when my day ends that way.

Yesterday was one of those days. I was in my office at 5:45 p.m. listening to some young paralegal question my instructions. He was skeptical of whatever I was telling him to do. Perhaps because my return to Work is so recent, I distrusted myself (and even my notes) and instead believed his skepticism. He wanted to check in with another attorney on the matter, and I told him to let me know if I had indeed made a mistake. When I did not hear from him, I sent him an email. He wrote back, and I am paraphrasing here, but his email roughly translates as follows:

"Dear LadyLawyer,

I think that I know more than you [even though I was learning long division when you were at Kenyon smoking P*Funks]. I am busy [doing what you told me to do because you were right]. I will get to that other thing later [because you were right that that other thing is for later]. I am not going to admit that you were right because I am really busy knowing more than you [and now you are going to get home to see a zonked out baby who does not even recognize you].

Regards,

Little Dipwad."

I used to think that people moved fast on New York's sidewalks because this is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of and all the rest of it. But now I believe that people move fast, and I mean really fast, to get home before their babies are zonked out little zombies. At least that's why I do.

The More Things Change

2010-03-11T05:05:00.001-08:00

I returned to my office on March 1, and I promise to write more about that transition when I am emotionally able. In the meantime, here are some of the oddities from the last week and a half:

1. A man playing a baby grand in the lobby of 1 WFC. Neither the baby grand nor the piano player were there the last time I checked.

2. The ID I use to swipe through the turnstiles to get to the elevators did not work on my first day. The Universe sending me back home? Nope. According to security, I had simply swiped too many times and worn the damn thing out. Thank goodness I do not believe in existential crises because otherwise I think I would have had one.

3. Yesterday, while I was standing in line to get my salad for lunch, a couple of chach-faces roll in. One turns behind to his friends and says, "That's not even Finance 101... That's, like, Algebra 101!" Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle. Apparently, I found the only place in America where it is okay [i.e., awesome] to admit [i.e., brag] that you are a Finance Guy.

4. On my third day back, a partner stopped by my office and opened with, "Now, uh, please don't report me to the, uh, you know, politically correct police or anything . . . but . . .." After his "non-reportable" remark, he explained that he had learned at his age that even when you are trying to be nice, some one is going to get upset.

5. When I went to hide in various retail stores after a terribly uncomfortable exchange with the partner in #4, I walked by at least two more pianos and piano players where there had once been only hallway. The entire World Financial Center had been taken over by pianos!

The Breast Whisperer

2010-02-21T06:34:00.000-08:00

This morning I had the distinct pleasure of reading an article in the newspaper while I drank a latte and ate the top of a muffin.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/nyregion/21freda.html

Ah, the Breast Whisperer. It almost brought me to tears when I thought about how grateful I was to my own whisperer, Judy LeVan Fram, who lives in Park Slope (of course). In Baby's first week, Judy packed up her scale, hopped on a bus, and came to my apartment.

She asked if I had any swelling in my legs, and I showed her the science experiment that was formerly known as my ankles. She smiled and said that the swelling was not that bad. She even said that she had seen worse (and seemed to mean it). She did not wince or even shudder at the sight of my post-partum belly even though I shuddered at the sight of that belly for weeks and weeks. She helped me find a way to hold Baby so that he could latch on and actually get some nourishment . . . something that a parade of post-partum nurses failed to do in a spectacularly gruff fashion.

When Baby seemed to have finished nursing on one side, Judy suggested that I offer him the other side. I slid my hand under his back to lift him, and somewhere between his lower back and his neck I noticed that my hand was moving faster, it was quite literally slip-sliding up his back. Baby had pooped an enormous newborn poop that came squishing out of his diaper, up his back, covered my hand and arm, and slathered the couch cushion.

Judy responded calmly by saying that she thought she had heard him poop. I was mortified. Three days in and I not only needed some one to tell me how to feed my baby, but I had no idea when he was pooping (even though it was apparently an audible event), and I smooshed his poop everywhere in front of company. My husband came in to see what was going on and seemed just as embarrassed. He threw out the couch cushion.

