The Five W's of New Year's

New Year's Eve is pretty uncomplicated as a single person. Each year, many things about celebrating remain the same. You know the why and when of the holiday. You simply decide where to go, who to go with and what to wear. 

Being married with a kid, New Year's Eve is easy in one respect. Chances are you won't care what you're wearing. Beyond your sartorial choice, the holiday becomes much more strategic. The where to celebrate becomes contingent on a who: "Who will watch the baby, if we go out for New Year's Eve?" The why becomes fraught: "Why in the world would I want to drink when I  have to take care of a child bright and early in the morn?" And the when is worst of all..."Are you kidding me? Stay up til midnight when me daughter will be the first one in the Western Hemisphere to wake up on New Year's Day?!"

Last night, George and I threw caution to the wind (well, we didn't actually go anywhere) and made it to the countdown and beyond, in spite of this cautionary tale. We had a lovely bottle of champagne (popping the cork quietly to ensure our daughter's continued slumber). At the stroke of midnight, I got to kiss my husband on the lips, like most couples do around the world. "Let the morning be damned", I thought. 

And here's the kicker. Claire decided to SLEEP IN ON THE FIRST MORNING OF THE NEW YEAR!  When her cries intruded upon my dreamland, as they do every morning, I looked up and the clock said 7:40!! Unheard of…priceless…a gift from above!

If you don't have kids, the hour on the clock may not seem like such a great deal. The moms and dads among us will surely understand the majesty of the scenario. 

So, thanks, Claire. I begin this year with an extra spring in my step! Tomorrow morning….be damned!

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Guns: Getting Past the Fantasy

I've started thinking about how I'd like to talk to Claire about guns. The issue is a difficult but important one to confront -- up there with don't talk to strangers, where do babies come from and, down the road, don't have unprotected sex.

My parents weren't much for communication, and were silent on all of the aforementioned big topics. But guns were an every day event during hunting season. 

I remember admiring the colorful orange and shiny gold shotgun shells. I remember dead ducks being stripped of their feathers in paraffin. And the deer, how could I forget the deer with limp bodies, glazed eyes and tongues hanging out of their mouth. The gaping hole in their blood spattered sides. 

Guns killed, that's for sure. No denying this gory reality. 

Hunting mostly disabused me of any fantastic notion I might have had about guns. But, when I was about four, I begged for the best black and white cowhide Annie Oakley outfit. I was so proud of that getup, complete with red cowgirl hat. The shiny silver pistol with holster was basically an accessory to me. But, in case I had any doubt about its function, every time I picked up it up, I was told to NEVER, EVER point a gun -- real or fake -- at another human being. 

My brother begged for a BB gun at around age seven. That conversation was short…BB guns in the hands of small children do nothing but damage, either to humans, small animals or objects such as windows. End of story.

Because I was around guns and instructed about them, I learned just how seriously they were to be taken. I learned that guns had their place for some, and that there was zero negotiation about their use.

It's a different world for Claire growing up than it was for me. We live in Manhattan: no deer here (even if we did want to hunt). The stakes have risen so that assault weapons are a gruesome reality sitting alongside shotguns. My Annie Oakley fancy is being replaced by the fantasy of violent video games and movies. It's such a complicated mix of issues that even our sharpest pundits are struggling with the scope of influences contributing to senseless gun violence.

But I know that I want Claire to learn some of the lessons that my family taught me about guns. I want her to know that human beings are responsible for how they are used, and that this responsibility is not to be taken lightly. I want her to know that, while you can take back words and some actions, the damage that guns cause is swift, dangerous and, too often, irreparable.

I haven't figured out how the conversation should go after that. I would love to open up this discussion amongst mothers. In light of the recent tragedy in Newtown, I think it's important one to have. It's a dialogue in which moms can and should be taking the lead, for all of our children. 

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Newtown, Our Town

Newtown Memorial, 12/14/12

I want to look away, but I can't. I stare at the pictures. The light in the face of each little boy and girl reminds me of my own child's light. I read about their lives and cry, sharing in the devastation as much as I can. All that I am able to do is bear witness to the tragedy. My efforts aren't enough, though. I'm helpless to do more. So I sit here looking at pictures and cry. And I pray, because the families need our prayers.

