For the first time in my life I have a commitment problem. 

 

See, my life has changed in the past 2 months.  My darling daughter has gone from sleeping 3 hours each afternoon to sometimes sleeping 2 hours, or 1.5 hours, or not at all.  Do you know what that means?  It means that I have no time to eat.  Or to take a shower.  Or to watch episodes of Tivo'd Split Ends. It also means is that I have no time to blog here anymore.  

 

This whole motherhood thing is constantly changing.  Just when I think I have it down, something changes.  Just when I think I can make plans, the schedule is gone.  Or different.  And then it changes again, again.  (And then I get another cold and I'm out of commission.)  I'm thankful for my time here because writing this blog has jump-started my interest in picking up a book idea that I started before Mamie was born.  So I'll be working on that in the early evenings and those days that Mamie gives me an hour or two in the afternoon.  And I hope to contribute a essay or two here at Babble, if they'll still have me.

 

Thanks to everyone for their nice comments and for reading my words. 

 

xo- Barbara 

P.S.  Enjoy the naps while you can!

 

 

About a year ago we were at a birthday party in the park when cupcakes were being distributed.  Just as one was coming around to Mamie, I cut off the hand that was going to feed her. 

 

"She can't have that," I said.

 

"Why what's wrong with her?," a woman asked, mildly pissed.  The notes in her voice suggested that she thought I was an anti-sugar person (I'm drinking a sugary Coke right now -- I believe in the power of sugar) and didn't want my kid to get all juiced up on the cane.

 

People whipped their heads around to see what I was going to say to this woman, ready to duck and cover because when I get mad, well, you wouldn't like me when I get mad.  But I didn't get mad.   I just explained that Mamie has a milk protein allergy, which she will most likely outgrow by her 4th birthday.  The woman was very apologetic and I let it go. Then I took the cupcake for myself.

 

People tell me all the time how "sorry" they are that Mamie can't eat dairy.  Then I show them Mamie's belly, full from the foods she can eat.   No, she can't have pizza or ice cream, but she doesn't know from these things.  She eats fruits, vegetables (yes, even kale) and soy milk.  She eats chicken and carrots and frozen Shepard's Pie.  There's soy yogurt, and Amy's Organic meals (a staple in our house), spaghetti and even cupcakes that I make without milk (that she doesn't even want, anyway.)  It's really not such a big deal. I mean, I can't eat seafood.  (Don't feel sorry for  me!)

 

See, every kid has their something.  And this is just ours.  It's really not that big of a deal to bring special snacks to birthday parties or to avoid pizzerias for now.  In fact, the last party we went to I brought a non-dairy poptart for Mamie when the kids ate their cake---  and guess what the birthday girl wanted?  Yep, Mamie's non-dairy poptart. 

 

This is just how it is now.  She'll outgrow the allergy in a few years.  And then it's pizza every day if she wants.  If she even wants it.  Who knows? 

 

 

It's hard being a new parent.  I reflect on this a lot, even though my daughter is two years old now.  I will never, ever forget those first few months, I mean that whole first year.  I am still catching up on lost sleep from that time.  I had no idea what I was doing and yet I wanted to do it all myself.  I would look at other moms and everything seemed so easy for them.  Was I the only one having a tough time?

 

I remember talking to a friendly neighbor about it.  We had kids roughly the same age and so I thought she'd understand.  But as I looked to her for some head nodding, all I got were tales of how her son goes to sleep easily all the time, 24-7, nah, not a problem, neck wring and all (Ok, I'm adding that in.)  While I have come to be happy for parents who have excellent sleepers from day one, at this time I was new and nervous and yes, jealous.  And the fact that there wasn't even a remote understanding of what we were going through with the not sleeping thing, well, that made me feel even more uneasy.  When she added that her kid was "Superbaby" and that everything comes easy to him, I thought, should I have done more kegels?  Would that have made a Superbaby?  Please, how to make a Superbaby?

 

Luckily, I knew other moms with babies who also didn't sleep without some kind of help;  kids who fell asleep on the bottle or boob, took 45 minute naps and that was it for the day, only slept in the car, would only slumber in the bouncy seat (that was us for 3 solid months.)  I thought less and less about sleep issues and resigned myself to the fact that this was life right now.  It was a life with way less sleep so I should just get used to it (more coffee, nap when you can, eat high protein foods, kvetch with others like you.)  What else would I doing with myself but be bjorning my kid to sleep, rocking a baby in a chair or slinging a kid around?  This was life and that was ok.  What, I was missing out on Entertainment Tonight?

 

Then one night when I had finally gotten my kid to sleep (bottle, then jiggling -- oy my back! --  45 minutes of my life gone in a haze of "monster walking" while bouncing my baby), my husband went out to get us some delicious takeout grub.  He came back upstairs with an interesting story.

 

"Guess who I just saw?" 

 

My mouth filled with aloo motor gobi, I asked "hngfshueht?"

 

"Superbaby!  And he's been wheeled vigorously on our block because the daddy says that is the only way he will fall asleep!"

 

"He said that?" I said.  Why was that making me so happy?

 

I felt for Mr. Superbaby because I knew that pain all too well but I was also secretly glad that Superbaby needed a little help to fall asleep too.  So yeah, I felt "better" but it also bummed me out that this neighbor (truth be told, they were nice people, except for the, you know, whole competitive thing) felt compelled to lie to us when we were in the same boat.  I mean, couldn't we have supported each other?  But that's the thing you have to remember -- people lie. They're as freaked out as you and so maybe they stretch the truth a little -- or a lot.  Now I see that it's ok, if it makes them feel better.  Just don't let it get you down.  Your kid will sleep.  You will sleep.  It will happen.  

 

And that's no lie.

 

It's preschool interview day!  Time to do your tricks, kid.  Three half days at $783,000 a semester shall be yours if you do.  Shine!  Shine!  Shine for Mommy, ok?

 

We arrive at 1:00PM, the universal nap time for 99.9% of toddlers.  Since the nap would invariably be skipped, I picked up a latte for her (don't worry, with soy milk, silly!) and a handful of wasabi peas (nothing keeps a kid awake like horseradish!)   She drank her beverage while the ABCs were cranked on her Ipod.  Can't have her messing up that alphabet, can we?  Mamie finished her snack just as I got done applying her eye makeup.  I adjusted her crinoline and then our names were called.