Judy helped as I changed Baby, and then she offered to hold him so I could wash my hands. (Mortified again. What kind of mother thinks it is okay to continue to handle a baby when she is covered in poop? The kind who is three days in and experiencing a public poop panic.)

Finally, Judy weighed Baby and reported that he was indeed getting nourishment from me. Sweet relief.

My time with Judy was so comforting, I highly recommend her to anyone who lives in New York. And I encourage anyone who is thinking about hiring a lactation consultant to find a good one, give her a call, and feel this wonderful, calm reassurance at a time when the world may seem to have been turned upside down.

N.B. I have not referred to anyone in this blog by name before. However, I had such a positive experience with Judy that I wanted to give her credit publicly. I liked her so much that when I saw the headline for the article I read this morning, I thought that it was about her.

Last Month of Vacation

2010-02-03T12:03:00.000-08:00

When I think of the great vacations of my life, several immediately come to mind:

(1) One week with my husband in Hawaii for our babymoon. We went to the beach every day, we snorkled whenever we wanted to, and we even took a helicopter tour of the island. It was perfectly relaxing and beautiful.

(2) Two and a half weeks with my husband in South Africa. We spent three nights in Kruger, we visited Johannesburg, we visited Cape Town, we toured wine country, and we went shark diving (as chance would have it, with Anderson Cooper and his Planet in Peril crew).

(3) One week with my husband in Mexico for our [second] honeymoon. We went to the beach, we drank pina coladas and ate fish tacos, and I went scuba diving for the first time in my life. I even [reluctantly] swam by a [nurse] shark.

(4) A long weekend with my husband in Quebec City for our mini-moon [i.e., first honeymoon]. He surprised me and brought me to the most beautiful hotel in the city. We walked around the old city during the day, we ate delicious food and drank delicious wine at night, and we accidentally referred to flies as handkerchiefs in French.

(5) Two weeks with my husband, who was then my fiance, in the Pacific Northwest. We hiked, camped, went out in Seattle, went out in Portland (sort of), and toured wine country. It was an amazing time.

(6) One week with my husband, who was then my boyfriend, in Brazil. We were there for a wedding. It was a wonderful, week long party.

I just sent my secretary an email letting her know that I would be taking an unpaid leave to extend my maternity leave until March 1. The final sentence of her response was that I should enjoy the last month of my vacation. She does not have children.

No Comparison

2010-01-27T06:26:00.000-08:00

When Baby was still in my belly, I called him The Fraggle. For months and months, I silently wished for my little fraggle to be healthy and happy (and sometimes, I would add wise to the list). I think I kept my wishes simple in the hope that, if the Universe were to hear them, they might more easily come true.

Baby is now four months old. My wishes are the same, but now I have an alarming array of metrics by which I can judge Baby's health and happiness. First, the numbers: weight in pounds, length in inches, and head circumference in centimeters. Then, the developmental milestones: smiles, coos, giggles, opening hands, holding head up, rolling, sitting, and so on and so forth (forever).

At the heart of all of this evaluation is comparison. From the very beginning, we mommas-in-training learn how our babies' length and weight compare through that beguiling statistic known as The Percentile. Then, we ourselves engage, often unintentionally, in the game of Baby Comparing. Mommas want and need to share their experiences, which necessarily means that they talk about their babies. While it feels so reassuring to hear the similarities, the differences often present opportunities for false pride or, worse, unfounded guilt.

I admit to having complimented myself for Baby's accomplishments, and I confess to having blamed myself for challenges, e.g. The Great Eczema Battle of 2010 (a story for another day as the battle wages on). In fact, there have been days when I questioned just about every aspect of my Momma-hood qualifications.

Should I eat more fish and walnuts to help Baby's brain grow? Is my body producing enough milk for Baby? How many times did Baby smile today? Am I holding Baby enough? Am I holding Baby too much so that I am depriving him of his opportunity to learn to roll, sit, or crawl? Why can't I remember the story of Jack and the Beanstalk well enough to tell it to Baby?

The earthquake in Haiti quickly snapped me out of wallowing in the swamp of self-doubt. But just in case an entire country's devastation failed to provide some perspective, last week, my brother-in-law was at our apartment and said that a man-hole cover next to his building had just exploded, shooting flames and electricity into the air.