Things No One Ever Told Me About Motherhood

Ah, gotta love (or hate) the mom blog list -- for thoughts that are too long for twitter and not quite a blog. I think I'm relying on this form too much, but that hasn't stopped me from sharing this latest list, "Things No One Ever Told Me About Motherhood":

1) Your bladder will never be the same. I've heard people say "your body will never be the same". I imagined this sentiment referred mostly to weight gain, stretch marks and varicose veins. Maybe people were being too polite to add bladder control. Maybe they didn't know how to break it to me that no amount of Kegels will assure that I experience an uncomplicated cough, sneeze or laugh now.

2) And speaking of bladders, you will never get to go to the bathroom alone again. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Your child will follow you wherever you go, as what you are doing is way more interesting than the toys that you spent your hard earned money on to get him or her to leave you alone long enough to do things like go to the bathroom (or write a post).

3) And speaking of entertaining a child, it's horrible realization that the only thing that your child finds more interesting than following you around is what's on television, a smart phone, or a computer.

4) Even if the television is babysitting, your child will cause great difficulty if you decide to talk on the phone for more than two minutes. You'd think I'd have known this fact, as I distinctly remember my mom yelling "I'M ON THE PHONE!" quite a bit when I was a child. My recollection is that she only had to give this warning once, and we'd leave her to her conversation in peace. I'm sure my mom's memory would be entirely different -- more in line with how talking on the phone is going for Claire and me now.

5) Babies find another thing entertaining --- your pain. They can be sadistic. I get it now. It's developmental. They really don't know they're own strength or understand they're hurting you yet. But it took me awhile to get used to being slugged in the neck, and then having my child laugh like bodily injury is great sport.

6) Your own entertainment takes on a different quality too. I get really excited about things that never would have interested me before -- like apple picking, an awesome swing set at a playground, or going to a tree lighting ceremony.

7) You get really excited about things that never would have interested you before. Your child shows no interest in these activities (like apple picking). Or he or she is interested for about 15 minutes and then is ready to go (like swinging on that awesome swing set). Or he or she is more interested in other things than the activity itself (like eating the hot pretzel you bought from the cart on the street corner instead of watching the tree lighting ceremony).

8) Numbers 6 or 7 show how boring you become after having a child. You morph into a more conservative person too, wanting to control the world in ways you never did before. When I had Claire, I walked out of the hospital and saw the world anew. Yes, our life seemed filled with possibility and I felt surrounded by a new glow. I was also surrounded by way too much trash on the ground and cars honking their horns loud enough to wake the dead. On the ride home, I wanted to kill all the aces in cars weaving in and out of traffic. All that happened before I had even gotten her home!

9) Numbers 6, 7 and 8 are examples that illustrate something I had heard before -- you will become your mother. What no one shared was the extent to which I get served this humble pie on a daily basis.

10) No one ever told me what the "hood" in "motherhood" stands for. I imagine it's called such because a mom is a safe place to call home. No one ever told me how hard it is to be that place for my daughter on a consistent basis (because of numbers 1-9, and because I always want to write a post). Like much about life that is challenging, I can always keep trying.

I'm sure there are more secrets that haven't dawned on me yet. Feel free to share them in the comments below. I wish I could say that a representative will be with you shortly to help you with your issue, but, unfortunately, you're on your own there.

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How Does Your Garden Grow?

Claire liked Thanksgiving at her grandfather's house in Florida. She would run up and down the sidewalk in front of the house in the sun. "Moon! Moon! Moon!" she called out to the big sky, even though it was the middle of the day.

Then, a popping sound brought her to a dead stop. The quality of her voice changed. "Loud," she said tentatively, while her legs carried her backwards. "Pop…Pop…Pop, Pop," rang out in rapid fire. She raced to my side and cried, "Loud!" This time with more conviction. I tried soothing her, but she couldn't get used to the sound. Eventually, we went inside.

Claire was hearing a firing range about a mile away from our gated community. It seemed counterintuitive to say to her that everything was alright. After all, gunfire should be feared. But it was unsettling to see her so upset. There really wasn't any danger anyway. And I was angry that she couldn't continue to play. I wished that I could explain to her that it was ok to ignore the popping sound, like the rest of us do.