 

You're on, kiddo!  Tap it out, baby!

 

I heard my daughter say, "this is a piece of cake, Mom," only she said it in Portuguese so the teacher wouldn't catch on.  She was asked to draw a flower and seemed puzzled at first, then inquired "Monet or Van Gogh ?"(pronouncing the hard "gh" sound.)  The teacher seemed taken aback so she drew both and then watercolored them appropriately while lecturing on the importance of wearing an absorbent diaper when working with H2O.  When it came time to dance for the teacher, she did a swingy charleston before her Alvin AIley inspired interpretation of "Elmo's Potty Time" (simulated both poop and pee.)   She ended with jazz hands.

 

The teacher seemed mildly impressed yet asked "Is that all she can do?"   As I attempted to answer her query Mamie changed into another getup and recited Shakespeare.  Backwards.  While hopping.  "The quality of mercy is not strained..."

 

Next, her vocabulary was tested.   When asked how she was today, she answered "tumescent" as her molars were coming in and causing swelling.  When asked what she dined on last night, she replied "I cooked ratatouille and lamb shank.  Would you like some, I have a platter for you in my Dora backpack."  After pooping on command in the shape of the Virgin Mary, we were asked to leave.   On our way out, I asked the director how we did. 

 

"So - So," she said.  "She really should incorporate some fire dancing into her floor show."  Point taken!

 

With that, we headed home.  The caffeine buzz has all but faded and my child was asleep in her stroller, clutching her blanket and teddy bear.  God, I hope that normal child behavior doesn't ruin her chances of getting in.  Wish us luck!
 

This was today's choice:  either let Mamie scream her lungs out in her crib ("Mommy, Mommy, no crib, BED, no pee, no poop, BED, Mommeeeeeeeee...." -- nice of her to let me know there was no pee or poop going on, dontcha think?) or go into her after 15 minutes of that, plop her down on the tempurpedic and watch her put herself out in 2.2 minutes.

 

Guess which one I did?

 

Yes, much to the chagrin of our sitter ("Do no go into her tomorrow," she pleaded with me yesterday), I went in.  I went in and I picked her up.  I went in and I picked her up and PUT HER ON THE BED.  Man, I am toast next week when I have to tell the sitter what I did.  Am I the only who's a little scared of the sitter?  Anyway, I figured what's worse, a crying, upset child who is still (perpetually) teething, or a kid who will sleep for 2 hours, albeit next to me in the bedroom.  For me that was a no brainer (no cracks, please).  I'd rather have a napped kid, than a cranky one.  That's what I'm saying today anyway.  Check back with me tomorrow.

 

After two years, you'd think I'd have this down more, wouldn't you? You would think by now that nothing could frazzle me more than those first 3 months, right?  Well, for the record, I don't have it down.  At all.  In fact, I'm making it up as I go along.  Can you tell?  Does it show?  And I know I am making mistakes.  But I had a revelation this weekend and that is:   WHO CARES?  I know.  What took me so long?

 

I used to be so  worried about what other people thought.   Those few times I had real honest-to-god talks with other parents who didn't lie about how much sleep their kid was getting, or if they still took bottles or any other of the 10,000 issues new parents seem to obsess over, well, those talks made me feel better.  Like, I wasn't alone.  But those occurrences seem to happen less and less now.  Maybe because I am not spending time at the park?  Maybe because we are inside, sick all the time (yes, I have yet another cold.  Thanks indoor playspace for the germs!)  But this time alone has made me realize that this when it is best to just listen to yourself, to trust in your ability as a parent because nobody knows your kid like you do.  Like, duh, Barbara.  Talks with other parents are nice and all but it really comes down to you.  Or me, in this case.

 

I was thinking this weekend, as Mamie took yet another nap on the bed next to me instead of her crib, that if we were out in the wilderness no one would give a flying you-know-what (that-rhymes-with-puck) about how I am raising my kid or where she naps or what she eats for dinner (last night:  cereal and a poptart -- an  "organic" poptart, but still.)  Then I started thinking some more (it was a long nap), and thought about how utterly ridiculous it is to even worry about what other people think.  I mean, c'mon.  I don't care what other people do, unless they are causing physical harm to me or Mamie.  So why was I so hung up on what I perceived to be what other people thought about us?  Indeed, why?  (Perhaps reading too many parenting websites?!)

 

The fact is I have so little time to do anything, that using valuable minutes to ponder what someone might be thinking about me when Mamie refuses to get in her stroller at the busy bookstore and other pleasantries like that, well, that just doesn't (read:  shouldn't) matter.   I don't speak for anybody else.  I speak for me.  And I say, that hells yeah, it's about time. 

 

I guess I should be thankful it only took 2 years to reach this conclusion, huh?

Now that Mamie is just about over her cold (I have it now.  I sound like a cross between Suzanne Pleshette, Maude and the teacher from Charlie Brown) it was time to take her for her two year check-up.  The not-so-fun thing about living in New York State is that at the one-year and two-year intervals, your baby needs to have a blood test to check lead levels.  And it's a real blood test, a vial or two, not just a pinprick.  Last year, they drew from her finger while she bawled so loud and furious that her face broke out into insta-hives (mine too, actually.)  Then two weeks later she had to be tested again, in her arm this time, because she has a milk protein allergy.  Since then, going to the doctor is a scream fest for her, and for the people in a 2-mile radius.   She.  Is. LOUD.

 

Today we saw a new doctor, a nice Orthodox woman whose wig was slightly askew.  Mamie loved her and got through the entire check-up without crying, which is a first.  She let the doctor look in her ears, eyes, and even her mouth where the sprouting molars are staking themselves out, painfully.  Next it was time for the blood draw.  I left the room like the true coward I am. (You should have seen me when I was pregnant.  When the doctor asked me if I wanted a mirror to watch the birth, I told him to please hide my glasses because there was no way I wanted to see anything.  I knew what was going to happen.  I understood the process.  No visuals needed, thanks!)  Anyway, today I hid in the waiting area when it was time for the blood-letting.  Doug is a lot braver than me and so he held Mamie in his lap while I paced nervously in front of brand new parents who looked at me with alarm.   Last year during this process,  I put my head in my hands and cried with her (in spirit) in the coat closet but today, I didn't have to.  Mamie soldiered through the three vials of blood and only cried when it was over and they were trying to put the bandaid on her.   She wanted Dora and all they had was Barbie.  I'd cry too.