I do not have control over many things. I did not choose where I was born; I cannot avert natural disaster; and I cannot predict where or when a man-hole cover will explode. But I know that Baby is healthy and happy, and I am entirely thankful for it.

Twenty Ten

2010-01-02T08:48:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve is my favorite holiday. Plenty of people I know react to this holiday with some form of the following: Too much hype; Never as fun as I want it to be; That bar I rented in New York was actually triple booked, and I ended up celebrating the new year on the Williamsburg Bridge on my way to Brooklyn. Well, I liked having the ball drop when I was on the bridge. It is always as fun as I want it to be. And who uses the word "hype" anyway?

Here are some of the great things about New Year's Eve that are not true many other nights of the year:

You may sentimentally review the past with wild abandon;
You may look to the future with bright-eyed optimism;
You may walk around your apartment in a tiara even though you are not (and never have been) in a beauty pageant;
It is customary to kiss at the stroke of midnight; and
Champagne is the drink of choice - preferably with a swirl of Grand Marnier [thank you, Last Hurrah at the Parker House in Boston].

This year, of course, was a little different. My husband prepared a delicious dinner, and we opened one of our special bottles of wine. Even though the crowd for the night was reduced to a party of two, I like to think that we maintained a festive atmosphere. As a gift to ourselves, we were in bed by 9:30 pm.

About two and a half hours later, I woke up to two sounds. One was Baby. Presumably, Baby woke up because the second sound (set of sounds, really) was very loud and very unusual.

Pratt Institute is about three blocks from our apartment. Every year, on New Year's Eve, at midnight, the school's engineer plays the school's steam whistles. Even though this is the third year that I have celebrated New Year's Eve in my neighborhood, this is the first year that I noticed the volume, the duration, and the amazing sounds of the steam whistles. What do steam whistles sound like? Well, they sound like a cross between a train whistle and a whale giving birth. (I have heard whales giving birth, and I believe whole heartedly that I am providing an accurate description.)

Perhaps more impressive than the sound of the steam whistles was the fact that Baby lulled himself back to sleep after a bottle even while the whistles continued to blow. As such, New Year's Eve remains my favorite holiday of the year.

Two Kinds of People in This World

2009-12-01T11:43:00.000-08:00

We headed out to Chicago a few weeks ago for a wedding. When I was in the bathroom washing my hands during the wedding reception, a woman next to me said that I looked tired. I replied, perhaps curtly, that I was tired. She was nice, perhaps a Midwesterner, and suggested that I was tired just from having so much fun. I looked up at her reflection in the mirror and said that I have a baby at home. She smiled knowingly and told me she was still tired from her first baby (the woman must have been at least in her 50s). As the woman left the bathroom, she turned and said, "There are two kinds of people in this world. People who have kids and people who don't."

Indeed. And not so long ago I was in the second category of people. Now I found myself in the middle of a wedding weekend with a heightened awareness of all of the ways that life changes when you jump into the first category.

There are the obvious differences. I used to have enough time to apply make-up properly. I used to drink as much champagne and wine as I wanted. I used to see the dance floor as an opportunity to win any Dance Off that came my way. I used to be part of the late night celebration. I like to think that I used to be a good conversationalist.

Each of those differences generally turns on the fact that I used to live with the luxury of seeing the world through my eyes alone. But now, my perspective has been permanently altered.

In Chicago, at the rehearsal dinner, the groom stood up and thanked his father for hosting the dinner. For about two whole seconds, the groom looked at his father in the exact same way I see Baby look up at me and my husband. It melts my heart when Baby does it, and when I saw the groom do it as an adult, I got tears in my eyes.

So maybe, at least for the foreseeable future, my face will have haphazardly applied blush and eyeliner, I will only have a glass or two of wine, and I will struggle to make conversation, let alone cut a rug - but I wouldn't trade any of it for being able to see (and feel) this whole new kind of love.

Unglamorous Fairytale

2009-11-11T11:51:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I hit bottom. Baby turned six weeks on Monday. Instead of living up to great expectations of longer night sleep periods, Baby decided to sleep for one to two hours at a time all night and almost all of Tuesday morning. By mid-day yesterday, I felt exhausted physically and emotionally.