Just like I've learned to ignore that people fear their children dying everyday. The sound of the firing range began to feel real to me too. I tried to imagine what I would tell my daughter then. I pictured what a fear-filled life would look like. I envisioned my daughter's world shrinking to fit into a small, sheltered place. I thought of the unimaginable happening.

Oh, but I think too much; I went too far with the last bit. So I reminded myself that it was only a firing range, that we were free from harm behind gates and privilege.

I felt safer again. I felt thankful for our life.

But I had gone back to ignoring. And I felt ashamed of myself.

Heir Extensions

"Claire has a black eye!" I announce.

"What?" George says, trying to figure out what I'm talking about.

"See there…at the corner of her left eye…It's, like, all black and purplish," I trail off waiting for an explanation about how it got there.

"It wasn't there yesterday," George says, nonchalantly. "She probably ran into a corner of a door or something."

"Uh-huh," I say, half listening to him, half imagining my daughter running into a wall.

Thinking of my daughter hurting herself is horrifying by itself. Add to it the idea that no one was watching her closely enough to have witnessed what happened to her. Then I worry about how this disaster's going to reflect on ME.

"What's everyone going to think?" my mind races. "That bruise positively screams 'Mommie Dearest'. It might as well spell out the word 'ABUSE' in black and blue!" 

Just as quickly as I get myself worked up, I come to another realization.

"Wait, what's going on here? I'm more worried about myself than my daughter! 'Mommie Dearest' redux," I think. 

Now, I feel even worse. I imagine my daughter at the therapist's office circa 2040 talking about how she lived her childhood as an extension of her mother. Or worse, writing a tell-all book about it.

At this point…Claire has a black eye, I look like I don't take care of her, and an adult life on the couch awaits my daughter.  

"A triple crown day for me," I think. "Oh, wait. Reminder to self! It's not about ME…"

Victory over Sleep Deprivation

I have an announcement. I've waited a week to share it. I wanted to make sure it stuck first.

CLAIRE IS SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!

I want to shout from the mountaintops that the sandman cometh! I'm shamelessly giving myself credit for making it to the other side of midnight, since George is the only one giving me props for my long slog (Claire certainly didn't). I've been patient (most of the time) and we have persevered!

Another thing I want to shout is, "Sleep training, I told you so! Nah-nah-nu-nah-nah!" First, a qualifier, I have nothing against parents who sleep train. If this decision is right for your family or if it worked for you, great. I would never tell you what to do in your own household.

My target is sleep trainers. More specifically, the ones who sent the message to me that if I didn't get my daughter's sleep in order and pronto, I was doing irreparable damage to her in the form of lifelong sleep issues.

Their voices got into my head. I doubted myself and my decisions for my child. After all, they are called the "experts".

While I was sticking a pacifier back into my year-old child's mouth at 1AM, I was hearing the "experts" warn me that I would face an epic battle to pry said bink from her lips come kindergarten -- along with permanent orthodontic problems. (she gave it up at 14 months, by the way).

While I was rubbing my daughter's back deep in the night, the voices said I should be fostering independence in my child, because she needed to learn to put herself to sleep without my help (um…she did…at 17 months).

While I was breastfeeding her at 3AM, I was thinking about how my baby should be able to go seven hours without eating and of the plethora of advice about how to eliminate nighttime feedings.

It's not their fault the voices got into my head. I wish I had a better ability to believe in myself and have confidence in my decisions. I wish I could've trusted my baby's cues more. I wish there were more voices for me to look to for guidance.

There was one. It was Kelly's mom. Thank god for Kelly's mom.

I was sleep deprived and desperate, when the "experts" were telling me I was doing it all wrong (talk about adding insult to injury). That's when I turned to kellymom.com. I wrote a post about it awhile back. If you are struggling with baby sleep issues, I think it's worth a look. A lot of it still rings true to me today:

Kelly’s mom flat out says don’t believe the hype. Scare tactics are usually designed to sell product of some kind or another, and the product in this case is sleep advice that is targeted at sleep deprived parents not babies burning the midnight oil. In essence, parents are the ones with deep pockets; babies have no pockets at all.

I think she’s right. It’s easy to be swayed by slick websites and offers of professional help when you are near insanity, with a child glued to your boob and have come close to dissolving your marriage in the middle of the night on several occasions. You are willing to consider depriving your child of food. And the business of baby sleep is counting on this fact. 