 

We'll know Monday if she outgrew her milk allergy.  If so, then this is the end of blood tests for a long while.  If not, she gets to do this every six months until we get a clear signal.  Interestingly enough, the doctor told us that blood tests aren't all that accurate, and that we'd most likely have to do trial and error with foods anyway.  So if we get the all-clear, next week it's cheese!   I know that sounds banal, but Mamie has never had it.  Nor ice cream.  Or anything deliciously dairy.  She doesn't seem to mind for now because she doesn't know what she's missing.  I made her cupcakes without milk for her birthday and she couldn't be less interested in them.  But I'm thinking that will all change when we get the go-ahead for chocolate though.

 

She's out with her Pops now, her little arm bruised from the inexperienced nurse who couldn't find her vein.  But she's in good spirits.  After these past few weeks, she deserves some fun.  And hopefully soon, some pizza!

 

 

I can't believe I'm actually blogging now.

 

See, this week has been nuts.  Mamie was sick, which meant she was glued to me.  GLUED.  I couldn't leave the room to go to the bathroom without her yelling "Mom-meeeeee."   She wanted me in her pocket.  Normally I would love that, but after 5 days of having to nap with her -- on the bed, in the spoon position, unable to shift because that would wake her and then she'd start coughing and crying and then I'd want to cry and then, well, then we'd have to resort to Jack's Big Music Show to re-set -- she is finally sleeping in her crib at nap time.   Thanks to ye olde nap gods!  Halleluyee.

 

I didn't realize how much I got done during nap time.   Besides the regular stuff, like eating and cleaning up the dishes I didn't get to wash during breakfast, this is the time I'd do my Babblin'.  And my emails and phone calls.  And cooking for dinner and laundry.  And editing the book I've been trying to write for months now.  And oh yeah, perhaps relaxing.  Man, I missed this time.  I still cannot believe I am here.  Now.  Talking to YOU (my one reader, Hello!)

 

See, I know how lucky I am to have a child who naps for almost 3 hours daily.  I also know that is gonna stop soon too.  It's already starting.  We're down to about 2.5  hours.  And last week she did a 1.5 hour slumber.  So yeah, it's only a matter of time before there is no daytime sleep and less night time sleep  That's why I'm logging off now.  I have a lot to do!
 

TEN MINUTES LATER:  You don't want to know about the crying, right?  How Mamie woke and cried for me and the bed and the not wanting to be in the crib?  Right?  Well, do you want to know that she is asleep right next to me in the bed, right now?   What could I do, she's sick.  Somebody tell me this will pass.  Somebody?  Are you there?

 

There was a time in our house when the Noggin channel was on more than it was off.  What can I say, last winter was cold and rainy and when your kid's nap schedule doesn't match up to any other kid in the neighborhood, you end up watching a lot of kids programming.  That's right, you end up watching a lot of kids programming.   How can you not?  Childrens' television has so many subplots!

 
These are the questions I have:

 
1.   Why do the animals on Franklin all have animal names yet Franklin has a "real" name?

2.   Why do Little Bear's parents wear clothes and he doesn't?

3.   Why doesn't Prairie Dawn have a nose?

4.   Are Miffy and Boris Bear having an affair?

5.   Am I the only one who wants to throttle the little girl on 64 Zoo Lane?

6.   Why is Dora's head so much bigger than Diego's?

7.   Are the Ferocious Beast and Hamilton the pig gay?  

8.   Do the people on Sesame Street think Elmo has imaginary friends, or can they see us too?

9.   Where the hell are Max and Ruby's parents?

10.   Is the guy on LazyTown a Nazi?

11.  Where do the Backyardigans live?   Is it Jersey?  Looks like Jersey.

12.  Will the Wonder Pets come fix my toilet?

13.  Has Joe from Blues Clues gained weight OR WHAT?

14.  Who would win if Pinky Dinky Do and Maisy decided to duke it out?

15.  Moose and Zee:  are they a thing?
 

Since Mamie was born I have avoided the whole pink thing with her.  Don't get me wrong.  I love pink, but it felt kinda wrong to impose that one color on her.  Pink = girl, I guess.  But so are other colors.  Mamie's clothes are earth tones, blues, greens, reds and yellows.  Yes, there are also pinks, but her entire wardrobe didn't revolve around the color. 

 
When I was pregnant I looked at baby clothes a lot, and what i didn't get was the little girls clothes were all prissy and over the top frilly and full of bows while the boys clothes were like little man clothes.  Why were little girls clothes so frou-frou?  I mean, I love girlie clothes but these seemed way off, itchy and uncomfortable.  And the funny thing was that even when I dressed Mamie in her pink snowsuit and took her out, I still got comments like "how old is he?" 

 
So I take Mamie out yesterday in her tan overalls with orange piping and brown top underneath.  She is wearing these great little brown boots and I have her curly hair up in a high ponytail, tendrils falling out.  She looked really cute.  But then someone asked how old my son was.   "Didn't you see the ponytail," I said.  "Oh," they said, "you know, you have her dressed a boy." 

When we got home, I changed Mamie for her nap.  "What do you want to wear?," I asked her. 
 

"Pink," she said.  "Pink shirt."

 
As a matter of fact, she wants everything pink now.  Pink fork, pink spoon, pink towel, pink washcloth, pink pinkness.  And you know?  I am giving it to her.  I knew this stage of  dressing her the way I want to wouldn't last long.  And I also know that it's only a matter of time before she wants the full on Barbie sparkle, way too many baubles on them, kinda clothes.  It will pain me, but yes, she will get those too.  And I'll take lots of pictures of her in them.  This way when she enters her goth phase in about 12 years, we can all have a good laugh.

