Tracy McArdle / "Getting Some"

The latest question, v. 2

2011-06-02T16:42:00.003-04:00

4 Year-Old: "Mommy, what bad things did you do when you were a kid?"

Me: "Define kid."

4 Year-Old: "Mommy."

Me: "Well... sometimes I was naughty..."

4 Year-Old (intrigued beyond standing it): "Like how?"

Me: "Let's have ice cream for desert tonight!"

4 Year-Old (too smart for that): "Mommy, how were you naughty?"

Me: "I don't know."

4 Year Old: "Yes, you do."

The latest questions

2011-05-26T14:41:00.002-04:00

"Where does my yawn come from?"

- Henry, age 3, after yawning.

"If you were in the sky, could you see the world?"

- Ryder, age 4

"Has anyone held their pee longer than I have today?"

- Tracy, age 42

Toddler Haikus

2011-03-14T11:44:00.005-04:00

Sorry for the prolonged absence...

I'm back at work (outside the home). That means I'm wearing clothes again, outside of sweat pants, I mean. A good thing.

Meantime, here are some thoughts in haiku form, which is all I have time for these days:

First day back to work
I wake to toddler vomit
Violation! My own bed.

Your small noses run
Colors defy nature
I am surely next

You hit your brother
The rescue comes too late
Teeth marks on your cheek

The rug smells of pee
It’s no fault of my body
You, without diaper.

Please submit your own Toddler Haikus!

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

2010-09-09T15:24:00.001-04:00

As the school busses round our corners in the mornings, and the pleasant nip of September drifts into our evening dinner hours, we breathe a collective sigh to welcome the new season. And welcome it is. It’s been a long summer, and a bountiful one weather-wise; we enjoyed August temperatures in June and wrapped up the season with a near miss of Hurricane Earl, which brought the not unwelcome combination of rain, a drop in temperature and a nice breeze to Labor Day Weekend, summer’s melancholy bookend.

One thing about having small children is how it makes you recall your own childhood summers. The carefree endless days, hours upon hours spent outside, watching fireworks and waiting for lightning bugs, gorging on ice cream, building sandcastles and other small civic engineering projects from sand, rocks and seaweed, riding bikes, and waiting with delight for the big attraction to round the corner at that 4th of July parade. And yes, poison ivy, bee stings, long hot car rides, black and blues, skinned knees and water up the nose.

I did things the summer I never would have done without small children (and couldn’t do when they were babies). Pony rides. Train rides. Boogie boards. Floaties. Campgrounds. Root beer floats. Hot dogs. Pool parties. Hikes in the woods (short ones). Canoe rides (also short). Buying worms. Baiting hooks. Catching sunfish. Swings. Slides. Popsicles. Races. Lakes, ponds, oceans and swimming holes. Naps. Long ones. Short ones. Painfully interrupted ones. Bike rides. Lollipops. Sprinklers. Wading pools. Skinny dipping (the kids, not me.) Sunscreen. Bug spray. Lemonade. Ferries. Fried seafood. Collecting eggs. Catching spiders (though living in Carlisle, we do that in wintertime too.)

S’mores. Crocs. Crabs, minnows, turtles, frogs and rabbits. Even bears, mountain lions and bobcats, thanks to the Science Center at Squam Lake, New Hampshire. Old friends. New friends. Graduations. Birthdays, the very young and the almost done. Weddings (I’d be fine to never attend another, save my children’s.) Anniversaries – the joyful ones, and the tragic. Beer. Rose. Sangria. Margaritas. Dancing in the street. Not all at once, except for that one July party…

But adulthood always comes calling. Things I also did a lot of this summer: Laundry. Dishes. Trips to the swap shed (to return things my husband picked up the week before.) Weeding. Running. Shopping. Cooking (not that much, I confess). Email, phone calls, writing, reading, texting (but no tweeting. I just can’t). Work – perhaps not enough. Worrying – perhaps too much?

And through it all the sun is shining. The days are long - I should know, bedtime is clocking in around nine pm these days – Egad. And life is short. My kids, so young and so little at 2 and 3, are getting older, and bigger. And so am I (older, not bigger that is, I hope). The unbearable sweetness of summer is made all the more by the arrival of September. That big fat S on the calendar…..School starts. Sweaters. Socks again – yuck. New schedules. Fresh work assignments. The shorts are put away…the beach towels packed up. The sand toys buried in the basement for ten months. Where are those mittens…have the moths eaten my pashmina again? Will my jeans still fit? Putting on those closed toe shoes for the first time…And soon, the triple threat of Halloween, Thanksgiving and the hurricane of the “holidays.” The first snow, and the last eggnog. Skiing. Sledding. Skating…the flu. And so it goes.
This is life. I’m no fool; it’s a good one. Sometimes it’s great. And I’m grateful. Usually. Even though I’m not a kid anymore…most of the time that is.

Happy fall, everyone.

But what do you DO all day?

2010-08-12T10:48:00.003-04:00

Through a layoff, I accidentally became a SAHM (that's Stay At Home Mom or Sometimes Aggravated and Horrible Mommy). The transition hasn't been easy, but it is not one I regret. I once saw a T-shirt advertised in a parenting magazine that said simply "I AM at work."

I didn't really appreciate it until I became a SAHM with two small children. We've all heard (or heard others thinking) the question "but...what do you do all day?" when we tell them we're stay at home moms. In an attempt to explain I have provided a cheat sheet for the next time someone asks this question.

Detractors may point out that the percentages add up to more than 100%. This is no accident. And in addition to no pay, there is no vacation or weekend from the job either. But the benefits....ah, they last forever. Just ask any accidental SAHM who's a former corporate achiever. And who has teenagers now.

25% - Picking things up
20% - Putting things away
10% - Pleading with others to pick things up and put them away
10% - Playgrounds, playdates, music class or other activity to prevent children from destroying house
2% - Paperwork (school, doctor, daycare, etc.)
4% - Wipe bottoms, wash hands or otherwise assist in bathroom activities (for other people)
6% - Dressing and undressing other people
4% - Teaching other people to dress and undress
10% - Preparing food
10% - Helping people eat food
10% - Cleaning up after food preparation and consumption
90% - Laundry
15% - Worrying about money
22% - Picking up and dropping off people
2% - Getting gas (for car)
1% - Getting gas (from eating hot dogs and mac & cheese)
6% - Paying bills, clipping coupons, talking to various "service" people on the phone
13% - RSVPing, shopping for, and going to birthday parties
15% - Reading stories
12% - Making up stories
50% - Grocery shopping
45% - Making lists for grocery shopping
4% - Doing things for self (showering, eating, going to the bathroom)
2% - Threatening
3% - Bribing
24% - Answering questions (i.e. Do dinosaurs have birthdays? What color is bear poop? Do fairy tales wear helmets? When a skunk bites you does he say sorry?)
2% - Repairing household things that husband can't or won't
3% - Indulgent online ordering of needless child gear and toys
7% - Justifying to others the fact that you don't work "outside the home"

The Joys of Spin

2010-06-18T15:01:00.003-04:00

The first thing I did when I got laid off was join a gym. One thing I've come to understand is that in life, sometimes you have time, sometimes you have money, but rarely do you have both. And usually you could be thinner.

I now had time for the gym. And they have childcare. For two dollars an hour! Off I went. Then I found out you have to stay at the gym and work out while your child is at the gym childcare facility. Oh. So I tried spinning, because it had a time limit, and a stationary bike, so how much could you really move, and an instructor, which meant someone to make sure you finished what you started, or left in humiliation trying, which of course wasn't an option so...Anyway. Spinning.

The thing I discovered about spinning is that, much to my surprise, I really enjoy someone yelling at me and telling me what to do as I hurtle toward nausea and tears. As a mother of a two and three year old, I must admit that it feels kind of nice to cede decisions, control and authority to someone else for a full hour. It's a change of pace. Sometimes the pace makes me dizzy and fearful about my lung capacity and not very serious but still there heart murmur, but isn't that what positive change is all about?

The kids do great in the childcare room. They play with other kids and behave perfectly for other adults who aren't me.

"Did you know he says 'God damn it?'" the careteaker asks me when I pick them up after class, my face a spectacular shade of purple.

"No! You're kidding!"

"Quite a lot, actually."

I feign shock. My two year old smiles at me. I lean over for the diaper bag, my stomach eating itself, my legs feeling as though recently filled with liquid cement. Did I eat this morning? Oh yes, the milk soaked orange fruit loop at the bottom of the sink. I smile and drop my keys.

"God damn it!" my two year old says.

"Mommy, do fairy tales wear helmets?" my three year old asks, he, forever the angel, resucing me, distracting everyone from my flaws and my bad mother habits, bringing smiles forth with his genius non-sequitors as we head toward the sweaty elevator.

"The smart ones do," I tell him.

Another morning...

2010-05-25T09:23:00.002-04:00

The secret to perfect pancakes is medium-low heat. Who knew? This after years and hundreds of raw or burnt (or some combination thereof) Bisquick concoctions. Sometimes it takes losing a job to perfect the impossible, do the undoable, and master flour and eggs.

Paging Henry Hill

2010-05-10T10:05:00.005-04:00

I was laid off a month ago and was unexpectedly thrust into the role of Almost Full Time Stay At Home Mom.

I was not used to it. I am still not used to it.

Am I happy to have this time with my kids? Yes. Do I miss my paycheck? Hell, yes. Do I miss not having to be the house/life/marriage manager in addition to the kid manager because I work, too? Yes, I think I miss that most of all, Scarecrow.

Seriously, I was lucky enough to work part time at a job I liked in my field. I had one foot in the playground and one on the on ramp career coaches love to talk about. And yes, sometimes on the days I was at work I wanted to be home with my kids. And sometimes on the days I was home with my kids waiting out the afternoon eternity between nap and dinner, I wanted to be in the Caribbean, by myself.

I can't lie. When you've spent a lifetime working, being a full time mom in suburbia feels like being in the witness protection program, only without the wistful memories of a past life of glamorous danger. Remember that last scene in Goodfellas, when Ray Liotta as snitch gangster Henry Hill opens the door to his cookie cutter subdivision witness protection program house to get his newspaper? Remember the look of panicked boredom on his face?

Sometimes I know how he felt. But then I read The Butterfly Book for the billionth time or replace the wheel on the hapless firetruck whose sound mechanism has been mutilated by someone or something, making it sound like a malfunctioning droid, and a strange, zen like calm overtakes me and for a moment, I am a good mom.

Sometimes I feel like I fell off the planet and entered a time warp of daily survival. Before my eyes open every day my body is moving to fulfill needs - all kinds of banal needs - that have nothing to do with my own. Time is divided by meals, sleep, bodily functions and their respective cleanup, Play Doh, the playground, the Fight of the Day (today's was "He Took My Fishy"), the broken fire truck and its creepy noises, and 30 minutes of Big Bird.

So here, for all those considering quitting your job to spend more time with your kids, or quitting your kids to spend more time with your job, are the pros and cons of each. Here are all the answers you need, in one blog (seriously someone should pay a lot of money for this list) about work and motherhood:

PRO - I know my 3 year old's digestive schedule now, and as a result can handily intercept him on the way to his secret corner to do what we both know he should be doing in the bathroom.

CON - Because I eat kids' food all day long now, I have no digestive schedule of my own.

PRO - The laundry and dishes are done and dinner is made by 5:30.

CON - I spend my days doing laundry and dishes and dinner. And it's never Beef Bourguignon.

PRO - No more rush hour traffic.

CON - No more listening to what I want to listen to, when I want to listen to it, in my own car, as I eat breakfast and read the Times.

PRO - No work schedule means we're free to vacation with no time restrictions!