Kelly’s mom didn’t have a solution to offer, but she provided evidenced-based information that explained the developmental reasons for this grueling sleep schedule. I still felt insane with a child glued to my boob, but I breathed a sigh of relief that our not so normal nighttime routine was normal. 

I don't have a lot advice for moms, because I don't want to give advice. But I do have one piece of advice: Be careful about listening to advice.

Opposites Attract

“Vee cole, vee cole,” Claire said repeatedly.

Translation: "Feet cold".

My poor little baby had cold feet for the first time in her life. Actually, I think it was her first experience with cold in general. It isn't hyperbole to say that it took me an hour to warm them up, rubbing each tiny foot over and over again in my hands. I don't know who was more traumatized, her or me. Actually, I take that back it was me.

You see my husband, George, had taken her for an impromptu THREE hour trip to the zoo in FORTY degree weather wearing ONLY canvas sneakers!

I was mortified. I considered being mad along with mortified, but I’m trying to be more philosophical since having a kid. I can definitely cut him some slack this time too. First of all, how great is it that Claire and her papa went to the zoo together? And, really, George doesn't mean to be reckless. He’s barely used to being married, let alone having a child. There's a learning curve to fatherhood, just like anything else.

Same goes for motherhood. While I'm a stickler for schedules and routines, George would probably say I'm an old stick in the mud. He puts up with my neurotic need to make sure she eats on time, always has a nap at the appointed hour and that she's never, ever cold.

In other words, that Claire has a boring mommy, who doesn't know the meaning of the word "spontaneous" and never does anything fun with her daughter.

I'm the yin to George's yang, the traditional to his untraditional. We compliment each other nicely. So Claire can go on adventures and explore with her papa, and then come home to the warmth and security of her mama.

(In the future, I will just have to be more careful that I supervise how my child is clothed more closely.)

Learning to Walk and Other Life Lessons

I barely remember a time when Claire didn’t walk. It’s been a mere two months, but the transformation could not be more enduring.  Sure, children start out with the struggle of the learning curve, but once they reach a milestone, they never look back. 

While Claire was learning to walk, I was learning about life. It was my first lesson in letting go. I wanted to help. I could hold her hand and cheer her on, but I couldn’t stop her from falling. I couldn’t show her how to find her equilibrium. I couldn’t take a step for her.

She had to discover how to stand on her own two feet and move through the world. Literally and metaphorically, isn’t this experience what we want most for our children? Why is it so hard to do?

Claire took it all in stride. She would find a tentative center and lurch forward. Her feet didn’t yet know how to keep up with her head and upper half of her body. She would stumble back down to the floor. Over and over again.

I was impatient.

Yet, falling was time well spent for Claire. She developed elegant ways to catch herself on the way down, crashing on her belly and looking up at me with a giggle. “How smart!” I thought. “She needs to know how to fall right, before she can walk.”

I started to feel in awe of her grace. I started to feel joy being in her presence and watching. I began to wonder about my own need to be right and to have things just so.

When do we begin to see our efforts as failure when what we really need is more practice? When do we replace the ability to make fools of ourselves with feelings of shame and embarrassment? When do we stop having fun in the moment and worry only about the end result?

Claire has no self-doubt. She shows complete faith in the process. She isn’t concerned about when the goal will be achieved.

The best self-help gurus preach about this stuff all the time.  They’ve got nothing on my daughter Claire.

Life of the Party

I dared throw a party one time in high school, while my mom and step dad were out of town. It wasn’t my best decision ever. I spent the whole time sober, watching drunken people do stupid things.

The other night, Elmo landed on the floor in a way that suggested he'd had one too many.

I realized that inebriated teenagers and toddlers have much in common. 

Like living with a toddler, I witnessed lots of stumbling and falling down the night of that party. I cringed each time a heavy and/or breakable object was pitched in the air. The floor became a garbage can strewn with random debris. And people couldn’t seem to keep their voices down.

I felt like the “no” police spoiling all the fun. I repeated myself a lot. I expended way too much energy waiting for disaster to happen.

After the festivities were over, I was the sole person left to clean up the mess.

Thankfully, Claire hasn’t burned her bangs off trying to light a cigarette on the stove like Angie Shivle did that night.  Plus, I was this close to throwing everyone out. Things can get chaotic around chez Demas, but my love for my daughter always keeps me from cracking.