 

1.  The first time you put your baby on the bed and .... THUMP.  They fall out.  Onto the floor.  Happens to everyone. Be sure to write it down in your baby book the first time it happens to you!

 
2.  The first time your kid eats dirt or something else they picked up off of the playground yard.  Don't let the other moms' disapproving glances throw you.  They are just commiserating.

3.  The first time your darling toddler has a meltdown in public.  Bring the video camera!  They grow up so fast...
 

4.  The first time you catch yourself calling your self Mommie.  Stop it.  Stop it NOW.  You have a name.  And it's not Mommie.

 

5.  The first time you go out and forget to bring a diaper with you.  (We have like, 10 diapers in the stroller with us at all times.)

 

6.  The first time you watch a Laurie Berkner video and think "Hey this isn't bad."
6.a.  The first time you are up all night with "Victor Vito" song stuck in your head. 

 

7.  The first time you think of possibly moving to the suburbs.  To a house.  Where you can go to the garage and scream without neighbors hearing you.

8.  The first time you hear yourself say "Baby X slept through the entire night!  Yay, we can all get some sleep now!"
8.a.  The first time you realize that the whole sleeping through the night thing comes and goes.
8.b.  The first time you try Cry It Out.
8.c.  The first time you actually tell someone you did Cry It Out.
8.d.  The first time you realize that it's maybe best not to discuss your baby's sleep habits with just anybody because everybody has an opinion and it will only give you a headache.

 

9.  The first time you find yourself sniffing your baby's diaper in public to see if your kid was the one who dropped the deuce. 

 

10.   The first time you realize that no one has this down.  That no one knows anything.  Especially you.  And you're ok with that.

 

A little while ago I was in the supermarket buying some stuff and there was a woman in front of me with a baby and about 10 jars of baby food.  I didn't think anything of it until she started talking rather emphatically about how her daughter just had her one year check-up where she proudly told the pediatrician that her kid was only on table food.  Her baby was sick now and teething and only wanted mushy foods though.  I told her that was totally normal, fine - anything I could think of to make her feel better and less weird.  I mean, feeding kids is not a science.  Some days they will love something and the next day they won't.  I also told the woman not to feel bad and just be happy that her daughter was eating at all!   She seemed relieved and even thanked me for the kind words.  We said goodbye.  It was then off to the bagel place and the same woman was in line there too.  Here we introduced ourselves, talked some more and bid farewell once again.  

I love when random encounters like this happen.  I feel that since I had a baby, spontaneous conversations happen like this very frequently.  It's a really good feeling -- just talking honestly with someone that you don't really know, yet bond with on another level.  It's always nice to make a new acquaintance,  especially when you are out taking your kid for a walk or stroller ride and you need some human contact.  Like, last week.  I was coming out of the bank and saw one of our favorite shop owners. She remembered when I first had Mamie and I remembered when she had her daughter a year ago.  We were catching up and all of a sudden someone comes barreling out of the bank with her stroller, almost knocking us over.  

"Great place to stand, right in front of the door," the woman growled nastily at us.  

I wanted to yell back, "It's only Park Slope, not TOO many babies here, you know," but I was frozen in my tracks.  It was the woman with the baby food dilemma!  I looked at her to just try and get some recognition going.  But nah, she tore away like her tuchis was on fire (maybe it was?)  I looked at my friend in bewilderment.

"That was crazy, right?" I said to her.

Confirmation affirmative.  We both stared at the back of this woman as she fumed away.  I couldn't help saying something, so I shouted down the street.

"Hey, hey, HEY. Remember last week when we met in the supermarket and had that really nice talk?  Well, HELLO."

But she didn't/wouldn't turn back and I was left standing on the street corner with the words hanging thick.  What was she thinking?  Bad day?  PMS?  Poopie diaper emergency?  Just not a nice person?  There are a lot of strollers here and being caught behind one when you're in a hurry sucks.  But I mean, she had a stroller too.  And she was using it like a lawn mower.

So I saw her today, and she still wasn’t picking up what I was putting down.  I smiled at her kid, and then looked at her for a glimmer of acknowledgment.  That's fine if she didn't remember me, or didn't want to remember me, but I thought, here we are with kids who want to play with each other, so let's just set an example and be friendly to each other.  But no.  She wasn't down with it.  When they left, Mamie waved goodbye and I muttered a "see ya," but I don't think it got through.  That's cool though.  I'm just glad she didn't have her stroller with her this time!

Yes, I counted the days Mamie has been alive for this post, and no she hasn't been teething exactly since day one.  But close.

 
Mamie has been teething since she was about 3 months old.  Sure, she cut her actual first tooth at 8 months, but the teething started and well, it's never really stopped.  The first tooth?  Well, that was bad.  The second tooth, not so much.  The upper fronts?  Not fun.  The molars?  Oy.  And the eye teeth?  The worst.  Now that we're in the homestretch (4!  more!  to!  go!), I am almost relieved.   I say almost, because these last four teeth are huge, as in gi-normous, how ya gonna fit those in my kid's mouth big?  I mean, really, she has enough teeth.  She can eat meat, she can crunch the booty.  Can't we just stop now?

 
We've gone through bottle of homeopathic teething tablets (they work until they don't work) and we are no strangers to baby Motrin (the lord's elixir).  I'm just looking forward to the day where she doesn't want to jam inappropriate objects in her mouth. 

 
When's that again?

 

 

I have a real love/hate relationship with the TLC show What Not To Wear. We all know the premise -- it's basically a makeover show for someone who has no idea "how to dress."  That could mean anything from a person fully bedecked out in polyester to someone else who dresses in clothes 3 sizes too big, to other people who just dress plain ol' ugly.  Sometimes I think they do a great job, but other times I think, leave that person alone, they're happy wearing plaid 24-7!

Since I was sick most of last week, and all I could really do was lay in bed with the television on (as the fever wouldn't let me sleep), I turned on the tube to something other than Noggin.  When I'm not watching kids' programming, seems I am tuned in to TLC.  I just love the way people get things done so fast there!  (A room done over in only 2 days!  Just like real life!)