CON - No 2nd paycheck means no vacation!

PRO - Because I'm lucky enough to have a part time babysitter, I can get away to interviews, write or work on my resume.

CON - I end up Facebooking and cruising Overstock.com with the time.

PRO - Every morning I get up with my kids and make them breakfast and get them dressed, and every night I am there for dinner, bath and bedtime.

CON - Every morning I get up with my kids and make them breakfast and get them dressed, and every night I am there for dinner, bath and bedtime.

I hope this has been helpful to all those struggling with balancing work, motherhood, and sanity.

When you figure it out, let me know, will you?

Full Hands

2010-04-22T19:56:00.006-04:00

The scene: Parking lot outside my suburban gym.
The players: My three year old son, really into peeing outside (thanks to my husband's ideas about potty training); me, fresh from a workout (free childcare and unlimited shower time, yay!); and my two year old son, really into running across parking lots, particularly when screamed at not to.
Oh, and the "older" gym goer, exiting her car and not in the least inclined to be helpful.
The time: half way through a very long day

Three Year Old: Mommy, I have to pee.
Me: Right now?
Three Year Old: Yes. On this tree. (Begins disrobing).
Me: (Pleading) Why don't we go inside where the potty is?
Three Year Old: (Pants and Thomas the Tank Engine underwear around ankles) No, here. On this tree. Like Daddy.
Me: But honey. We pee inside.

Sensing weakness, the Two Year Old makes a break for it, heading for the seemingly unlimited frontier of the parking lot. Thankfully, he is fully clothed.

Me: (Screams at Two Year Old while balancing peeing, half naked Three Year Old).
Two Year Old: (Smiles and laughs maniacally).
Three Year Old: Look Mommy. Pee. Some is on my shoe.

Just then a Lexus SUV rounds the corner, narrowly missing the Two Year Old. An older woman (well past the toddler years) parks and exits the vehicle, all benevolent smiles and grandmotherly nostalgia.

Three Year Old: Mommy! Where are you going?
Me: (Sprinting after Two Year Old, completely abandoning Three Year Old who is naked from the waist down) Be right back, honey! (Screams again at Two Year Old).

The Three Year Old begins chase, pants and underwear still ankle high. He trips. Falls. Cries. The Two Year Old, now across the street, is in stitches.

Me: (Obscenity).

Lexus Woman: (Striding leisurely and yet full of purpose toward gym) You've got your hands full!

Me: Yes. Thank you. Enjoy your Zumba Class.

This message brought to you by the "It goes by so fast" cliche.

Driving to Heaven

2010-03-15T14:04:00.003-04:00

"Mommy, where's Kayla?"

Kayla was our beloved dog who passed away last summer after a long life of seventeen years, the last couple spent in our laundry room as a tired, elderly relative seeking asylum from two kids under two.

And so it began, the debate between truth and white lies in explaining death to my toddler. I explained that Kayla was in dog heaven, that she was happy.

"Who drives her there?"

I was flummoxed. "She, um, she runs there. No one drives her. She's ah...always there."

"What does she eat there?"

Ah, this one was easier. "Lots of yummy things like dog biscuits and ice cream and pancakes...."

"And lollipops?"

Yes, lollipops. How do you do this? For the millionth time in motherhood I was grateful that this problem wasn't bigger. How would I explain the departure of a person, someone close to him? We had lost my father-in-law when he was 14 months old and while I try to make sure he knows who Pa is, I think his grandfather is an abstract idea for him. One of my aunts also died tragically last summer, but he was only briefly familiar with her. He saw Kayla every day and understood she was part of our family.

He lists us all by name when referring to our family: me, my husband, him and his little brother, then finally the cat and ending with Kayla. Even though he hasn't seen her in more than six months.

I know there are books and websites to help you deal with the swarm of awkward and difficult and painful conversations with toddlers. I know people have had to do this kind of thing for as long as humans have been around. But nothing can prepare you for when you child, brimming with innocence and determined curiosity, looks into your eyes and asks,

"When can we see her?"

And although I'd dealt with and, I'd thought, gotten over Kayla's death months ago, my eyes filled with tears.

"We can't see her, honey. Not for a long long time...But we can remember her, and talk about her, and look at pictures of her...."

This seemed to help. His next question was something else, about whether sharks are nice and what his babysitter had for breakfast, the kind of rollicking early morning non sequitor I live for.

And I think, let it last, please let it last, this world of his innocence, his curiosity, his ready acceptance for my trite explanations, his faith in me. For that world is understandable. In that world if something is unfair or confusing, someone he loves will provide the answers. In that world he is safe, from the moment his breakfast is placed in front of him to the stories read and the covers pulled up to his chin at night. In that world we will see Kayla, and Pa, and my aunt again. Of course we will. He has no doubts. This is his world, which I left long ago, but now thanks to him I have a special visa to visit.

We can't stay there for long, I know, but I'm going to enjoy every minute.

Shiner

2010-02-23T11:47:00.003-05:00

My son gave me a black eye the other day. He didn’t mean it. I know, I know, that’s what all victims of domestic violence say.

And he didn’t mean to give me the fat lip either, a few days later. But I mean it when I say he didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t because…he’s not even two years old.

Both of these facial injuries resulted from sudden and unintentional contact with his head, a totally unpredictable and constantly moving weapon. The fat lip came at the end of music class, when he was dancing to “The Goodbye Song” and I just got too close. I should have known better.

It was made worse by the fact that I have braces. I get to things, eventually. I’ve wanted braces since I was twelve. And now I am over forty and have braces and two toddlers, a surreal combination, a kind of visual testament to my fondness for procrastination.

The black eye was subtle at first. Immediately after the blow, it was merely a painful lump. The next day, however, a day I go into the office, it was a purple welt just under my eyelid. No one asked me what happened, but finally I offered an explanation, even to people I don’t know very well (Amy from Accounting, the Mass Pike Toll collector, the guy at the lunch place where I get a salad) just to subconsciously defend my husband against their silent judgments.

The fat lip wasn’t as noticeable, especially since the gash was on the inside, where my braces had shredded my kisser like a cheese grater doing a number on some unsuspecting lump of Parmesan. But it did look as if I’d had them done. My lips I mean. Which I wouldn’t, of course, because now, having gotten the braces, it would just be way too vain, even for me.

My son knew none of this of course, being twenty months old. But I started to wonder about the pain our children cause us – intentional or not, throughout the course of our lives. And I remember hurting my own mother. Toddlers are always getting hurt – falling, tripping, bumping into things, scrapping with each other – and sometimes their clumsiness spills into our orbit.

But what about the injuries of the heart and mind? When will they begin in earnest? I know, and I wince at the memory, that I told my mother I hated her. I told her to leave me alone. I probably made her wait in the car when summoned to fetch me from practice or a party. I told her the cigarettes weren’t mine, that someone’s parents would be home, that I was sleeping at a friend’s. I’m sorry, Mom. Wow, it took me twenty-five years to say that! I might as well have just dropped an anvil on her head. It probably would have hurt less.

I remember how my brother and sister and I would hide in the front hall closet when my Dad got home from work. One day as he went to hang up his coat we burst from the darkness to surprise him with joyful screams – slamming the door directly into his bald forehead. That was painful. But not as painful as years later, pulling me off the back of a motorcycle he’d pleaded with me not to ride an hour earlier.

There are worse things, I know, but what I do not know is how to prepare myself for the onslaught of challenges my children will present to me in this age. Intentionally or not.

Will they mock me on Facebook? Will they Twitter in exasperation about my unending lameness? Will they lie to me, disrespect me, resent me – online or via text??? Or, worse of all – will they forget me completely and disappear into those worlds of screen and sound, only meeting my eyes when forced, skulking around like my worst nightmare, like…well, like myself at 13?

Luckily I have some time to figure it out. Or so I think.

Or we could move to – where? Nope.

I just returned from a four day trip and while I was awarded the obligatory hug and kiss upon arrival, my son has eyes now only for Daddy. “Want Daddy!” he screamed this morning when I tried to cuddle him. Let me just scrape my heart up off the floor before I go to work.

And I can’t wait for the next time his little head crashes into me.

Because I prefer the black eye.

Things I have learned...

2010-01-14T10:50:00.003-05:00

...as a parent.

1. Bath toys get moldy. Especially the ones with secret squirt holes. One moment you're playing with your 2 year-old in the tub and the next you inadvertently send a stream of black gook his way.

2. Time is longer and shorter than you think.

3. All boring cliches are true. Especially when it comes to parenting. Ex: "It goes by so fast." And, "You can survive on very little sleep."

4. TV is not the worst thing you can do to your child. Especially if it gives you ten minutes to actually get dressed or use the bathroom.

5. Any marriage that survives the parenting of small children deserves a gold star.

6. When you feel like you're a bad mother, you can always just turn on the news/read the newspaper / go to TMZ.com and find someone way worse than you.

7. There is no resource more valuable than older parents who have been there. Unless they're your parents.

8. Little kids, hit, bite and push. Hopefully it will pass. Or, not. Sometimes they grow up to be bankers.

9. You can over-parent.

10. Kids don't know the difference between new and second hand clothes. Toys, maybe. But not clothes.

Money and Bananas

2009-12-08T12:14:00.004-05:00

This piece appeared in my local newspaper, the Carlisle Mosquito. That's right, I said Mosquito. Check them out here.

My son is learning to talk.

He wakes up every morning and says, lately, m’NEE! At first we (okay, I) thought it must be some mangled version of “Mommy,” the most important word he will ever know, but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t me he was after.

“M’NEEEE!!!” He pointed. We looked. He wanted the change jar, full to the brim with nickels, dimes, pennies and quarters, resting on my husband’s dresser. He wanted money. He’s eighteen months old.

I’m not sure who taught him this word (ok, maybe it was me, by accident) but he wakes up every day, storms into our room and points to the change jar. At first he wanted to eat the m’nee, but then he just wanted to play with it. He wanted to hold it, drop the coins atop one another, hear the delicious clink, poink, and fwap of copper hitting silver hitting glass. Then there was the dumping and refilling. Empty the jar, fill the jar, smile. Repeat. Occasionally a coin would be hurled across the bed or rolled with glee across the hardwood floor.

“M’NEEEEEEE!”

“You swashbuckling capitalist,” we said, not sure whether to be proud or alarmed. How pure and innocent this first encounter with legal tender, I thought. How long before he knows what money really is and what it’s for and what it can do? That it’s not something to play with, that it’s not merely a toy for our amusement.

Or is it? It depends, I guess, on a lot of variables.

“What were his first words?” people will ask. “Ummm, money?” I will answer, slightly embarrassed. Unless you count “Ow!” which I don’t because it was really more of a complaint that a word.

The other thing he wants first thing in the morning, right after his money, is a “bobo.” Many parents reading along will instantly recognize this as code for “banana.” And God Almighty help you if you don’t have the bobo ready and waiting by the time he waddles down to the kitchen. There has been Defcon 4 level panic in our household when, sometime before breakfast but after Fern’s has closed, someone discovers (ok, my husband) that YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS.

Let me just say that bananas have been “rescued” from cars and neighbors’ homes and possibly even the freezer before the risk of a morning shortage is allowed to become reality.

“Bobo!”

It occurs to me again how wondrous and truly amazing the development of a human being is. And what a gift it is to witness it every day (even though, let’s face it, some days it’s like one of those gifts that keep on giving, for better or worse).

So right now his life is about money and bananas. And Mommy and Dada, of course. And that is all he needs, isn’t it? Money and food - things that give him pleasure and sustenance. And the people who help him get those things. It all boils down to that. How much money and how much food you really need is honestly debatable – especially in these times, in this country. We tend to think we need more than we really do, instead of being grateful for the m’nee and bobos we’re fortunate enough to have.