Most importantly, having Claire is my best decision ever.

Young Frankenstein

I spend way too much time pondering this toy: 

It’s a bug on human legs, two very long human legs, wearing very long circus pants. 
 

A triangle hole is the void where its private parts should be. A half bug/half man creature that has been castrated by its maker.

It came as part of a musical set. The rest of the instruments are normal enough.

Why does the bug stand out so from the others? Who made it and was his or her inspiration Mary Shelley? 
 

I wonder what it must be like to work for the toy maker. I imagine a place like Willy Wonka. 

Or an office in which 95% of the personnel would fail a drug test (I'm referring to a different kind of "doping"). 

The toy would definitely make more sense to me if I weren't so sober.

 

Because I said so

momsinmarketing.com

  

We begin with the best intentions as mothers. Only to find ourselves, then, doing things we swore we’d never do.

I also lament the things that I don’t do…

“Oh, today looks like a lovely day to take Claire to the park…Ah, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Or…“My daughter looks like she can go another day without a bath."

It’s hard to admit. Makes me feel like a horrible mother.

Equally cringe-worthy are the things that I thought I wouldn’t say. I find things flying out of my mouth that a) are just plain ridiculous, b) make me realize I’m becoming my mother, and/or c) are probably over my 16-month-old daughter's head right now.

Indeed, she’s ignoring me anyway. But I often wonder what she would say if she had the words (my homage to ‘honest toddler’ on twitter, @honesttoddler):

ME:                                                            CLAIRE:

Why did you just do that?                         Because

Where does this go?                                  I’m guessing…on the floor?

That doesn’t go in that hole.                     Why? It fits.

Stop whining.                                            Don't count on that happening.

You’re too loud.                                         I don’t know the opposite of loud

Eat your food.                                            Maybe

Try it; you’ll like it.                                   If I don’t try it, we’ll never know.          

You're giving me a headache.                    And your point is?                                                                      

Calm down!                                                Why?

We don’t hit!                                               I just did.

I’m only going to say this once.                 That’s good.

You’re not listening to me.                         What’s your point?

What do you want?                                     If I knew, I’d tell you.

That’s not a toy.                                          And your point is?

I’ve just read over the list. It’s long! I’m embarrassed. And I’m glad I don’t live with an honest toddler.

Soul Search

 

The Homage, Marc Chagall, 1972

I stare endlessly at my daughter and marvel. Her face is compelling, purely because she is mine. Sometimes, my purpose is to see how she’s grown and changed. More often, I simply wish to behold.

Lately, I’ve been looking for my father. I search for him in the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she furrows her brow. No trace of my dad is evident there, at least not yet.

I don’t know which I fear more...that my daughter will never come to resemble him...or that I have lost the ability to recognize him altogether.

My dad died when I was eleven. I am now 45. Much of my life has been marked without him in it. I have come to identify more with his absence than his presence.

Sadly, this space only grows larger as I grow older. Tragically, I no longer miss my dad.

I long for him, though. I search for him, too. Lately, I’m searching for my father in my daughter’s face.

Mommy and "Me Time"

I felt like I was having a long overdue spa day. My body relaxed into the contours of the chair. The lights on the ceiling called to me like spinning mandalas, pulsating with meditative energy. I sighed and surrendered myself to the lady taking care of…

My teeth.

Yes, I was at the dentist. I can’t say I ever imagined considering a teeth cleaning a luxurious treat. But having Claire has given the term “me time” a new meaning. These days I will take it where I can get it.

But, really, the dentist office as “me time”? It made me realize how much of the energy in the Demas household flows from me to Claire, and how I survive on fumes.

Which means that all is about as it should be with a 15 month old.

When I am my best self, I remember that one of the beautiful (albeit challenging) gifts of a child is the lesson of self-sacrifice. Generally, the act of giving comes easily, almost reflexively, with a child. What requires contemplation is the repercussion of resentment that can often follow -- especially when I feel tired, overwhelmed and lacking patience.

Sometimes, I need to remember that it's okay to metaphorically put on my oxygen mask first. Often, I must make a conscious effort to find time for me hidden in different places and smaller moments.