Anyway, the episode that was on was of a working mother who had not spent any money on herself in about 10 years.  Her wardrobe consisted of outdated work clothes that were unflattering and her casual wardrobe consisted of outdated casual clothes that were unflattering.  The woman explained that she'd rather spend the money on her kids.  And whether it was the TheraFlu or not, that's when I felt like "oh man, I can relate."

Before having a kid, I used to spend money on clothes for myself.  I had a closet full of nice threads and I wore them to work, going out, or just walking around the city.  But since having Mamie my wardrobe consists of, well, it consists of jeans, cords, trainers, boots and layering t-shirts. Sure, my hair is always "done" and a coat of lipstick is most often applied, but when I went shopping recently for clothes, I kept thinking, "what the hell do I wear these days?" 

It's easy in the summer to throw on a vintage skirt and tank top and feel like I have some style, but in the winter?  Well, I'm sure you've seen me because I wear THE SAME THING every day (skinny jeans, boots, thermal, t-shirt).  Not that I really care.  I still have a closet (less) filled with nice things to wear, should I ever need to. (When will that be again?)  

Anyway, this episode of WNTW really hit home with me.  Yes, I have to say that I'd rather be shopping for my daughter these days than myself, but I also saw how important it is to do for your own self.   I don't my kid nominating me for that show, like this woman's son had. So as soon as I'm completely better, I'm going to go out and buy something new.  Yes, it will most likely be another pair of jeans just like I have, because the knees on these are getting worn from playing on the floor with Mamie, but that's ok.   It's a start anyway.

At first I didn't know if I should write about this show here because as entertaining as it is, it is really dark. Dark as in sick. Sick as in twisted. And twisted as in funny! And funny as in "is it ok to be laughing at Wonder Showzen because it seems really sick?" I am here to say, that yes, it is ok! Laugh! Laugh! Out loud and free! And if you don't like it, don't judge me too hard. I had a helluva week.

We like the TV here. Not that we have all that much time to watch the tube but when we do we want it be something that we really enjoy. Wonder Showzen is program that looks like it is for kids, but it is not. Read that again, IT IS NOT. Do not let your ks watch this. It will harm them. In fact it might harm you.

 

The show parodies children's shows in a way that is ill, ill, ill.  Some spots are hilarious, but beware some are truly offensive.  My favorite spots are when real kids (9 or 10 years old) do those man-on-the-street interviews. The episode I saw had a young girl, maybe interviewing people on Wall St., asking "Who did you exploit today?" Most people laugh, some people don't and others walk away when the child offers them a tissue "to wash the blood off your hands." I do not know how this kid did not crack up. There's also a puppet named Clarence who looks like the love child of Grover and the most annoying guy you could ever, ever meet in a bar at 4AM. His main job is to harass people, and he does it really, really well. I saw him attempting to interview runners in Central Park -- while they were running -- until someone physically beat him down. 

 

Unlike Sesame Street, the numbers and letters here do not get along with each other (they are sponge-like in appearance and have eyes and limbs and penises and vaginas. Some have alcohol problems.) At times they get to know each other GRAPHICALLY (the letter N is now pregnant). There are also cartoons. "D.O.G.O.B.G.Y.N." is a pup who delivers babies in gruesome detail, and my favorite is a spot called "Finger Force" which is about anorexic girls who want to raise money for clothes shopping. I know this sounds awful and some of it truly is (the visit to the hot dog factory sticks out in my mind and some cartoons are incredibly violent), but it is also hilarious. You will find yourself laughing at something, I betcha.

 

Maybe I found it so hysterical because my mind is numb with regular children's programming. Yes, Sesame Street is fantastic and I pray down to God every night that it is on when I need it, but at the end of the day, sometimes I just need to laugh. The show is on MTV2 Fridays at 9:30 P.M. ET. Some episode bits are downloadable from your friends, the internets. Watch it and see for yourselves.

 

Just please, keep the kids away.

Less is more, that's my thing.  I've always been a minimalist kind of person.  It's probably due to the fact that I've lived in really small spaces for great lengths of time.  In fact, the last apartment I had before I got married was a studio.  Actually, it was more like a bedroom.  But it was mine all mine and filled with, well, not much.  (Do Pez collections count?) 

 

For the longest time Mamie was minimal too.  Her room was tidy and her crib was empty of all things gimcrack.  Even though all of her friends had a special friend, a lovey, something, Mamie was "Nah uh, not me, I needs the space" (that's not really her voice.)  Sure, Mamie had her favorite blanket that she slept with, but that was IT.  If I even tried to introduce her to a stuffed animal, it went flying across the room.

 

[SIDE NOTE:  What is going to happen when the blankie gets too worn out?  See, they stopped making them.  So tell, what will I do?  And special note to Archer (hi!):  Mamie loves her new limited edition tiny stuffed animal that you got in Japan for her when you were on tour.  But tell me, do you have any extras?  Because she will lose it.  And when she does you will hear the bleating all the way in Chicago.  Listen for it.]

 

Back to the plot:  Mamie has suddenly decided that she needs 864 things with her when she goes to sleep now.  I guess it ain't a crib, if there ain't a party goin' on in it.  Here's who is in attendance:  The little white bear that we found him on the street (he was a McDonald's giveaway and when we saw how much Mamie loved him we eBayed like, 8 more,) Luden, a stuffed donkey that jingles, a big pink crocheted pig, a fluffy turtle, Pinky, the Japanese creature that looks like half cute monster/half mental patient, Elmo (Mamie beats his eyes against the crib rail nightly), a baby doll who is anatomically correct, a soft dog book, Go Dog Go!, Goodnight Gorilla, a book about a barn and the Wheels on the Bus book.  Also in attendance is the gnarly blanket, a flattened pillow, and our newest guest:  a whole box of tissues.  She cried a few nights ago when I wouldn't allow her to bring in the big yellow Boohbah that sings and dances when you press its feet.  Nah, he ain't ain't invited. (too rowdy.)


So where does Mamie sleep?  Most nights when I go in to check on her, all of the animals and books are piled high in a pyramid on her pillow.  She's somewhere in the middle, usually on the edge, all stretched out like a Vargas girl.  Whatever works as she sleeps like a dream. 