And I guess this is the tough part now, teaching him that, when I sometimes have trouble remembering it myself.

That’s why you have kids though, isn’t it?

To keep reminding yourself of who you want to be.

Do I Really Have to Buy a Minivan?

2009-10-20T16:02:00.002-04:00

No post. No big long tirade. I just want to know the answer is no.

Even though I totaled the family car. By myself. In a driveway. Going about 5 mph.

Totaled.

Don't you just love American Built Products?

Me vs. Cars

2009-10-16T14:14:00.003-04:00

And now for something completely different. A LONG one. So sit down and get ready to laugh and ponder. Here's an essay I recently read at Four Stories .

ME VS. CARS

I hung my head in shame, literally. Defeat was making itself at home on my shoulders. Finally, I said it. “I’m willing to negotiate.” I’d held out for so long, it almost felt good to cave. Almost.

My adversary stared at me from his position on the kitchen table, his exaggerated roofline and custom rims no less intimidating for being 1/450th scale. The Matchbox 1968 Toyota Land Cruiser in Canary Yellow from the Adventure Collection. His mirrors glittered with sunlight and power. He held all the cards, which was odd, since he was a toy truck, but let’s face it, this isn’t my first awkward surprise of parenthood.

The war had waged for over two years. The causalities – too numerous to count. I’d made the tactical error of assuming my shock and awe campaign, completed last spring with a giant woven basket from Pier One Imports, would secure victory. The wounded and wheel-less, I’d simply disposed of. I had scooped up the others, every last one of them, under cover of daylight, into the basket and then to the detention holding area of the front hall closet. Fellow detainees the vaccum cleaner, Deluxe Scrabble, a Medela breast pump, and an old rabbit fur jacket circa 1984, had had to make room for the new arrivals.

“This is just a holding area,” I reassured them. “It’s only temporary.” I received looks of contempt. “We are citizens of this household!’ one shouted. “We have a right to be here!” another argued. Then, something about having been welcomed here earlier with open arms, now suddenly they were being treated as criminals, blah, blah, blah. Halfway to the bathroom, I couldn’t hear them anymore. It seemed a finished business.

And yet they had prevailed! Little by little as mud and rain gave way to heat and crickets, then chilled mornings and shorter days, I saw evidence of their escape, but like a hallucinating freak in denial, was convinced they couldn’t possibly have gotten out of the basket, much less the closet, on their own.

A souped-up Mazda in the bedroom, a Honda Accord in the kitchen, a Buick under the refrigerator. A tow truck poised for duty at the front door. And now here we were. In a meeting arranged by former President Bill Clinton, I was finally face to face with their leader – the ’68 Land Cruiser, my son’s favorite, and therefore, enjoying diplomatic immunity. I was sweating, and there was no doubt he was seeing it. Me sweat, I mean. Even though he was a toy. Don’t laugh. This is fucking serious…

They were in my bookshelf. My last haven of adulthood, the lone reminder that once, I’d been a thinking person, with literary and analytical ability. I could discuss things! I could stay up late drinking wine! My poor bookshelf. I glanced there now, a deep and lonely longing for grown-up words and sentences welling up in me.

There’s my copy of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. It’s the story of the glamorous playboy editor of French Elle, and what happened to his life, and his idea of his life, after he suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. One moment he was driving his convertible and the next he was in the hospital, completely paralyzed and mute, someone sewing up his right eye. “You have ‘locked in syndrome,’” a doctor told him, meaning he had full mental capacities, but no physical ones. He learned to communicate by blinking his left eye, and with the help of his therapists, wrote a book about his experience. He went from putting out a monthly fashion magazine to writing a deeply personal book with his one good eye. The book was a massive hit – critically and commercially. What you took away from the story was how he had spent a lot of his life taking for granted his connection to all the things that mattered – his career, his wife, his kids, his mistress, his intelligence. But with this unimaginable loss came a new discovery: a different beauty, one he learned to share.

Anyway. I stared at the Land Cruiser in earnest. “This time I mean it. I am willing to –“

“Negotiate?” He laughed, a deep carburetor sound, though not unfriendly. “You have no leverage. We’ve already infiltrated the last neutral zone.”

“Not the bathroom cabinet!” I was aghast. The last sanctity of my private womanhood. My tampons, makeup, exfoliater and thirty-five dollar conditioner - violated! In the bathroom cabinet is an old Ziploc baggie. My secret baggie, seven years old. When I left L.A. I put in it all my pretty and sexy hair accessories. Rhinestone butterfly clips, crystal encrusted bobby pins, tiny velvet bows. These things seem ridiculous now, but ten years ago fashionable young women wore them to clubs, restaurants, movie premieres. I know, because I was one of them. Now they are dented and dusty, broken and dull. But they are mine. Mine!

“Foolish woman. The bathroom was ours last winter. Your son –“

“I know, I know. Lightning McQueen.” Good old Disney and their Manifest Destiny approach to childhood. My son was no match for their marketers, and neither was I. He slept with Lightning McQueen, wore him on his chest, festooned the tiny holes of his Crocs with him, lovingly spoon fed him milk and cereal at breakfast.

“They’re thick as thieves. He’s a very effective agent.” Land Cruiser wasn’t being smug. In fact, I could see, he pitied me.

It was true I had no bargaining power. They were everywhere, unstoppable and menacing in their smallness and sharpness. Every time I opened a door there were more. Tractor trailers, pickup trucks, Cadillacs, corvettes, Dune Buggy Volkswagens - even a Prius! And for my son I had to pretend all was groovy. Force a smile, emit the notion that of course, we could all get along. This was the Land of the Free. But it was still My house. My mind. My life. This is my life now. I had to shed many layers and grow new ones to get here. I don’t mind it, it’s part of evolution. But sometimes I shake with the loss of control. Sometimes I silently scream my lungs out and pray someone will hear me. Then I fix lunch and read Llama Llama Red Pajama.

When the singer Michael Jackson died, the world hungered for someone to blame. What killed him was not the evil enablers, not a drug overdose, exhaustion or suicidal ambition. It was the slow unpeeling of the layers he’d accumulated over the years, decades, to hide who he was – a shy, terrified, lonely and deeply unhappy little boy. This pain had fueled the creation of a gifted artist, a pop music genius and a worldwide celebrity. The fame drove him to a bizarre and troubled existence. He never forgot who he was, which was not the tragedy. The tragedy was that he lost who he wanted to be. He paid the ultimate price – or no, perhaps his children will. I think it’s too early to say.

Later, I discovered the settlements on the front porch, a breach of both the original cease fire and the Second Birthday Agreement. They had dared to establish communities outside the boundaries! Clinton wasn’t available then – or at least that’s what his people told me. Something about his Foundation or getting someone elected, blah, blah, blah. This violation had perturbed not only me but the Tricycle Contingent and the Dumptruck Coalition as well, who had agreed to inhabit a small zone beyond the picnic table, at least during the summer months of heavy travel, and on holidays. After that there were checkpoints for them between the various zones of the property and so far, they’d been cooperative. I prided myself on my diplomatic abilities. I could talk to anyone and I could usually direct a situation toward a positive outcome. Even before playgrounds, snack sharings and toy Land Cruisers -- I had experience with this.

Ten years ago I was at a photo shoot in Los Angeles for a young, unknown actress. She was what people used to call an ingénue, but she wore leather pants and motorcycle boots with flames. She was trying on the expensive clothes the stylist had brought. We were in a fashionable studio in Culver City, and the photographer’s assistant had put on some music to set the mood. “Who is this?” she asked me. “Are you fucking kidding?” I said. “You don’t know Jimi Hendrix?” I felt so old saying that to her. A few hours into the shoot she began to relax, and put on her own CD. “Who is this?” I asked her. “Are you fucking kidding?” she shot back with a wicked grin. “You don’t know Lenny Kravitz?” I felt really old then. And that was ten years ago. I watched as the drama of having your own photo shoot peeled away the versions of her. What the camera wanted was her raw innocence, the gloss of youth, her truth and pain. Of course, with every click of the shutter that was more difficult to capture. The camera was taking it from her, and replacing it with an odd combination of confidence and entitlement.

And so, as the seasons wore on, the business of fighting escalated and the insurgency grew. Our household was divided on the matter; I favored an accelerated defense strategy; my husband seemed satisfied with the current economic sanctions (no new purchases). This wasn’t a terrible idea – at least there wouldn’t be more of them.

Some weeks later I discovered their secret cloning program, hidden for months in the bottom of the toy chest – where, in my pathetic maternal naïveté, I had assumed there lived only innocent stuffed animals. Now, some of them were hostages. For all I knew, it was possible the clones were behind the vicious beheading of Pirate Elmo, but I had no solid evidence. Land Cruiser and his followers were churning out an army whose sole purpose was domination. Yet it went farther than that. He knew it, and now so did I. With every inch of sacrificed real estate went a piece of me. Or what used to be me. Where did that part of me go?

They say that 31% of the country is on antidepressants or anti-anxiety medication, but I personally think it’s more. If you count caffeine, alcohol, nicotine, cold medicine, certain herbs and the random painkillers people hoard after surgeries big and small, who’s not using? And why not? Isn’t it ok to leave yourself behind sometimes? After you’ve smoothed the edges or blurred the boundaries with a little help, how dangerous is it to not go back? But how much of you are you willing to lose to be happy? If happiness is what you’re after. And whose idea of happiness are you chasing, anyway?

How ill-prepared I’d been for this conflict! Now the cars and trucks were influencing the innocent toys. What would happen when the larger ones turned on me? The rocking horse, the Dream Kitchenette?

I wasn’t going to win. I would have to cede more territory simply to maintain my position – or any position. Would I eventually be completely removed from the homeland? I mean, if this kept up, soon I’d be living in the tool shed. And I don’t just mean psychologically. How could I make him understand my fundamental right to exist?! He’d still never recognized this. He’d only recently agreed to acknowledge “two separate states.” I remember thinking this was a victory for me. Ha. I would still have a state. Although where this state would exist was still murky at best. What was my state? If I could have whatever I wanted in this negotiation, what would it be? Did I want my old self back? No, I had come too far. I just wanted to know she was still available to me, if I needed her. I wanted to know she hadn’t been erased. I wanted to know all she had learned, all she had done, all she had written, all she had uttered, thought, all she had loved – before – was not for nothing.

“Think of your son’s happiness,” he’d said. “What price on that?” Was that what it boiled down to? My son’s happiness or my identity? The stuff of Lifetime movies and Danielle Steele? Fuck.

There have got to be babies that went to the wrong parents. Somewhere in history, fifty years ago or five, in some hospital, you just know some hapless newborn got the old switcheroo. Probably it was an innocent mistake, possibly it was deliberate mischief or even malice. The parents, years or maybe decades later, through DNA or some crusading administrative records agent of justice, stumble upon the news. It would be harder to swallow than the accidental truth of discovering you were adopted. Child, you’re not who you thought you were. You’re not even who THEY thought you were. So if you’re not who you were, who are you? Who are your parents? What is your life, now that you’ve discovered it was lived by someone else?

“Do you even know why you’re here?”

At first I thought it was another voice altogether, my concerned neighbor (she’d heard me arguing with the toys before) or the UPS guy. But then I realized it was still the Land Cruiser, with a softer approach, his tone more idling than revving now.

“Why am I here? I’m here because you’ve driven me to the brink of madness. I’m here because I’ve lost my sense of myself and how things should be and it scares the bejesus out of me. I’m –”

“I mean, do you KNOW why you’re HERE?” He was calm, which was infuriating. I mean, had anyone ever taken anything from him?