To the last bit, I can thank my daughter for giving me a fresh perspective about the much-maligned obligation of going to the dentist.


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Mom's Sick: Walking Pneumonia/Running Child

Consider me of the walking wounded with walking pneumonia. 

Close-up of Pneumonia. Isn't it pretty?

If I had logged all of the hours I’ve cared for Claire and was compensated with sick days, I surely would be kicking back with a few reruns of LA Law right about now. But everyone knows that motherhood doesn’t stop when you do.

Instead of long stretches of horizontal recovery, life has gone on as usual -- with added challenges, such as: how to pick up a 20 plus pound baby without fainting, how to convince a toddler that dirty Kleenex is not a delicacy, how to read Goodnight Moon for the fifth time in a row without punctuating every two words with a cough. Then, there’s dealing with a generalized lack of resources when Claire: cries, screams loud enough to rattle my aching brain, or reaches for the outlet for the thousandth time. 

However, much of being sick with a child came as no surprise to me. What was a surprise to me were the many upsides of balancing care of a one year old with care of oneself. I found Claire to be helpful in many ways:

1)    She doesn’t care that I am beginning to smell, because I haven’t showered in three days.

2)    Or that she is beginning to resemble an orphan with long, dirty fingernails and ratty, tangled hair, now that her bath time routine has been reduced by 50% or so.

3)    She’s fine with staying in her pajamas all day or roaming around solely in a diaper.

4)    Likewise with her mother’s daily attire and toilette, or lack there of.

5)    She is happy to eat the same frozen vegetable for five meals in a row.

6)    She doesn’t know that I skip most of the words in Goodnight Moon anyway to save a few tubercular breaths.

7)    She’s oblivious to time, so she doesn’t realize we haven’t been out of the apartment for three days.

8)    She finds all kinds of things to entertain herself around the apartment anyway, since everything inside is still new and fascinating too.

9)    She actually enjoys that the apartment is a mess, because there are more things on the floor for her to explore.

10) Most importantly, when she takes a nap twice a day and goes to sleep at 7:30, mama goes nighty-night right alongside her.

But the best part is that Claire clearly still loves me, even though I’m not doing my best job caring for her. I can’t say that of any of the many other bosses I’ve had in my life (yes, Claire is my new boss). The next best thing is that dads like George can be great at picking up the slack.

Of course, not contracting pneumonia in the first place would be most advisable. But for the inevitable times when I am sick, I’ve decided that I’ll take my family over paid sick days any day.

Photo Source: Yale Rosen, Flickr

Smile!

I don’t have much to say in this post, really. I just wanted to share this picture. I’ve been dying to snap a photo of Claire smiling. She’s been smiling for about a month now and we haven’t been able to catch it. It’s elusive. Babies don’t mug for the camera like we do. There’s no “say cheese”. That’s what makes catching her smile so worth it. The smile on Claire’s face is sheer happiness. Her face refuses to mask like ours do. She’s just as likely to smile, cry or ignore us at any given moment. There’s no artifice. It is a joy to be around such a pure soul. Plus, she’s smiling at her mother in this picture. That’s the part that I wanted to say in this post!

Buyer's Remorse

It must have been a riot watching George and I shop for stuff for Claire before she was born. As first time parents, we found ourselves with none of what we needed to purchase. If I see a skirt I like, chances are I have a top to match at home. That new couch will probably need to match our Oriental rug. With a new baby, you start from scratch. You walk down the aisles of Babys R Us pitching items into your cart left and right. And if you aren’t careful, you get that momentum going and end up with a baby food maker by Remco and 50 pairs of baby socks. Or you get sidetracked by the cuteness factor and buy a wool jacket that will fit her in August.

Another challenge is buying stuff for an unknown entity. I heard the following question from my husband over and over again, “Are we going to need that?” My repeated response was “I don’t know. I’ve never had a baby”. There are many head-scratchers that begin with the words “how many” or “what size”. How many receiving blankets? What size diapers? How long will she be in newborn clothes? Like the proverbial trying to read the instructions outside of the box you’re in, it’s all a big mystery.