 

(Bite my tongue.)

 

ADDENDUM:  Today, Jan. 1st, after sleeping for 30 minutes in her crib at naptime, Mamie awoke crying because she couldn't find her bear.  Which one, I asked, praying that she'd find it and then go back to sleep.  No such luck, we couldn't find the bear under all the crap (plastic food is in the crib now as well as a Dora and Diego with the tags still on because Mamie won't let me take them off).  Finally, I found the bear (there are 2 in there) and here I write this, on the floor of our bedroom while Mamie naps IN THE BED, refusing to get back in the crib.  Let's just say, that Mama is gonna do some evicting tonight.

 

 

Dear Mamie,

 
Two years ago right at this very moment I was hooked up to all kinds of contraptions with a dodgy epidural in place, a pitocin drip and the phone glued to my ear (TCB in the OR!)  In between phone calls, I sucked on many lollipops and watched exciting back to back episodes of Ambush Makeover.  By the time Live at Five came on I was informed that it was time to push.  Up until then it had been a pretty painless labor. 

Then they turned the epidural off.

 
I'm not going to wax about the pain, but let's just say that I was very happy when you arrived.  Happy to see your little beaten up face, happy to count your ten little fingers and toes and happy to get some of that them there painkiller in the IV turned back on.  The nurses at the hospital told me that very night that you were the loudest baby they ever met.  They were not smiling when they said that, but I thought that was funny.  You are still loud.  And I am still laughing at that.  Keep screaming, Mame.

 
This last year has been incredible.  You learned to walk and talk and you even got yourself a boyfriend too.  Your once dark hair has turned blond, although your father and I are natural brunettes.   You sleep well, eat better and the top of your head is still my favorite place to kiss on you. This is you in a nutshell:  you like to hold hands with anyone that will let you, you love the bath and especially when it's time to wash the "nits out of Bebe's hair" (yes, your baby has cradle cap), you like to eat almost anything but only in a yellow bowl (today, anyway), you like wearing my hoodies and so I let you even though you look like old skool Carol Burnett in them, you cannot get enough of "Head Shoulders Knees and Toes," especially when the Teletubbies sing it (kill me).  You are the mascot of Harmony Playground (shout out to the ladies there) and Cathy at the local Barnes & Noble now carries a picture of you ON HER BADGE because you are so fucken cute.  Mamie, you are like, the most friendly kid in the world.  

So today is your birthday and yes, it is your day and we shall do many fun things like go for a walk to the shoe store for the sole purpose that you can gaze (and kiss) yourself in the mirror.  You shall have a tasty dinner of whatever you want, even if that is only crackers like last night, because it is your birthday.  But it also my birthday too. My birth day. Birthdays aren't just about presents, they're also about remembering your birth. On this day at 6:02 I believe I will always remember that incredible moment.

I am so happy you are here, Mamie.
 

Happy birthday to both of us.
 

 


 

Not that it is my job to explain this site, but when I mention I write here the first question people ask is:  

“Oh, is that the one for hip parents?”

 
I answer by saying that babble is for urban parents.  That is, people who have kids, and who happen to live in a metropolitan environment.  This has nothing to do with being a hipster to me.  It’s just that living in a city has a totally different set of challenges than living in a house in the suburbs.  Both have difficulties, both are good, and both are bad.  From where I stand, in the middle of Park Slope, I’m almost urban, not quite suburban, and alls I can say that the farthest thing on my mind is trying to be cool.

Here's the thing. I remember when Mamie was 6 months old I went out and spent $32 on a Sex Pistols t-shirt for her. Here I was imposing my youth on her, like my punk days would show everyone how cool my kid was.  How cool I was.  So can I tell you how stupid I felt when nannies at the local playground would look at me and ask me about the shirt.

”Well, it’s this band that I used to love.”  

 
I didn't mention that the only time I listen to Never Mind The Bollocks these days is when I clean the house.  Punk rock man, yeah.  (Isn't John Lydon like  60 now anyway?)  But saying that sentence I realized the shirt had nothing to do with my kid, and everything to do with me trying to show everyone what kind of parent I was trying to be.  Which is so wrong. 

 
A lot of people feel that when they become parents they need to figure out a way to still be cool but it’s not about looking or acting cool for your kid.  In fact, it’s the complete opposite.  It’s about being silly, mostly in public, with them.  It’s about singing “Wheels on the Bus” with them, out of tune, on 7th Avenue because it's the only thing that makes them happy when they are strapped in the stroller.  It’s about changing your kid’s diaper where “cool people” are, while getting looks from said people because “yuck, look at her. “  It's about, well, it's not solely about you anymore. 

I think for those who spent their young-adult years living in some place like New York City, it’s hard reconciling how a kid fits into the mix.  Big cities in general are about image and what you are projecting.  It’s about putting on a street face, acquiring a fast gait and looking impeccable even when you just run out to the local bodega.  However, the reality is when you have a kid, all of that kinda disappears.  It’s not about actively trying to be cool.  You had your 20’s, and in my case, all of my 30s for that.  It’s time to grow up.  And maybe that’s what I’m hoping babble can help a lot of us do. 

Sure, you can have hip clothes and cool furniture and all that jazz – that doesn’t define cool anyway as much as personal style.  But I think that if anyone was so concerned about coolness in the first place, they were probably never cool to begin with.  But frankly, who has the time and energy, especially NOW, to even think about it?

That's all I’m sayin’.

I am creeped out about many things:  Frank's "designs” from Trading Spaces, the bathroom at  the playground, hotel bedspreads and ventriloquist dummies.  Ever since I saw the Twilight Zone episode where the dummy talks and vows vengeance, I can’t look at a woodenhead with painted on lips without feeling creeped out.  

So of course my daughter’s favorite toy is Charlie McCarthy.

Charlie was a childhood pal of my husbands' and about a year ago my mother-in-law brought him over for Mamie.  I immediately told her that he frightened me, but I didn’t want to raise Mamie to be afraid of inanimate objects so I thanked her nicely --- and then threw him in the closet.  Every now and then when I opened that closet I would scream because there was good ol’ Charlie, half propped up, STARING at me.   Phreak.