“What is this, some kind of cruel acid trip?” I sobbed helplessly. It was tiring, this game of mental badminton. “I don’t even take drugs anymore, I don’t have time!”

He ignored my sniveling. “You are here because of us. We are here because of you. We are an inescapable part of each other. There’s no going back. Surely you understand this, by now?” This time I was childishly grateful for his sympathy.

Once, in college at a party, I smoked a lot of pot, super inhaling the entire joint, just to get a cool guy to think I was cool. I drove home carefully, excruciatingly slowly, fearful of a latent incapacitation to drive or really, to do anything involving the simultaneous application of movement and vision. Once home, I lay awake in bed, horribly worried that I wasn’t actually in my bed, but rather, still driving aimlessly, trying to get home. I couldn’t be sure that I wasn’t just imagining I was home in bed. It was a horrible feeling, not knowing where I was – physically, mentally, never mind existentially. I never got stoned again.

But now, if I were really receiving unsolicited but meaningful spiritual guidance from a toy Land Cruiser, then well, things could be worse, I guessed. I might as well hear him out. I had to give him credit after all. Removing my sanity had been no small feat, and it had taken him less than two years.

“You will never be rid of us.”

“Duh,” I hissed immaturely. This felt good.

“I’m surprised you haven’t had this conversation with the Legos.”

“I have,” I admitted, weary of him, of the whole business of losing myself to hundreds of small, colorful objects.

“The harder you fight, the angrier you become. The more you struggle, the farther peace and happiness recede from you.” So the Land Cruiser was a Buddhist. I felt shame creep up on me like a disgraced dog who’s violated the carpet again but still craves undeserved attention.

“We are you. You are us,” he said, sounding like he was selling some sort of religion. “Why must there be resistance at all?”

Resistance. Such a big part of human life. Oh, the tired and predictable ugliness of it. I looked at the Land Cruiser and his family, strewn across my life like tossed confetti, like the blown petals of spent roses. Like, well, randomly scattered toys. They were pieces of me, all of them, the bitter bits and the tender ends.

A small cry, the untamed voice of need. “Mommy, come.”

My son is up from his nap. I take the Land Cruiser and deliver it to him, tousle-haired in his crib, his wondrous eyes and determined mouth projecting a buoyant, boundless gratitude.

I pick him up; the whorl of his cowlick is damp with baby sweat, his round cheeks flushed. One day he will be a man, taking risks and making decisions, trying to do or create something greater than what he sees himself to be.

For now, his wordless smile opens wide, and I feel something come alive, rise in me and settle: this uncanny strength, this crazy peace.

Blue Boots

2009-09-24T12:32:00.003-04:00

Today my 2 year old son opened the bag of hand-me-downs from his cousins. Instantly he zeroed in on the aqua blue rainboots with red trim and pull up handles.

It's 70 degrees today, a splendid fall morning. The kind where anything is possible and you feel your potential coming back.

He puts on the boots. Walks around. They are two sizes too big.

Me: "Honey, you can't wear those today. Put on your crocs."
Him: "But I want to."
Me: "It's too hot."
Him: (Eying the boots lovingly). "But I want to."

When does it end, this logic-defying, unedited desire for what is beautiful and new, happy and free? I envied him in that moment. Me, anxiously living in the forward, not in the moment, late for work, rushing us all into the car. Him, fixated on what was in front of him, what pleased him, what made him happy.

He wore the boots.

Got Angry?

2009-09-14T15:44:00.006-04:00

Did Burger King know what they were doing when they invented the Angry Sandwich collection? Could they have foreseen my collision with their creation, when, after a ten day vacation (that's a funny word there) with my kids aged 1.5 and 2.8, I exploded into their parking lot off of Rte. 24 coming off the Cape at the end of summer and the end of Sunday and saw the sign - Get Angry!

After a two hour drive filled with screaming, hitting, whining (the kids), singing (mine) and crying (also mine), I was already well beyond angry and deep into Enraged, heading straight for Incensed, Blind with Fury and beyond that, Just Plain Loopy.

Like moms, fast food apparently has a whole bunch of ways to be angry. Angry Tendercrisp! Angry Chicken! Angry Whopper! Angry Double Whooper! There was even an Angry Triple Whopper - I guess for people with not one or two but three unruly, exhausted, famished toddlers at the tail end of a vacation. No matter. The fries (not angry but not serene either) and angry Tendercrisp soon populated the floor, as did our new Pokemon play figure. "Mommy, what's this?"
"A Pokemon."
"Mommy, what does it do?"
"It eats your money. And your pride."
"Mommy, can we get another one?"

How many hours til I go back to work?
Monday morning never looked so good.

Sing to the tune of "Where oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"

2009-08-04T11:05:00.002-04:00

Oh where oh where have my sippy cups gone
Oh where the hell can they be??!
Last night I know I had seventy-one
Now, it seems I’m down to three.

There’s one on the floor of my Toyota Prius
And one wedged under the bed
And I think the dog just chewed one up
Perhaps I’ll use a wine glass instead.

I know the Thomas cup’s at daycare,
And Dora must be at my Mom’s
The Nuby one now is full of green mold
And that’s just one of its charms.

My infant hurled the green one out
Of my car going eighty-two
A cop pulled me over and chewed me out
Just as my toddler had to poo

I think they must have gone to the place
Where binkies and favorite toys hide
When children melt down and you need them like drugs
And you’re going to explode inside!

Oh where oh where have my sippy cups gone
Oh where (godammit!) can they be?
If I can’t find one in this whole damn house
Guess my kid will just go thirsty!

Stripers Gone Wild (not Strippers, Stripers)

2009-07-20T15:49:00.004-04:00

If you are married to a fishing enthusiast, or if you sometimes feel your husband likes fish more than he likes you, CLICK HERE

Practicing with Pets

2009-07-15T15:52:00.002-04:00

More from my guest blogging at Momlogic! Enjoy!

Many couples declare they are "practicing for children" when they take the leap and get a puppy or kitten. Aside from the totally naive assumption that a little Lab mix could remotely prepare you for the onslaught of a newborn human, there's also the possibility that things won't go well with the arrangement. Family politics. Personality clashes. Battles of will over toilet practices. The complete uselessness of the word "no." And the "accidents" ... On second thought, maybe it is good practice -- for toddlers.

But when your husband resorts to biting your cat, what do you do?

My husband is not a cat person. I love all animals, especially those with certain neuroses stemming from strange and unfortunate upbringings. A dog I adopted had been found huddled and starving on Hollywood Blvd. After destroying my home and a couple of relationships, I gave him up. My cat had been abandoned a few weeks after birth -- before any normal socialization or animal pecking order skills could develop. And when I moved into my future husband's (and his dog's) two-bedroom apartment with my cat, I figured we'd all take some time to adjust, but that we'd be one big happy family.

Instead, it was like a step-foster-adopted family, or a bunch of creatures thrown together for the sake of entertainment, like "The Real World" or "Big Brother." The cat knew no boundaries or authority (other than its own, of course) and randomly bit or growled. My husband bit her back, and on occasion, after a particularly insulting scratch as she passed by him in the hallway, chased her down and hurled her across the room. His dog, thirteen and with three legs, had little tolerance for her, either. After the first week of following her around the apartment, the dog completely lost interest, except when the cat tried to steal her food, which was often. After all, she was thirteen and had three legs -- and the cat was clearly an opportunist.

I'm happy to report, however, that with two human boys aged one and two, said husband has not bitten or hurled either of them yet. In fact, he's a complete softie. I, on the other hand, just the other day, found myself screaming, "Stop screaming! Both of you, WE DO NOT SCREAM IN THIS HOUSE -- STOP SCREAMING NOW!!!!"

Which just goes to show ... nothing. Don't judge a person's potential parenting skills based on the way they treat animals. We still have the dog and the cat, and they have both mellowed considerably since we had children.

I just can't remember the last time they were fed.

Ten Simple Rules to a Flat Stomach: obey!

2009-06-30T12:07:00.003-04:00

Herewith, in response to the absurd number of times I receive this message daily, is my own answer to this ubiquitous question.

Seems there are ten rules to a flat stomach. Thanks to friends and family for their thoughtful contributions. And they are:

10.lie down
9. hang from a tree with weights on your ankles
8. don't eat
7. tapeworm
6. photoshop
5. surgery
4. bulimia
3. a good imagination
2. drugs
and the number one rule to a flat stomach, courtesy of Marcella Pixley, author of FREAK, is
1. no babies

Boys Club

2009-06-18T15:45:00.002-04:00

This post was published by Momlogic. But I'm so proud of it I am running it here too. Plus no one has yet commented that they hated it. A plus. Enjoy.

"Mommy, these are my boobies."

Tracy McArdle: So proclaimed my 2-year-old son, proudly tweaking his nipples mid-bath one night. His eleven-month-old brother smiled approvingly from the shallow end. I always thought I wanted a daughter, but now that I am the mother of two boys, I wouldn't have it any other way.

When I first became pregnant, I envisioned myself and my daughter riding on the local horse trails together, even going to competitions. Horses have always been a part of my life, and I'd always hoped my kids would ride. The idea of attending football games or worse, hockey practice at 4 AM, didn't appeal. And there are just not many male horse enthusiasts, for whatever reasons. So I prayed for a girl. And I prayed she wouldn't want to be a cheerleader.

Gradually during my pregnancy, I became convinced I was carrying a boy -- and after Ryder was born, I had to make that uncomfortable decision about circumcision, my first taste of gender helplessness. I had to imagine the potential consequences of something I had no idea about -- well, not directly, anyway. Would my son resent my decision ten, twenty years from now?

When I became pregnant a second time, I thought, I'm throwing up -- it must be a girl. I am gargantuan -- it must be a girl. I really feel and look like shit -- according to everyone, it's gotta be a girl! The ultrasound proved me wrong, and I'm ashamed now to admit the disappointment I felt. "Couldn't that be an ... arm?" I protested weakly when the technician pointed out the telltale appendage on the monitor.

"If that's a girl, you come back here and show me!" she laughed.

But then Henry was born and he was so different from my first son -- fussy, spirited, curious, and engaging, particular, physical, and goofy. And watching them together when Henry came home and his big brother adapted to his presence, calling him "Baby Henry" and pointing to my breasts, declaring, "Those are Baby Henry's" -- that's just something I still can't put into words.

I have older friends with daughters approaching the danger years -- ages 13-40. I was lucky that the local barn kept me out of a lot of backseats when I was growing up. I don't envy their present and future spats about curfews, clothes, jewelry, cell phones, money, boys -- you name it. I'm not saying mothers don't argue with their sons -- I just feel grateful not to have to have the conversation about looking like a cheap slut when my daughter thinks she looks good. I know because I tortured my own mother with feather earrings and feathered hair, tight pants, and low-cut tops.

I also admit it's kind of cool being the only chick in my house. I feel special. I know that with boys, I will probably go to the emergency room more. I will probably yell more. I will be heartbroken when some cheap-looking slut steals my son from me. Relax, I'm kidding.

But I guess the moral is, your child's birth is the moment when you let go of expectations, and learn to embrace what you've been given. Because it's almost always richer and more incredible than you could have possibly imagined.

Things I do while driving.

2009-05-12T11:44:00.002-04:00

That MBTA driver texting his girlfriend while driving a subway trolley – and causing an accident injuring 50 people! What a horrendous story! The kind of thing that happens and you think – what an idiot! Texting while driving a subway car full of people!

Then a moment passes and you think: That could have been me. If I drove a subway, I mean.