Without being asked, my husband came home from work early to rescue me from my sleep-deprivation induced insanity. He walked in the door, found me in Baby's room, kissed me, and said we are in this together. Then he told me that he was taking Baby for a walk so that I could sleep without interruption. I want to state publicly and loudly (if possible on a blog) that my husband is not only the absolute love of my life, but he is also the most wonderful, supportive, and caring adventure partner ever. He is my hero.

Did I fall fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow? Oh no. Not even ten minutes after my head hit the pillow. I was lying there wondering if, after weeks of Baby needing to sleep on either me or my husband, perhaps now I, too, need to be snuggled in order to drift off to sleep.

Then I remembered the book I turn to obsessively for advice regarding Baby's sleep. Dr. Soandso repeats over and over again in his book that an overtired baby will have a very difficult time falling asleep because our bodies work to fight fatigue. Delightful, I thought to myself twenty minutes later, still lying in bed, still not asleep.

Next, something wicked happened. I got another migraine. The aura, the pounding headache, the nausea; all of it. All there as if to say to me, "Momma, you will either relax and recharge, or I will force you to lie down and put that goddamn chamomile eye pillow over your eyes and GET SOME EFFING SLEEP ALREADY."

After the aura, the nausea, and the worst of the headache passed, I went to the living room to find my hero. He microwaved some baked ziti for us, and we had dinner together for the first time in weeks while Baby slept in his car seat on the floor.

There is absolutely nothing glamorous about this story, but it is my current fairytale - complete with a heroine in distress, a migraine villain, a sleep frenemy, and a husband hero.

The Industrial Revolution

2009-11-05T07:25:00.001-08:00

While some philosophers have blamed the Industrial Revolution for the isolation of modern man that led to his current dehumanization and existential dilemma, I would like to take this opportunity to sing the praises of that little revolution.

Every morning, Baby and I engage in a little dance with the crib. I change Baby. I nurse Baby. Baby falls asleep. I put Baby down in the crib. Baby wakes up fussing before Baby has enjoyed a full nap. Cha Cha Cha. Repeat until around 11 am, at which point Baby is bonkers in his overtired state. He finally passes out, and out of fear that he will not sleep for more than thirty minutes again, I put him in our swing. Baby loves sleeping in the swing and will stay there blissfully for about three hours.

Today, the swing, in all of its modern, technological glory did something that feels about as impressive as when Ford created the assembly line. Today, I put Baby in the swing before he passed out while I ate my oatmeal. I put a pacifier in Baby's mouth on a whim (yes, a whim - I am incapable of rational thought between 6 am and 1 pm). I pushed the swing to get Baby gently swinging. Ten minutes later, Baby was fast asleep.

I am aware that the swing and a pacifier trick, just as the assembly line before it, may have some negative consequences. Maybe I will become a less skilled Momma. Maybe I will lose my sense of purpose and humanity and proclaim that God is dead.

But I have a theory about Existentialism: It does not apply to Mommas In Training. We are quite aware that before us is one of the greatest, most difficult tasks on Earth. Further, that purpose just happens to involve ensuring that we survive as a species, which instills a pretty noticeable sense of humanity.

So, three cheers for the swing, the pacifier, and the extra hour of sleep that I am about to get this morning . . . all made possible by the Industrial Revolution and the assembly line.

Social Smiles

2009-11-03T15:05:00.000-08:00

I have read that babies begin their social smiles at around six weeks. As Baby approaches this developmental milestone in the next week or so, I may be approaching a milestone of my own.

Lately I have noticed that although I have the adventures of Baby, Grassy, and Zebra to keep me entertained, I need to get out of the apartment. And so I try to take Baby on a walk to the park every afternoon. During these walks, as I pass my neighborhood's many babies, moms, and strollers, and I wonder how much I might be craving some adult company during the day.

But how do people become mom-friends? Should I just sit down next to another mom on a park bench? Is there some online forum where I can find these potential mom friends to schedule a meeting in person? Am I supposed to smile at another mom who walks by with a look that conveys my sympathy for the need to get out of the house as well as what a cool walking buddy I could make?