Then the day came when Mamie noticed him.  And well, she liked him.  She kissed him.  She dragged him on the floor, his big ol' head bouncing hard along the way.  She then motioned for me to dance with him while her father danced with her (oh, what a video that would be.)   Mamie got a great kick out of this and when I made Charlie “talk” she thought that was hysterical.  We fed him veggie booty until we had to take off his head to get the crumbs out. 

I started making up dialogue with Charlie during those long afternoons when the weather was bad and we had nothing to do.  I pretended he had a crush on another one of Mamie’s dolls.  I imagined he was a drunkard, living a secret life in her closet where he got the other stuffed animals to run out and get him liquor (gin, he likes gin.)  He asked Mamie a lot of questions about her diaper and then we put one on him.  I would put plastic meat in it and then ask the babysitter to play “change Charlie’s diaper” with Mamie and then wait for shrieks from the next room.  Oh, what fun we had! 

I know all of this is insane, but it got me over my fear of ventriloquist dummies.  Now all I have to deal with is the kids who come over to the house and cry uncontrollably when they see him sitting on our sofa in Mamie’s old leopard pants.

That Charlie!  What a sport.
 

Once upon a time I was new to the playground scene.  I used to wear things like white cords and vintage trainers that I didn’t want to mess up.  I just didn’t know.  I was somewhat shy but overcame that quickly due to the nice people at ye olde playgrounde.  I talked to everyone and everyone talked to me.  It was nice.  I could hardly believe it.  See, I had come from the publishing world, and well, let’s just say that not everyone was so nice there.

Everything was going gangbusters (yes, gangbusters), until Stinkeye came.  Stinkeye was a mom who was quite lovely with her shiny hair and pale skin.  She reminded me of Meg White, only she seemed surlier.  Which of course made me want to be friends with her.  So I ambled over to the swings and before you knew it we had a real conversation™ about not sleeping through the night.  I felt we had bonded.  

A few days later when she came around again, I waved heartily at her.  But there was no response.  Maybe she didn’t see me, I thought,  but then I thought, nah, no way, she saw me.  In fact she was looking right at me.  Only problem was, she was looking at me with the expression of someone who was either highly constipated or who had just smelled overcooked brussel sprouts.  She was clearly giving me the Stinkeye (hence the name.)

Still, I shouted “Hi!”  I might as well have been saying, "I’m an idiot, Hi!"

She didn’t come over and so I immediately thought in my mind, BITCH, what a bitch, what is wrong with you?  We had the Real Conversation Where We Didn’t Lie To Each Other and everything.  I felt so played.

It went on like this for a while.  Some days Stinkeye would be all friendly and nice and other days it was as if I didn’t exist.  It was weird and I just decided that she was fickle or depressed or something that had nothing to do with me. Then one day, my husband came with us to the playground.  Stinkeye was there, giving me a real foul one, when Doug said something to me.

“Um, she’s obviously pregnant, which could account for her mood.  Maybe she’s just nauseous when she’s talking to you.” 

 
I didn’t take that as a slam as I was nauseous 99% of the time I was pregnant.  Everything made me queasy:  food, walking uphill, and that commercial about foot fungus burrowing into someone's animated toenail.

I had no idea what he was talking about.  Then I looked at her belly and what I thought was baby weight, was an actual baby.  Well, baby in the making.   See, I didn’t know.  But I did know that you can never ever say to a woman, “so when are you due?” because that woman may NOT be pregnant.  And you do not want to go there.

I felt mad at myself for being so quick to judge.  I don’t want to be like that.  It’s hard sometimes when you’re new to something and you think everyone has it so together except for you.  It’s an easy out to jump to conclusions. I must stop that, I thought. 

So I saw Stinkeye ( I know I should stop saying that but it’s such a good misnomer) the other day with her two kids who are thirteen months apart.  She looked great and tired and we had a very abbreviated conversation about all kinds of things including poop because when does a conversation with another parent not include poop.

It was really nice.  

So nice that I didn’t think twice when I left and another Mom on the street came up to me and said “You know, that Mom you were just talking to totally gave you the finger as soon as you left.”

I’m a late bloomer.  I got my period late and my boobs even later (actually, I’m still waiting for those.)  So it makes sense that I got married at 41, and had a kid at 43.  Sure, I look young.  I know about moisturizer is all.  Alls I’m saying is when I tell people how old I am and that I have a two year old I almost always get the same response.

“So, what kind of fertility drugs did you use?”

And when I tell them I didn’t use any, they look at me like I’m lying.

Believe, me, if I took some drugs or got IVF, I’d be telling everyone how I did it.  I am a believer in sharing information.  As a matter of fact, when my doctor told me that I couldn’t have kids because my eggs were rotten, I went around telling people I was infertile.  I started using that word because when we decided to adopt, I’d always, and I mean always, be met with people saying “but you can have one of your own too.”  After glaring hard at them for that insensitive remark, I’d just reply “No, I am infertile.”  I have stopped at least 2 dinner parties with that remark.

But now I don’t say that.  Now when I get asked I just say that I got pregnant by fucking.  And when their jaws drop (because it’s usually strangers who ask me this) I continue on and say “Yes, fucking.  Fucking two times a day.  Penis.  In.  Vagina.  No condom.  You know, with the squirting.”

After that, they kinda walk away.

1.  You pick your child’s nose without embarrassment (and are happy when you get a “big one.”)
2.  You no longer wear the Prada skirt and you no longer care that you no longer wear the Prada skirt.
3.  One word:  poop. I know it’s on your mind.
4.  Two more words:  cargo pants.  (Are you wearing them now?)
4.  You talk in 3 word sentences.
5.  You find yourself doing the Bjorn bounce even when you aren’t wearing it.
6.  You know all the words to the “Franklin” theme song (and you hate yourself for it.)
7.  Movies?  What are they?
8. Too many people have seen your boobs.
9.  There are cheerios everywhere.
10. You look at your kid and still cannot believe THAT came out of THERE.