We all do it. Driving distractions. My favorite driving distraction is getting angry at other drivers doing distracting things that I was just doing. Like talking on the cell phone. Drinking coffee. Reading. Making egg salad. You know. You all do it too.

In fairness to the publicly scorned MBTA driver (he had two previous speeding tickets! Criminal!) herewith a list of things I confess to have done while driving.

I have made and received phone calls
Made doctors appointments
Canceled doctors appointments
Canceled my paper for a vacation
Called my pet sitter
Called my pet
Eaten breakfast
Eaten lunch
Ordered dinner
Drank coffee
Vomited
Filed my nails
Tweezed my eyebrows
Texted
Twittered
Shuddered
Screamed
Cried
Laughed
Argued
Negotiated
Backed down
Had contractions
Taken drugs
Planned a wedding
Sang
Sped
Veered
Peed (yes, it’s true)
Farted (kidding – I’ve never farted)
Laughed again
Changed shoes
Changed clothes
Changed realtors

Things I have not yet done while driving:

Slept
Gotten divorced
Clipped my toenails
Flossed
Brushed
Rinsed
Danced
Switched seats
Done a paint by number
Ordered a cute bathing suit from a catalog
Changed the asset allocation in my 401(k)
Changed a diaper
Given birth
Given blood

Happy F#$% Mother's Day

2009-05-07T13:19:00.000-04:00

There seems to be a deeply sentimental Mother’s Day email poem going around.

Nothing against "those people” but I thought y'all might enjoy another version.

Here’s a sampling of the original:

Before I was a Mom,
I never looked into teary eyes and cried.
I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.
I never sat up late hours at night
watching a baby sleep.

Before I was a Mom,
I never held a sleeping baby just because
I didn't want to put her down.
I never felt my heart break into a million pieces
when I couldn't stop the hurt.!
I never knew that something so small
could affect my life so much.

Yada yada yada.

Ok, just in case you’re not TOTALLY moved by that, here’s another version. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. And if you laugh just once you are not allowed to report me to DYS.

Before I was a Mom
I didn’t know the
Power of vodka
Or Percocet

Before I was a mom
I had a waist
And an I.Q.
I went shopping (for me, I mean)

Before I was a Mom
I “slept in”
Til noon
Not 7.

Before I was a Mom
I had sex
And enjoyed it.

I never ate
Cheerios off the floor
Because it was my only shot
At breakfast

Before I was a mom
I did not accidentally squirt people
(a nurse, my mother-in-law)
with my breast

Before I was a Mom
I was a vain, selfish,
But thin
Creature.

And it
Was fun.

AVOID SWINE FLU!

2009-04-30T11:07:00.000-04:00

DON'T DO THIS!

Waterboarding for moms

2009-04-29T16:02:00.003-04:00

Another ear infection. I simply cannot take it. Another missed day of work. Another night of screaming, whining and weeping. And the baby's crying too. Dangerous, general unpleasant thoughts about my child. Oh God of the Mighty Middle Ear Canal, Make It Stop, I Beg You.

After deciding I cannot go to work (again), I open the door to the first beautiful day in months. It's 90 degrees outside and far too early in the season for us to have actually excavated the air conditioner from the shed. The cat has left a deceased mole on the front step, in an effort to siphon attention share from the sickly children.

The toddler wants to know why, why, why does the baby cry? Why does he have a boo boo in his ear? Why is he sick? Why does he cry? Why? Why are we going to the doctor?

The elderly 3-legged dog defecates three feet from the doorstep, in the path I use when carrying said baby and toddler with diaper bag, cel phone, purse and water bottle.

And oh year, watch out for swine flu. It's 8:30 a.m. I am a Bad Mother.

Get on Your Ass

2009-03-26T16:10:00.002-04:00

Sit down, Mommy!

That’s what he says all the time, my two-year old. He doesn’t mean it in the “stop and smell the roses” sense, he means it in the “sit down next to me RIGHT HERE MOMMY and read me this book / watch Bob the Builder again / tell me a story one more time” sense.

And I try, I really do. I usually say, “I will, honey, I will. As soon as I finish washing this dish / unloading the dryer / paying this bill / wiping the counter / checking my email / changing your brother’s diaper / finding your father’s cell phone…and so on.

But you know this, because you’re a mom. And you also know that you’re supposed to savor these moments when your children want you and need you, because later on, even if they do they won’t admit it. My secret fear is that my kids will grow up while my back is turned washing dishes.

So I’m telling all of us today – stop. Sit down. Sit down, Mommy. Take the time. It’s a cliché but you know what they say about clichés. LA is shallow. Men driving expensive sports cars have small penises. The more money you have, the more you need. Clichés are clichés because they are true. So here’s a cliché for you. It’s later than you think, and the harsh truth is….the laundry police won’t confiscate your hamper if you wait one more day.

Sit down, Mommy. You’ll be glad you did.

Old friends

2009-03-18T15:34:00.004-04:00

First, we named our muffin tops. This is what old friends who haven't seen each other in years and who find themselves in a tiny town in Mexico at a knitting retreat do. Christen the growth spurt between the belly button and the hips. You know. That general area that has become de riguer to show off with low cut jeans and clingy tops short on real estate. Mine was called Sylvia, and Valerie's was Fredo, after the ill fated, doofus brother of Michael Corleone. Christina dubbed hers Blanche, for reasons unexplained, although she is a bit of a literary snob.

We ate, we drank, we lay on our beds gossiping and roaring in hilarity about former colleagues and things that were not so funny when they happened years ago (like when I delivered a swift uppercut to the gut of my rental horse when he refused to cross Amsterdam Avenue en route to Central Park for a "relaxing trail ride." But that's another story).

My friends don't have kids, and they marveled that I went days without checking in at home. That was a conscious decision on my part (like not calling Daycare two minutes after you've left your screaming child there) but I let them think I had everything inexplicably under control. Did I miss my kids? After a couple days, yes. But those first two days - sleeping, eating and walking on my own schedule? It was like I had never had them, I'm ashamed to say.

But rest assured, by day 5 I was feeling like a Bad Celebrity Mother, drinking magaritas and getting pedicures while my kids fell under the dubious care of someone else (their father).

And the first thing I did when I got home at midnight after twelve hours of travel was tiptoe into their rooms to hear them breathe, watch them dream, and will them, with all my heart, to stop growing so damn fast.

More Caffeine for Deserving Moms

2009-03-09T15:24:00.007-04:00

Hola;

I just returned from my first ever vacation without my family! No baby, no two year old and no husband. I went to Mexico with two long lost friends, and ate so much rice and beans and cheese I may explode.
So now I'm back and mainlining caffeine, because my flight got in at midnight and it's daylight savings and (hang on - I don't need excuses to mainline caffeine, cause I'm a mom. And so are you! I'd bathe in coffee if I could. Which brings me to my point. And I do have one):
Momlogic has chosen to feature me in the MLC Coffee Club. Yay!
Every day for a month, you'll have the chance to win a Keurig Single-Cup Coffee Maker, just for leaving a comment on my blog and on my profile page....so get out there and do it!
You can comment on my profile page. Or or on one of my favorite posts, Terror in the Water, which is of course, about poo.
I know, you can't wait to read it.
Thanks for reading, and for not making me feel bad about my addictions.

My First Mammogram

2009-01-26T16:06:00.003-05:00

Like a colonoscopy, pap smear or credit check, a mammogram is an essential but humiliating part of good health maintenance. And like those things, mammograms aren’t fun, even though the word itself sounds like an old fashioned but festive form of communication. “Time to celebrate? Send her a mammogram!”

The first thing you notice when you get your first mammogram is that it’s all women in the place. Unlike the sonogram business – a happier technology experience, though no less invasive – there are no male nurses, technicians or even doctors around.

First you fill out a form that has a diagram featuring two “normal” breasts. The boobs on the form are fuller and better shaped than your boobs. You’re supposed to draw on them, indicating any areas where you and your bazookas have had trouble. I had no disturbing medical history but for honesty’s sake, I added a few stretch marks.

“Don’t tie all the ties on the johnnie; then there’s too many to untie,” warned the technician, who had earlier asked if I had applied deodorant today. This is the woman who, very shortly, would be manhandling my breasts into what I will call “the giant boob crusher machine.” I told her I hadn’t used any deodorant that morning.

“Good,” she said. “You’d just have to wipe it off.” They don’t want you getting white paste or clear gel strong enough for a man all over their expensive radiology equipment. Never mind that you’re likely to be sweating more than usual today, as irrational fears of oh, say, cancer, dance through your head as each phase of this bizarre ritual passes.

I could see that my technician, Barbara, or Barb, as her nametag read, had done this a thousand times. I was a mammogram virgin. “Will it hurt?” I asked, eyeing the giant machine and feeling bralessly vulnerable in my untied johnnie, which was like an 80’s half shirt version of a johnnie: it stopped at the waist. Barb frowned into her computer screen. “It’s uncomfortable,” she allowed. Oh yes. That’s also the word they use to describe labor before you’ve had it.

I was studying the giant anatomical illustrations of healthy breasts when suddenly Barb was on me. Before I could say, hey, that’s weird, she was applying a tiny round sticker with a metal ball in the center to each of my nipples. “This is so the technician has an easier time reading your breast.”

I glanced down at the tiny dots and thought dually of my son’s obsession with round band aids, and the movie Showgirls.

“What, no tassles?” Barb didn’t laugh. The room grew chilly, or maybe it was just because I had no shirt.

“Step up here,” Barb ordered. I obeyed, and Barb placed my right sample onto a plastic tray on the machine. Above the tray was something that looked like one of those machines that Wile E. Coyote gets flattened by, then waddles frantically about like a pancake with flapping feet and a disoriented expression.

“We have to compress the breast in order to see all the tissue properly,” Barb explained. This was before I understood that “compress” means “violently squash by slowly increasing degrees.”

With my breast ceremoniously sandwiched between the tray and the ACME pancake maker, Barb twisted the knob, which is really another word for vice. The metal lip sunk down crisply to meet the plastic tray, and my newly compressed knocker wasn’t going anywhere.

“Ow,” I said, which was an understatement if you want to know. Barb gave the knob another twist, and I was reminded of the rock climber who sawed off his own arm with a Swiss Army knife after becoming trapped under a rock. What if Barb left the room and there was an earthquake? Would anyone find me, wearing a pink half Johnnie, trapped there by my own mammary? If I was discovered, could I ever recover from the indignity?

“Hang in there,” said Barb, and I could smell that she smoked. Maybe all that stress worrying about cancer every day for dozens of strangers had made her take up the habit.

Then it was time for the next shot. They don’t tell you that each boob is going to be squished (I mean compressed) at three different angles.

“I’m just going to move your arm forward here,” said Barb, meaning, “so I can force all this extra flab by your armpit and collarbone into the vice.”

When it was over, I asked Barb when I would get the results. “We can call you later today,” she said. Wow! This was way better than an amnio, where you stick a needle into your pregnant belly and then wait for two weeks to find out if your baby has brain damage. I had to sign a form that gave the hospital permission to leave a detailed message on my machine. I thanked Barb for violently squishing my rack repeatedly, but not in those exact words.

Then I asked if I could keep the stickers. She didn’t answer.

Terror in the Water

2008-10-27T10:58:00.008-04:00

Remember that scene in Caddyshack, the one with the inadvertent Baby Ruth in the swimming pool? Recall the terror...the first time you witnessed a sample of - not a Baby Ruth - in a body of water. You probably fled, screaming. You showered, scrubbed, and it was months before you were able to go into the water again.

Now imagine the Baby Ruth is a lot bigger, and the swimming pool a lot smaller. And imagine it is not a Baby Ruth, but a big...fat...poo. If you are a parent, this particular episode is probably familiar to you.