Left to my own devices, I am an introvert. I am much better at being approached than at approaching. And, five weeks in an apartment with a baby has not necessarily made me more socially capable -- just more disheveled.

Today, when I went to the park, the first potential mom-friend was actually a potential dad-friend. He also looked disheveled, and he kept stopping and checking on the little bundle in his stroller. I imagined making friends with him and starting a Disheveled Parents at the Park Club. Instead, I remained the only member of my Disheveled Parents Club and continued on my loop.

Then I came around a curve and saw what looked like a veritable stroller convention about fifty feet ahead of me. Four moms and their strollers were in the path ahead. Life had just found a way to make the mom-friend issue unavoidable. They were blocking the path, and I would have to find a way to go through them or around them.

What to do? Smile as I stroll around them? Say hello and push right through the middle of their convention? Stop at the periphery and stand there hoping that they want to be my mom-friends?!?!?

I decided to go around them without any hello or smile. But just as I was half way around their circle, they started to move down the path. So, for about thirty seconds, we were all walking "together." This was worse than standing at the periphery and hoping they would invite me in. I sped up and pushed Baby up the path to put an immediate end to all of this awkwardness.

On my way home from the park, I saw the disheveled man and his stroller ahead of me on the sidewalk. As I walked past him, I noticed that the bundle in his stroller was not a baby, but a blanket folded to the size of a small package. Now I know that while I may not yet be capable of social smiles, at least I have a real baby in my stroller.

Grassy

2009-10-30T08:50:00.001-07:00

The theme for our nursery is, "Safari," which does not mean much except that we hung pictures from our trip to South Africa on the walls. I also found some safari themed wall decals at a big box store, and I put them on the walls above the crib and above the changing area.

Baby spends quite a bit of time in the changing area, which my husband affectionately calls Party Town. On the wall directly above Party Town, there are several decals: a zebra, a tuft of grass, a monkey, a few leaves, and a giraffe. The tuft of grass is about six inches from where Baby's head rests when he visits Party Town, and Baby loves, loves, loves to stare at that tuft of grass. He loves it so much that my husband and I have taken to calling that decal, "Grassy." We have even narrated (yes, out loud) a whole friendship between Baby and Grassy. On almost every visit to Party Town, Baby stares at the grass decal, and one of us (frequently, both of us) will talk to Baby about his best friend Grassy.

Yesterday, when my husband came home from work, we enjoyed that rare and precious commodity: time to talk to each other. I talked about the circus that is our local post office and about Baby's sleep patterns. Then, I shared the following:

"Today, [Baby] noticed the zebra next to Grassy. He looked skeptical, so I explained that Zebra was a friend of Grassy's, and that they could all three be friends."

In the brief, yet distinct, moment of silence that followed, I decided to keep a closer eye on the line between Momma/Baby World and Momma/(Still) An Intelligent, Creative, Interesting Adult World.

Firsts

2009-10-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

Today marks Baby's First Month, along with many other firsts. In order of appearance:

(1) I managed to get Baby into the Moby wrap long enough to leave the apartment. This is a major accomplishment. It is rainy here in Brooklyn, and we have no rain cover for the stroller -- so a walk to the doctor's office with the stroller seemed irresponsible.

(2) Baby's first bus ride. He slept through it - which is about how exciting it was.

(3) Baby's first shot. As expected, he wailed and howled. The doctor wondered aloud what was wrong and reminded Baby that the whole thing was over and finished - no need to cry, apparently.

(4) My first migraine while I was home alone with Baby. Migraines are not just big headaches - though they do include a big, fat, awful, eye-splitting headache. My migraines always have a prelude of about twenty minutes of distorted vision (known as "aura," which makes it sound so much lovelier than it actually is). This temporary loss of my ability to see, followed by a terrible headache, along with a side of nausea make having a migraine while home alone with Baby terrifying. More terrifying than watching him get his first shot. And more terrifying than riding the bus home with what seemed like every sick and dysfunctional adult in the downtown Brooklyn area.

I am happy to report that Baby is sleeping soundly now (and weighed in at 11.2 lbs today!), and that I am through the worst of the headache. God willing, I can get a nap in, and the rest of the day will involve a little less drama.