When I got pregnant, I had no clue what I was in for.  After all, I was 43 and had been told by some of the best doctors in Manhattan that I had “bad eggs.”  So when I saw the pink line on the test, I called my doctor immediately to yell at her.

“You are not going to believe this,” I said, only I used inappropriate bad words.  

Almost immediately I was plied with advice books.  But I couldn’t relate to anything. What To Expect should be called What To Fear and those books written by “girlfriends” made me want to upchuck.  So I threw out the books and starting talking to other moms. Or rather they talked at me.

Helpful Hint No. 1:  If you are pregnant and someone wants to tell you their horrendous labor story, walk away, hang up the phone, RUN.  People love to tell you about their 72-hour labors and how they ended up with c-sections or two heads or extra toes.  It got so bad that I stopped answering the phone and put my hands over my ears and started to sing loudly (The Sex Pistols “Problem” is especially good for this) if the conversation turned to words like nipple-confusion, sciatica, swaddling, never-leaving-the-house-again.  These war stories not only scared the shit out of me but there didn’t seem to be any merit to them.   “The problem is YOU, what you gonna do….”

Then I had my baby.  I won’t bore you with all the details, especially the deep dark secret of epidurals.  Do you know that they turn them off when it’s time to push?  Oh, did I just say that?  Well, THEY DO.

I just wonder, why in the hell no one really tells you the important stuff, like what those first few weeks of parenthood are really like, how hard breastfeeding is, and how downright terrifying it can be taking care of an 8 pound human being.   Nobody talks about how utterly exhausted you will be -- and not tired like from a night of going out.  Think 30 nights in a row of going out and not being able to sleep at all the next day.  I almost thought of writing a book about the first month and giving the God’s honest truth about how incredibly grueling it really is.  But then I’d talk to parents who had been through it and they’d look at me with their knowing eyes and say, “it all gets better.”

I think the most arduous thing about the first month for me was the 0-60 grind you find yourself in as soon as you get home from the hospital.  Ready set go, you are a parent.  All those horror stories you hear about labor is nothing compared to being alone with a newborn for the first time.  Changing diapers?  Not a big deal.  Getting a baby to drink milk from your boobie?  Very big deal.  

Since I had no clue what I was doing, nor any family assistance, we did what most people in our situation do.  We bought help.  Enter the lactation consultant, who for $190 a pop will come to your house and jiggle your gazongas until the baby sucks correctly.  The only position that worked for me was the laying down one.  How was I going to do this in the real world?  On the sidewalk?  In Target, in aisle 9?  Long story short, it didn’t work out for us.  After 6 weeks we went to formula, and all I had to deal with was people staring at my once bodacious chest wondering what the hell happened.

 “So you’re not breastfeeding, I gather?”  

“Just my husband,” I’d retort.

Helpful Hint No. 3:  Hire a baby nurse or enlist a relative or buy someone to come over and relieve you.  I was determined to do everything on my own and shunned relief.  Don’t be me!  Accept the help.  And when people ask you what they can bring over to you, forego the cute onesies and ask for food.  You’re going to need it.

I may sound flippant but that first month was the most agonizing, worrying, stressful, heartbreaking, yet beautifully surreal, amazing experience that I have ever had. We made a human.  Yes, your knockers will ache, your baby will cry so loud that the neighbors down the hall will come by to see if everything is ok, and you will cry and laugh at the same time while spending some days wondering if you made the biggest mistake of your life.  

But then it changes.  It’s like they say, it gets better.  Your baby smiles at you.  Then she sleeps for 5 blessed hours in a row.  You go out with your baby, and feel confident in doing so.  There’s no gradually getting used to having a baby for a reason.  No, you have to dive in all at once.  You do it because you have to, because you want to.  And all that anger or fear about how excruciating those first 30 days were magically disappears.  People don’t tell you how bad it is because I seriously think that they don’t remember.  Months go by so fast that there is always something new to worry about.  And then suddenly, you are the one who is telling new parents “it gets better.”  You even become nostalgic for those first few weeks.  

That’s how you get baby number 2.   

Remember when autumn meant things like new plush sweaters, lazy daytime naps and Noveau Beaujolais?  I used to love that first smell of winter in the air but now that I have a two year old, autumn and impending winter mean one thing.

WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO EACH DAY NOW THAT WE CAN’T GO OUTSIDE?

In the summer Mamie and I would go to the playground every day, have fun in the sun, cool off in the sprinklers and then conk out for 3 hours in the afternoon (yes, both of us.)  I remember strolling her home thinking about how hard those early months were, but this, this was easy.  Nah, this motherhood thing ain’t hard at all, I thought.

So of course it had to end.

Now, oh my God, every day is like, well, we can go to the ten dollar a day play space or to the bookstore or stay in and watch endless videos – or the same one video -- and sing songs in funny voices until one of us cries (usually me.) Then Mommy can pray for a three-hour nap, but that won’t happen because no energy was expended doing things like reading books or making shoes out of Playdoh.   Playdates?  They never seem to work out for us.  One kid is always napping late, or early, or is sick or the mom doesn’t want to go to so-and so’s house because it is so incredibly filthy and last time we went Mamie tried to eat a dust bunny.

You’d think that in Park Slope, Brooklyn, home to ten zillion kids – and more a ‘comin’, that there would be more indoor play spots.  But there aren’t.  And yes, we do classes.  Mamie takes a tumbling/gymnastics class and we do these hour and a half pre-pre-pre-school jobbies at the local synagogue called Terrific Twos.  But we need something else.

I was kvetching about this with another mom at the local sandpit in Harmony Playground just last week during the brief stint of that wonderful stuff called global warming.  She shook her head lots and then told me about something new! and exciting! and different! to do with your kid.  She was talking about Granny Hour.  Basically Granny Hour happens every Tuesday morning for an hour at the local geriatric center here.  Yes, exactly what I was thinking, FUN.  It consists of” old folks with dementia sitting in a circle while little kids play in the middle.”  And yeah, that’s kinda verbatim.  I said that didn’t seem like much enjoyment, but then the mom said that kids don’t really care as long as there are toys around.

Hmm, I thought:  time to line up those playdates.  NOW.