My 22 month old son was happily playing in the tub while I was across the hall, changing the 5 month old. Yes. I know. My mother has already informed me how horrible this is; leaving him for a fraction of a second alone in the tub (It only takes a second for him to drown!) but I was eight feet away and could hear him. Besides, there are days when I wouldn't mind if he were silenced by his own bathwater. Kidding! I was within screaming distance.

These are the benefits of a house that you think is too small for you, but that contained a family with six children twenty years ago, before private pre-school, granite countertops and central AC. And jacuzzi bathtubs, thank God.

Anyway, there he was, happily entertaining the plastic killer whale when suddenly a blood curdling, hair curling, horror movie scream echoed from the chamber of his bath.

Mommy! Mommmmmmmmmmyyyy! Mommymommymommymommymommmyyyy!!!

Fearing my mother had at last been proven right and he had accidentally severed his own head while my back was turned, I threw the baby diaperless into his crib and rocketed into the bathroom to find...half a dozen disintegrating Baby Ruths bobbing innocently atop the water, lapping lazily against all the bath toys.

My son was standing, at the far end of the tub, as far away from the offending blobs as possible. He was screaming, terrified, I guess, because, these weird things were not only in his tub, they had come out of him. Imagine his surprise. Imagine his rage when I took in the situation and....laughed out loud. Bad mommy.

I have never in all his 22 months, seem him so upset. And yet, and yet...he still won't sit on the potty. I tried to tell him. You know, this wouldn't happen if you would just agree to be toilet trained. For god's sake man, even the dog doesn't do that!

And now it's not just the potty he avoids, but the tub too. Oh joy.

Did I mention I was home alone when it happened? Did I mention the diaperless 5 month who needed to be fed and clothed? Did I mention it was the joyous hour of 6:30? Did mention I was still in my work clothes...

When this happens to you, and you are so tired you can't see, and the last thing you feel like doing after working all day is cleaning someone else's poo out of the tub you had wanted to take a bath in but now won't be using for some time, and you think, this is so shitty (pun intended) it would be funny if I weren't about to cry...well....just remember, you're not alone.

And oh yeah, savor the moment, because "it goes by so fast."

Right.

My son's 47th word

2008-08-08T11:06:00.002-04:00

First there was "car." Then "mama." Followed not long after by "moon" and "cat."
But today my 18 month old son looked up at me, apropos of nothing in particular and declared, "happy."

I do not remember him ever hearing this word, specifically, anyway. I didn't teach it to him any more than I did "angst" or "depressed." But he learned it somehow, somewhere, and it seems to delight him to use it.

I'm not sure he knows precisely what it means, either. He likes the sound of it. Or maybe he is happy and knows it and wants to show it, without clapping his hands or stomping his feet or shouting "hooray!" (I never liked that song.)

I think, I'm happy that he is happy, and I hope he stays happy, through the rigors of pre-school, the demands of first grade, his first kiss, graduation (or not), his choice of college (or not), a mate (or not) and a career....and I wonder if he will remember when he first learned that word and how it made him feel to say it, with a smile of benign innocence on his little face, over and over again, just because it seemed to amuse other people.

When he discovered that saying "happy" pleased the people around him, he said it more and more. He laughs when I repeat the word, put a question to it. "Are you happy?" He just looks at me, smiles, and says, "happy."

How many other people will ask him that question, and in what context? His high school guidance counselor? His girlfriend at twenty-one? His ex-wife at forty? His Human Resources director at thirty-seven? His shrink at sixty? His best friend at eighty?

I want to record his voice, not just for the word but for the quality of the sound. Not quite developed, a hatchling of a voice, obscenely cute, the aural equivalent of a baby bunny. I know this is a mother's interpretation but I can't quite believe how this voice brings me to my knees. I would step in front of a freight train for that sound.

I know this voice, this tone, the way he declares things, will not last. His sweet willingness to please will not last (that actually may not last the day, come to think of it). So I want to preserve it, not just for me but for him. To remember the sound of "happy," the feel of it, in its purest version. I have an old Fisher Price recorder, which, despite a lack of slick and updated technology (it's yellow plastic and records on a cassette) works just fine.

We say things together, my happy son and me, and we leave ourselves and this moment in its history on a piece of plastic tape. I'll store it somewhere, knowing that some day, one of us may need it.

My son’s first love affair

2008-05-15T11:59:00.001-04:00

It has happened. My first-born son is in love. And I am jealous. I am second best. I am devastated. He is 16 months old and the object of his obsessive affection is….his father.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m thrilled my husband and son have a good relationship. I just wish I had some of the fairy dust that causes my son to erupt into an ecstatic frenzy at the very sight of me.

But no. This emotion is reserved for dada alone. Dada dadadadadadadadadadada!

Why is it so? Is it because dada is all fun and mama is all business? My husband changes his share of diapers, administers vegetables, declares bedtime before it is welcome and uses a firm tone when necessary. Less than I do, perhaps, but he can still play the bad guy. Yet he remains the Brad Pitt to my reliable Sam Waterston.

My son’s eyes light up and burst from his head at the site of his father in his room in the morning. I feed him, change him, offer him water and hugs and kisses and educational toys and books and an endless parade of funny faces and noises – but the moment his father is in view I simply cease to exist. Dada!

Dada can be a hundred yards away, working on the front lawn, and my son’s sixth sense kicks in. Dada! He exclaims, running to the window and pointing. My heart falls. Mama! I whimper, eyes brimming.

Whatever, his look says. Where’s my sippy cup full of Pepperidge Farm goldfish?

Pasting pictures of myself along the sides of his crib did nothing. Ditto for recording my voice singing and playing it every night as he goes to bed. Emblazoning the image of my face onto stickers that were then applied to all his cars and trains was also ineffective.

I tried playing hard to get, handing my son over to my husband for a whole Saturday. I figured when I came home I’d be greeted with joy and appreciation. Instead, they were both asleep on the couch in front of the game, an empty bowl of ice cream sticking to the coffee table. And I thought, these are men. And I am not.

I woke them and tucked them both in. Then I waited for my son to awake in the night, when I would go to him and rub his back until he fell asleep.

Are You Tired?

2008-04-08T11:24:00.003-04:00

This essay is featured today on www.skirt.com - where I am guest blogging for the month of April. Check out skirt, a cool women's magazine, and enjoy:

It has happened. I’ve only been married two years…and I have become obsessed with another. And I have had this other. Repeatedly. Constantly. I am committed as one consumed by dementia. My passion knows no limits, my hunger, no satisfaction.

I am in love with my bed.

I dream of it when we are not together. Like a pimply teenager on the cusp of hormonal greatness, I fantasize. I count the minutes until our next assignation, I yearn desperately, fiercely for more of the disastrous affair. While driving in traffic I imagine the sweet burn of our two halves uniting. I long for the evenings I slip away, my husband blessedly distracted in his own rituals. No one knows.

I am in love with my bed.

I do not know when we first discovered each other. Sure, we were acquaintances; we saw each other daily in the course of our own routines. Perhaps we had always taken the relationship for granted. The fixation came upon me slowly, then devoured me like a fever. Had I never noticed the softness, the inexplicable and unconditional comfort my bed provided, night after night, lonely morning after lonely morning? Its delicious sheets and pillows, warm blankets and fluffy throws, all blended into one rollicking tangle of deep relaxation and bliss? The lust I had never known! How had I overlooked the dizzying escape that our togetherness provided?

I could stay with you forever, I thought, and it became a dangerous habit. When we parted it was like being torn in half. We know each other, sharing our most private and revealing secrets. In my bed I am me. It has seen me at my worst, clipping toenails and blowing my nose, unflattering pajamas and sick days. Through it all, my bed has stood by me.

Each morning as my eyes open to the cruel daylight, I bound from my bed and make it - quickly, efficiently; straightening its comforter, flattening its sheets, fluffing and positioning its pillows. Sometimes I slap the mattress, though I know this is cruel. Then I leave the room without looking back.

If I don’t make my bed immediately, I will simply get back in. And we’d spend the whole day together, isolated, keeping the world at bay. I work hard to ignore its whimpers of protest, its cries for my return. Instead, I murmur to its silky creases and 400 thread count depths….Ah….there are but sixteen hours between us my darling! And I rush to my husband’s side at the breakfast table, giving away nothing.

Sometimes, we risk being together during the day. If I am “working at home” and my husband is away with obligations, I creep to the top of the stairs and open the bedroom door. My lover’s joy is palpable as I rip the covers from its body and plunge into the trembling core….and hour goes by, maybe more….and the phone rings, or the dog barks, or guilt washes over me at the incredible number of dishes in the sink.

I smooth the covers, pat the innocence back into the pillows, and go about my day…dreaming of our next reunion.

Once we were almost discovered. A neighbor knocked, carrying a Fedex package meant for me. My car was in the driveway; of course she thought me home, a dutiful wife, perhaps making stew. I rushed from the room, deep creases of evidence covering my cheek and forehead, mascara scandalously smudged, drool recently dried to white flakes on my chin. I tried to iron out my cheeks, arrange my hair, but the door opened and -- I saw the disgust on her face, the envious disapproval in her eyes. Would she tell?

The event shook me and I stayed away for almost ten hours after that. But it is an affair I cannot end. I have no solution.

I’ve tried to end it, of course. But being in the same house together, seeing each other every day…it’s complicated. Sure I know what you’re thinking. Just get rid of it. Sell it on ebay, go away for a while or at least sleep in another room. You don’t understand. Obviously you’ve never been in love like this, for real.

I just had to tell someone.

Pregnant…with children

2008-04-01T16:33:00.002-04:00

You out there. The ones in your second or third or if you’re really sick, fourth pregnancy. Hang with me for a minute homie mommies.

It’s not as much fun this time is it?

Here’s the rundown, generally. “What to Expect” in one page:

First Trimester
Yay! I’m pregnant!
God I’m tired. And sick.
I’m really sick.
I cry sometimes. At highly inappropriate and unexpected moments.
Did I mention how sick and tired I am?
Please just leave me alone until I can tell someone.

Second Trimester
My boobs are huge!
But my stomach isn’t!
This is great!
I have so much energy.
I’m so horny.
I think I’ll re-do the house.
And write that novel.
As soon as I get laid.

Third Trimester
“How do I feel, honey?” How do you think I feel, you ignorant, insensitive jerk?!
I have half the energy and twice as much to do, while carrying an extra 30 pounds.
When I bend down it feels like someone is stabbing me in the left butt cheek.
When I get up it feels like there is a boulder in my vagina.
Why no, it’s not a fucking decaf. Why do you ask?

Why Chicks Rule

2008-03-13T15:18:00.003-04:00

The visit.

I was thrilled and mortified. My long lost gal pal from London was coming for a visit, our first since my wedding two years ago. Yes, she last saw me back when I was a shadow of my present pregnant, Mom-ified suburban self. About 30 pounds and several hundred gray hairs ago. I have since taken to wearing sensible shoes and jeans that cost less than my car. She on the other hand, remains unmarried though safely attached, with a fabulous career in interactive media, a showroom type house, several kickboxing and Pilates classes per week and the wardrobe to better showcase said classes’ results.

I was dying to see her – she would finally meet my 14 month old “baby,” then we were jetting off to New York for the weekend of shopping and partying for her and longing and self-pitying for me. Nearly 7 months pregnant, I could not drink, stay up late, buy any clothes, stand or walk for long periods of time or even eat very much. Plus I was on a budget. What fun for her.