A good piece of advice is to keep receipts. I doubt there is a more prolific return aisle than the one at Babys R Us. If you don’t, you will end up with what George calls “The Land of Forgotten Toys”. He was good about keeping the receipts, but then returning stuff turned into a job. And there is no need for another job when you have a newborn. We had piles of things that needed to be packed in their boxes, boxes cluttering the hallway, lists made of replacement items. The result of conversations that started or ended with something like this: That’s the second swing that’s made her cry. Why did we buy so many sheets? Who conned us into thinking we needed a (fill in the blank)?

As she gets older and we get wiser, we have become much more strategic. We still play the “how many diapers will she use before she grows out of that size” game. But we’ve gotten pretty good at it, and we know where to buy the cheapest ones (Amazon). The basics are checked off our list. I have the next size clothes folded and ready to go. I’m pleased to report that we spend less time as consumers and more as parents to a happy, beautiful and growing girl.

Did I just say that?

1) I was burping her and she pooped on me.

2) Is it ok if I take a shower?

3) Stop chewing your gum so loud. You’ll wake her up.

4) I’ll need seven minutes to get ready.

5) Was that a fart or poop?

6) The hairdryer put her to sleep.

7) I need to start pumping for Wednesday.

8) If I wear her, maybe she’ll go to sleep.

9) What are the words to Humpty Dumpty?

10) Do I have breastmilk on this shirt? (said by my husband)

Claire and Lloyd the Cat

When we brought Claire home, we didn’t know what to expect from our two cats, Lloyd and Sofia. Remember those two scary Siamese cats from The Lady and the Tramp? They had me pretty paranoid. Maybe our cats would covet her things. Or worse, attack her. Perhaps both.

We readied ourselves by doing all of the things that the experts advise. Some of the recommendations border on weird, like putting contact paper in the Moses basket and co-sleeper because cats don't like sticky feet. Who knew?

After all that preparation, their reaction to her was actually pretty hilarious. Lloyd and Sofia immediately and utterly feared our infant daughter. This little thing, under 9 pounds, they were afraid of her. Lloyd was twice her size. They were instantly wary of her limbs flailing with no predictability. Her cries would send them racing to the other side of the room to huddle in a corner.

We began referring to her as “the creature” in an ominous tone, whenever the cats cowered from her sight.

Now, Sofia has warmed up to indifference. But Lloyd, the friendlier feline companion, has become cautiously curious. Claire, for her part, doesn’t seem to know the cats are here. I find it funny that she can spend hours looking at an inanimate object like the living room curtains, but doesn’t notice that Lloyd, aka Mr. Sniff, is checking her out.

Recently, George and I have been taking it upon ourselves to let Claire and Lloyd know that they have a lot in common. They really should be fast friends, because they both:

1) Enjoy a homogeneous diet.

2) Must have access to their homogeneous diet at all times.

3) Have big bellies from ready access to their homogeneous diet.

4) Spend a lot of time sleeping.

5) Spend a lot of time waking people up in the middle of the night.

6) Sleep during the day as it’s tiring keeping people up in the middle of the night.

7) Enjoy sleeping in the Moses basket.

8) Like chew toys and noisemakers.

9) Appreciate mother-ese.

10) Don’t understand English.

11) Think they are speaking perfect English.

12) Are loved by their mama and papa.

13) Know their mama and papa love them, even though they don’t understand English.

Still Smokin'

Unlike Bill Clinton, my baby has inhaled. Before you go calling Child Services on me, let me explain. Any walk through a New York City park will mean contending with illicit activities. Most of them are done within a cloak of darkness or behind a bush or tree. No one is the wiser. Pot smoke, though, refuses to hide itself. Its vapor seeks out friends – the ultimate social drug.

For one obvious (bundle of joy) reason, it pisses me off. I find it ironic that on the heels of the cigarette smoking ban in NYC public parks, marijuana smoking continues. According to a NY1 story, there are 1700 parks and a meager 175 park enforcement officers. That means depending on people to self-police, which is laughable in NYC.

I’m actually for the legalization of marijuana--with the qualifier that it’s done behind closed doors, not behind a bush or tree. I’m angry that public air space that should be shared equally is usurped for behavior that could potentially harm innocent bystanders. Don’t get me started on the exhaust from idling motors.

Sometimes NYC and motherhood are completely incompatible. Good thing that NYC and complaints about NYC have always gone hand in hand.

Photo Source: Tomasz Steifer, Gdansk, Wikipedia Commons