Saying The Magic Word

2009-10-22T07:40:00.001-07:00

Baby was crying on Saturday evening - on and off from around 6:30 until around 8:15.

I have been told, and I have read, that such limited crying qualifies Baby for the "easy" category of babies. Allow me to state for the record that describing a newborn as "easy" to a Momma In Training falls flat, very flat, and with a great thud as it hits the floor. Perhaps, instead of categorizing Baby as "easy," we could start referring to this category of babies as "Thank The Great Baby Lottery That Your Baby Is Not Colicky And Putting You Through The Paces For Hours And Hours (And More Hours) Of Unconsolable Crying" -- or "TTGBLTYBINCAPYTTPFHAH(AMH)OUC" babies, for ease of reference.

So, on Saturday evening, my TTGBLTYBINCAPYTTPFHAH(AMH)OUC baby woke up from a nap around 6:00 pm. I nursed Baby, changed Baby, and nursed Baby again until he appeared contentedly replete. Soon, instead of drifting off into a milk coma, Baby began to cry, a great heaving sob and wail of a cry with a just a dash of what seemed like shouting.

Baby's diaper was clean and dry. He was full and uninterested in nursing again. I was cuddling him as much as he would let me in mid-wail. What then? I admit that I frequently (albeit irrationally) ask him what is wrong at these moments, and then I start to repeat that everything is okay and that there is no need to cry.

But sometimes there is a need to cry. The truth is that my ability to withstand Baby's crying diminishes as the day progresses. Gradually, the brilliance of whatever calming powers I once commanded fades. And by, oh, let's say 8:12 pm, if Baby is screaming in my ear, and I have no idea how to make him feel better, I am shedding a few tears of my own.

So it was on Saturday. Baby wailing. I, Momma In Training, holding Baby, trying to comfort him and to hide my own tears. Then, in a moment of desperation known only to those who have cared for a newborn, I whispered ever so quietly to Baby, "Please stop." And he did.

Not only did he stop, but he fell into the holy grail known to parents as Deep Sleep.

Coincidence?

Gentle miracle granted by The Great Baby Lottery?

Baby's stern desire to make me use the magic word?

I have no explanation. Not even a hypothesis.

To all the Mommas In Training out there, I offer this story to highlight the occasional tragicomic absurdity of our circumstances. I raise my glass to all of you and your Babies, TTGBLTYBINCAPYTTPFHAH(AMH)OUC or otherwise. Here's to doing the best we can. Cheers.

The Day The Belly Button Fell Off

2009-10-20T07:47:00.000-07:00

Last week marked my husband's return to work -- and the inevitable first week that I would be home alone with Baby. All was well until my baby's belly button fell off.

It was Day Two of My First Week Alone, at around 4:00 pm, only two more hours until my husband would be home, at which time I desperately hoped to take a shower. I was semi-confidently nursing Baby on the couch. Suddenly, Baby looked up at me, scrunched his face, and let out a wail to end all wails. When I picked him up to see what might have caused Baby's Suffering Wail, what was left of his umbilical cord fell from his adorable tummy onto the couch. Convinced that I had somehow painfully caused the thing to detach while nursing him, I started crying, too.

Nevertheless, in an effort to soothe Baby's cries, I started nursing him again. And although nursing soothed Baby, I was in an outright panic. I put the belly button on the couch cushion next to me and decided that I absolutely had to get to the nursery so that I could look up umbilical cords in The Baby Book.

I attempted to continue to nurse Baby as I made my way to the nursery. This proved to have been a mistake. When I finally made it to The Baby Book, Baby vomited all over himself and my chest.

At this point, I felt sure that I was unfit to be a mother. Not only had I knocked off my precious one's umbilical cord (the symbolism of such a brutal act was not lost on me), but then I ostensibly caused him to vomit all over himself. Now I had a baby in wet, spit-up clothes with a missing umbilical cord.

I changed Baby and within an hour we were back to "normal." When my husband came home and asked how my/our day was, I pointed to the umbilical cord that was still on the couch cushion. He picked it up, examined it, and proclaimed, "Cool."