I spent nearly twelve minutes preparing my hair and makeup and wardrobe for the airport pickup, a luxury from the usual four. My son grappled variously with my hoop earrings and trendy scarf and hat, throwing one item after the other under the bed or in the direction of the toilet. Heels were out of the question due to my imbalance, aching back and general body type of a Blue Meanie from the Beatle’s Yellow Submarine cartoon movie (no neck, all giant torso and thighs on spindly feet). I settled on my one pair of maternity jeans that stay up, and flat but expensive black boots.

I waited anxiously outside the terminal, everything between my neck and knees safely hidden under a large black winter coat. She emerged from the building, chocolate hair shining, lip gloss glistening, shearling coat flowing behind her, toting two small, stylish carry on pieces of luggage that were not pastel colored or thrown up on. She got in the car, we embraced, and it was suddenly obvious she was far younger and less tired than I….but she saw the old me.

“You look great!” she beamed, all of her unclogged pores radiating health and maintenance.

“You lie,” I laughed, sucking in my cheeks.

She adored my son. She lavished us with gifts from Cadbury and Harrod’s. She helped with the dishes. And all weekend she kept telling me I looked great. Even when I cut out of an afternoon of New York City window shopping to don my XXL pajamas and take a nap in the hotel. Which was, of course, the most fun I had all weekend.

She understood. Solid girlfriends just rule, don't they?

Those pesky ear infections

2008-02-14T12:55:00.002-05:00

Many mothers are troubled by the frequency of ear infections in their young babies. The pain and discomfort suffered by the child can be alarming for first time mothers, as can the frequent prescription of antibiotics. Fortunately, there is a great website for getting educated on ear infections, forwarded to me by a caring, devoted mom:

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/ear-infections/EI99999/PAGE=EI00001

It takes about an hour to review all the information, so for all of you who are less than devoted, or would rather spend that hour on J.Jill.com, here’s a quick summary:

Symptoms of an ear infection include fussiness, loss of appetite, low grade fever, pulling at the ears, sleeplessness, and screaming while pointing to the offending ear while “flipping the bird” to Mom with the other hand.

Unfortunately, due to the small size of the ear “tubes,” at this age, ear infections are not only common but normal, according to my pediatrician, who apparently specializes in maddening infant afflictions for which there seem to be no cause or cure. However, there are some preventative steps you can take:

1) Do not feed your baby his bottle in his crib. If he drinks while lying on his back, chances of developing an ear infection increase. In addition, milk or formula consumed while lying flat has a tendency to pool in the mouth, causing tooth decay. If you can’t be bothered to feed your baby his morning bottle yourself instead of climbing back into bed, perhaps you should ask yourself what kind of mother you really are.
2) Take immediate action at the first sign of a cold, or congestion in your baby. During winter months, avoid malls, playgroups and daycare. If you notice a runny nose, coughing, labored breathing or your infant attempting to plug in the humidifier you dug out from the basement but never turned on, you’ve got a congestion problem. Immediately limit your outings by staying in the house with your baby for the months of January through April. If you go out under the auspices of “grocery shopping” but instead head to Sak’s or a spa, we’ll know.
3) Bath time mistakes – Submerging your infant underwater during bath time is a surefire way to get an ear infection, even if he seems to enjoy it. Objects like Q-tips, washcloths, pipe cleaners an rubber duckies should not be forced too deeply into the ear canal, especially when wet. When drying baby, do not hold him upside down or shake him, even if he again indicates amusement at such activities. You’re older and you should know better. Do not use a hairdryer on his ears. They will dry on their own.
4) Refrain from unearthing your husband’s Power Washer from the garage. Flushing the canal, particularly with this kind of force, while tempting, will just do no good at all.

Finally, when you pick up the dreaded antibiotic prescription, read the directions. Some of them need to be mixed with water, and some actually need to be refrigerated. Some are given once a day, some are three times a day, some every other day - for God’s sake, read the instructions.

Give ALL the medication prescribed, even if you think you and your baby are those “special” people who don’t need to follow the rules like everyone else. Perhaps you feel you’re not responsible for the national epidemic of failing antigens due to strengthening strains of bugs caused by people who only take their medication until they feel like it, or until they decide they’re “all better.” Jesus, they drive me bonkers!

Take your drugs, all of them!

Finally, take your baby for regular visits to his pediatrician, no matter how much the co-pay is.

If you follow these simple instructions, there’s no guarantee whatsoever that the ear infections will either stop or lessen in severity. In fact, they probably will do neither. But at least you can rest assured that as usual, you’ve consumed all the latest available information in vain.

Happy parenting!

United Boobs of America

2008-01-26T14:24:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, it happened.

I couldn't go one more day. There on the corner of Harvard and Beacon Streets in Coolidge Corner in Brookline, I broke down. I glanced around, sighed and entered Lady Grace, a specialty lingerie store.

I had to get a new bra.

Do you have Mom Boobs? Becoming a mother does all kinds of things to your mind (and yes, your heart and soul and tolerance for cloying sentiment). But these pale in comparison to its effect on your breasts. Or rather, the Anatomy Previously Known As Your Breasts.

I can see your Dirty Pillows! Piper Laurie screamed at her teen daughter Carrie, a transluscent and freakish Sissy Spacek. Poor Carrie never went bra shopping with her mum.

My pillows have traveled the bumpy road from 34B to their current postpartum Salma Hayek state of 38D. And they've long since stopped hanging out together. I won't refer to the classic image of the tribal women in the National Geographics we all thumbed through as pre-pubescents, our first exposure to bare naked ladies...but ye, I just did and this is what my breasts most resemble, though they are pasty white and not chocolate colored. They are large and swinging and...okay, enough.

I was until today utterly defiant at the idea of spending another dime on clothing to accommodate my ever changing shape (having done so for the past 18months since being heavily pregnant and giving birth the first time). I'd taken to wearing my jog bras to keep things in order.

Ladies - it's not a bad idea to go and actually buy bras that fit and support you. When was the last time some kindly store clerk measured you? Probably at age 13, right?

Well, I sucked it up (or in) and fully confessed to the mammary authorities. "What can I help you with?" I was asked. They're so patient and kind, these breast containment professionals. They are all like great aunts who want to leave you their money but don't have any.

"I'm pregnant and nothing fits. I need help," I murmured, eyeing a black teddy I might have worn in a previous life (like two years ago).

"Oh my, we definitely need a larger band for you," she said in the privacy of the hideously lighted dressing room, taking one look at my sorry ass looking bra that fit about two years ago and was at one point, white and not the dishwater gray hue it was now. "Maybe we'll go to a D and see how that looks," she clucked, tucking in my ample pectoral flesh.

Here's the thing. She came back with a variety of options - and with some adjusting, they fit! They made me look better. And yes, I admit, they made me feel better. There was lift, there was support, there was cleavage! MY BOOBS WERE TOGETHER AGAIN. I was still huge, but in a glamorous, Queen Latifah way. Here's two things you might not know about wearing a bra:

1) Once you put one on, arrange the breast so the "nipple is in the center of the cup." I smirked and blushed when my boobhelper said this, only to be amazed at the difference it made in the fit.

2) You should be able to fit 2 fingers (no more and no less) under the shoulder strap if it is fitted properly and snugly. The difference this made in my interpretation of gravity was substantial.

So, swallow your pride (and that last mouthful of chocolate) and go get measured. Admit it - you're bigger (or smaller) than you'd like to be. Accept this and find yourself a real bra shop (no, Victoria's Secret doesn't qualify. Clerks must all be over age 50 and weigh more than 100 pounds). Take control. Own your boobs.

Remember, you don't have to have it all. You just have to get some.

Wishful Thinking

2008-01-19T15:35:00.000-05:00

I want to be in a children’s book.

I don’t mean star in one. I don’t mean get my name mentioned. I mean live in one.

I’d like to be a blue dog that drives a car or a bear that talks or a rabbit that wears cute vests and ballet slippers. I’d like to live in a world where it’s ok for moms to go out for a bit and leave the children under the care of a Rottweiler. I’d like to see where insects talk – where hungry caterpillars get fed and lonely spiders make friends. I’d like to hang out in that great green room with the red balloon and giant fireplace. Who has a bedroom that big and cozy?

I’d like to spend a few decades where animals wear clothes and monsters have playdates. Where things are warm and safe and colorful, and the biggest worries are fear of the dark, a rainy day, not wanting to go to bed and wondering how much, exactly, I am loved.

I want to live in a world where problems get fixed in twenty pages or less. Where everyone feels good at the end, even a grouchy ladybug.

Where beings of various sizes, shapes, species, colors and nationalities converse reasonably.

Where bullies learn.

Where being different is okay, even rewarded. Where bears nap in mittens. Where green eggs and ham taste good. Where builders get the job done - with just the help of their cheerful tools.

Where things don’t have to make sense as long as they rhyme. Where it's ok to not know who your mother is. And where time passes - but only until you come back again.

I’d like to live in a children’s book.

For now, I’ll have to pretend.

The Conversation That Never Happens

2008-01-11T18:27:00.000-05:00

INT. SLEEK HIGH RISE OFFICE BUILDING
Two men, late thirty-ish or forty-something, face one another across a giant desk in an impressive office. The wood is cherry, the lighting expensive, the work vague and profitable and the coffee, brought by a good-looking, young female assistant.

BOB
Well Steve, you’ve had a great quarter, and I just wanted to check in to see how you’re feeling.

STEVE
(enthusiastically patting his belly)
I actually have a lot more energy this trimester, Bob. Which is surprising, since I was sick as a dog the first three months. Heh.

BOB
(chuckling)
I remember. You sprinted for the men’s room in the middle of the Dyson briefing. That was embarrassing.

STEVE
Don’t remind me! Anyway, I’m feeling great now. No need to slow down yet until the baby’s born.
(He suppresses an ugly burp)
Sorry about that.

BOB
Yes. Well, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about.

STEVE
“We?”

BOB
Well, it’s only me in the room of course, but I have to use the proverbial “royal we” when speaking on behalf of the company.

STEVE
Oh. Right.

BOB
(affably)
Otherwise you could potentially sue me personally for saying something mildly politically incorrect, you know, in your current, ah, “state.”

STEVE
Well, Bob, I’m here for the company, and if you need me during the first few weeks of the baby’s life, then I’m here too. Phone, email, you name it. I’m your man.

BOB
That’s great of you, Steve.
(sensing an opening)
So let me ask you, what are your thoughts on actually coming back after the baby?

STEVE
(a bit taken aback)
Well, I do plan to come right back to work full time after three months.

BOB
But won’t you be tired? What about the breastfeeding schedule? What about sleep deprivation – have you thought about all that? Everything changes after a baby, you know.

STEVE
I’m sure I can manage. I’ve multi-tasked before. Jen and I have discussed it.

BOB
And how does…Jen feel?

STEVE
She wants me to do what makes me happy, and what’s best for the family.

BOB
And you have a nanny lined up? Daycare? Maybe your father can help out?

STEVE
I’m interviewing people and visiting childcare centers now. I have picked a pediatrician. I’ve also pre-registered for swimming and music classes. They say that’s important.

BOB
I’m sure. You’re a busy guy, Steve-o. I don’t know how you do it.

STEVE
I try to make things easy for Jen. She works hard. One of us has to take the lead on the home front. I’m sure I can manage it all once the baby is born.

BOB
Well, you might change your mind when the little one arrives. We’ve seen it before.

STEVE
Again with the “we…”

Bob
Just calling ‘em as I see ‘em, Steve-o.

BOB
(a bit defensive now)
Well, there’s no need to worry about me. Millions of men do it every day, right?

BOB
(unconvincingly)
Right.
(an awkward pause as the good looking assistant arrives with more coffee)Well, nice chatting with you, Steve. Keep me posted on the delivery, and if you need anything, just let Kathleen here know. I couldn’t find a piece of HR paperwork if my life depended on it.

"Why I Love Kids" Photo Album

2008-01-09T10:39:00.000-05:00

Hi everyone -

I'm not one to pass along silly emails (I'm far too serious and busy, ahem) but when this photo collection arrived in my inbox I couldn't resist. Some of these tot shots are staged, I think, but otheres are clearly spontaneous 'capture the moment' moments in kids lives. Enjoy - and if anyone knows the source of these snapshots, let me know so I can give full credit! Remember, if we can laugh at ourselves (and of course, others) it makes being a mom that much easier. P.S. Scroll down to the last photo - it's the best!

Feel like a Bad Mother? At least you're not Rose Mary Walls

2008-01-03T12:22:00.000-05:00

The Glass Castle
By Jeanette Walls

Everyone is recommending this book, and as a former publicist and author of two novels published to deafening indifference, I’m not one to heap additional praise upon those who have already summitted the best seller list with no help from me.

However, in this case, I urge you to read Jeanette Walls’ The Glass Castle because, in addition to the fact that everyone you know is insisting you HAVE to read it, and you’re feeling somewhat like an uncultured, sheltered mumsie for not having done so, it is simply an astounding book, with a story as riveting as any fictional horror tale (ahem, James Frey). Now that I’m a parent, I read this book with a different kind of voraciousness. I simply could not believe parents could behave this way, or that their children could be so resilient, not only surviving but later thriving, with nothing but their own wits and each other as resources.

The Glass Castle is the story of a poor family as they move from place to place, the parents skirting responsibility, convention and authority every place they go. They live in their car, in an abandoned train station, an inherited house for a brief, comfortable time, and finally in a poor West Virginian mining town amidst some strange and abusive relatives who eventually kick them out.

Imagine your three year-old at the stove by herself, cooking a hot dog for dinner (because neither of her parents can be bothered to do it) and then catching fire. Imagine your daughter and son scrambling through the school garbage cans after lunch period ends, in order to both survive and also avoid the shame of sitting beside children with fully packed lunchboxes. Imagine your daughter coloring on her skin where the holes in her pants are, so as to better disguise their condition. Imagine your family of six living in a dilapidated, condemned house with no electricity, heat or plumbing in the dead of winter, and you as a mother telling your kids to “pick off the maggotty parts” of the ham to eat. Imagine their father stealing their hard earned cash savings to go on a drinking binge, and you hoarding a fat Hershey’s candy bar all for yourself, hidden in your bed, as your children shrink to skin and bones. And yet, they love you.

All of this not due to illness, terrible hardship and unforeseen circumstance but simple…will. Wall’s mother fancied herself an artistic type who had no use for domesticity. Her father was a dreamer, a romantic, life with him seemed an endless adventure that eventually became less fun as she and her siblings grew older and wiser. He was also an incurable drunk. Perhaps what is most incredible about Wall’s experience and indeed her voice in this memoir is her matter of fact style as she recounts her childhood horrors with no self pity or bitterness. There is even a remarkable though controlled, affection as she writes about the family’s adventures and her father’s promises, and the fact that they all stuck together until things became so unbearable, and the children old enough, to venture out on their own.

The book opens with the well dressed, now married Walls traveling in a taxi through the streets of New York City. By chance she glances out the window and sees her mother rooting through a dumpster. She meets her for breakfast shortly thereafter, offering her help and resources – which her mother steadfastly refuses.

After all she has been through, after all she and her siblings suffered at the hands of their neglectful parents, Walls has earned the right to turn her back on them completely. But she never does, and the remarkable peace she seems to have made with them speaks to the power of family, however you define it.

PRIVACY POLICY

2008-01-01T16:23:00.001-05:00

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Mommy's First Christmas

2007-12-27T11:38:00.000-05:00

How I fear for my second child....who isn't even born yet.

So much attention, praise, admiration and general awe has been showered over my firstborn by friends, family, and admittedly, his own parents, that I know not if there will be anything left by the time #2 arrives.

How many of you out there got multiple "Baby's First Christmas" tree ornaments, onesies or footie pajamas? We also got "Baby's First Thanksgiving" bibs replete with goggle-eyed turkeys and and Baby's First Halloween t-shirts festooned with a variety of spooky bats, cats, and creatures. And earlier this year he was a "First Valentine" and "Favorite Irish Boy" for St. Patrick's Day (he's about 25% Irish). Oddly, we received no clothing or trinkets celebrating his first Labor Day, Columbus Day, or Veterans Day.

Here's my question. What about Mom? It's also MY first Thanksgiving / Halloween / Christmas as a Mom, and dammit, we should be recognized. I don't know about you but I could have benefited greatly from a festive bib and stretchy footie pajamas this holiday season. And the "Mommy's First Christmas" tree ornament should serve as nothing less than our new star. By the time number 2 comes around, neither of us will be very special anymore, the new baby suffering the indignities of worn and stained hand me down bibs and onesies and me probably only dreaming of fitting into last year's celebratory threads.

So here's an idea for budding mom entrepreneurs out there - "Mom's First (fill in the blank)" gear! Nalgene water bottles for Mom's First Walk post partum! Chic ski jackets for Mom's First Outdoor Excursion! Sexy (albeit stretchy) nighties for Mom's First Weekend Without Baby! Bathing suits with "Mom's First Bikini" emblazoned across the ample butt material. The possibilities are endless, ladies.

Go get some!

The Bitch with Children Goes to Brunch

2007-12-17T10:43:00.000-05:00

We’ve heard from the Childless Bitch (in fact, er, some of us may have been her at another time in our lives, ahem) but have you seen the Bitch with Children? You know the one who publicly / beats / humiliates / screams at her brood, reveling in her power?

I saw her this weekend, which was ironically, my childless weekend getaway. I’d jetted (okay, bussed) to New York City to eat and shop my way through the Big Aple for two days with a long lost girlfriend who also left her three tots at home. Baby and Daddy were home bonding and hopefully, repairing the downstairs bathroom.

We were halfway through our second gluttonous brunch in as many days when we heard a terrible voice hiss, “How am I supposed to spread this butter?!” We looked across the counter. She was redheaded and fatigued, not unattractive. Her daughter, no more than four or five, was breaking apart a blueberry muffin the size of her head (that’s how they serve them at the Brooklyn Diner on 57th Street.) The Evil Mother was snapping her question at the poor waiter as she snatched he muffin from her daughter’s tiny hands.

“What did I tell you?!” she growled at the girl. “If you’re not going to eat it, why did you order it?!” The girl picked at the giant baked item, accessorized with two large squares of frozen butter pads (that’s how they serve them at the Brooklyn Diner). “If you don’t stop it, I’m going to beat the crap out of you!” And she wasn’t talking to the waiter.

My friend and I stared at our smoked salmon benedict in disbelief. The Evil Mother reached over to knock the little boy, who was sitting next to his sister, on the arm, telling him, “And you better eat yours!” The father was seated next to the boy (as far from his wife as the counter seating would allow) and wearing a pained expression and a sweatshirt that claimed, Life is Good! My friend and I exchanged another glance.

By the time I got back from the bathroom, the little girl was crying in her father’s lap. Then I heard him say something hideous. In a soft voice, he asked his daughter, “What did she do to you now?”

How does a family get here? And what should we, the viewing public, concerned parents, do when we witness such a scene? I know, I know - we all have our moments, and all of our kids are uncontrollable brats at one time or another. But to threaten your child that you’re going to “beat the crap out of them?” And it’s not like the little girl was having a meltdown or even doing anything really awful. If I got a blueberry muffin the size of my ass, I’d pick it apart before eating it, too.

Evil Mother and family collected their things and left, jerking on coats and hats and shoving their way to the door. And we thought, what happens when they get home? Should we have said something? Have you ever been in this situation? Tell me this is a rarity and not commonplace. Is the Evil Mother only present in New York during Christmas shopping or does she lurk in all parts of the country…?

Then & Now

2007-12-13T12:13:00.000-05:00

Today my son is 11 months old, almost a whole year, and as I changed another poopy diaper and wiped smeared avocado from his smiling face, wondering why his father had dressed him in a rugby shirt for bed instead of actual pajamas, I thought again, as you all do, surely, daily (perhaps some of you hourly) of how my life has changed in the last few years.

For a real eye opener, I decided to read some of my old journals to see what I was doing a few years ago on this date. For those of you who keep a journal, you know this experience can be like shopping for bras pre and post pregnancy/nursing: either a real lifter upper or a super shocking downer. For example, who knew that weighing in at 128 pounds would classify me as "a fat pig" (December 13, 1998). Or that I'd eventually rally against all odds ("I'll never get married and have a baby; I can't even pay my rent I'm such a loser!!" (December 13, 1994). But here's my favorite comparison:

Six short years ago I was a publicist in Hollywood, promoting Guy Ritchie's second movie, "Snatch," starring, among others, Brad Pitt and Benicio del Toro. And oh, Guy was getting married to someone named Madonna....

December 5, 2001
Today was perhaps the most stressful experience thus far of my career in the movie business. The Academy Awards submission forms for all entries were due on Friday (it's Tuesday) and so I made a casual call today to check that the submission forms for all our division's releases had arrived. Somehow, the forms for "Snatch" were missing. My stomach dropped. Was it possible Guy Ritchie and Brad Pitt might not get nominated for Oscars because I forgot to send in the form with their names on it??? What would Madonna and Jennifer Aniston think of me if they found out? Would Guy have me "offed?" What about the other "actors" in the film - Guy's mates are not all exactly classically trained Shakespearan thespians...

I'm hoping it's the fault of a woman in the legal department named Olive, who normally submits the forms, but as the PR person handling the campaign for "Snatch" it might actually be my fault. My boss is going to kill me. She already has a burst blood vessel over her right eye because of this. I think one of us may get fired. During lunch we raced over to the offiecs of the Academy and re-submitted the forms in a plain, unmarked envelope. We also had to let the head of the studio know that "the forms had been lost." I did not say, "because I forgot to fill them out."

Later, the Academy called to say they had in fact, received the application. I gleefully told my boss, who suggested I check on the submission forms for the rest of our movies. Twice. I did so happily. What a day. I'm exhausted.

Luckily this one turned out ok. Please share your THEN & NOW stories, whether not your journal is depressing or electrifying. I want to hear them!

Brenda DiGiacomo's Nikes

2007-12-11T11:22:00.000-05:00

Remember these? Do you have a pre-pubescent daughter? How about a daughter who may be 6 months now but one day will be 144 months? Or perhaps you were a pre-pubescent yourself once, as ugly and awkward and skin crawly as the word itself.

Take heart. We were all there. Some of us had the right Nikes and some us us, well, we shopped at K-Mart for the Irregular irregulars.

Here's a story to make you laugh during this difficult time for your daughter, or to help you prepare for it. Enjoy...

“Who is Brenda DiGiacomo?”

I’d mentioned the name; it was only natural for my therapist to ask the question. She was wondering if I felt it increased my value as a person to spend over three hundred dollars on a pair of shoes. Yes, I’d replied. It had started in junior high. With Brenda DiGiacomo, I tried to explain.

“I never felt so ugly in my entire life,” I began, remembering Brenda and the gaggle of gorgeous cheerleaders and - even worse - majorettes who ruled the school with their Sasson jeans and Farrah hair.

“Everyone wanted to be her. I remember she had those perfect Nikes – the red, white and blue ones.”

A hideous memory shot through me. “I smelled them once,” I said.

My therapist looked up. “Why?!”

“Because…” but there wasn’t one sentence that could explain.

Brenda DiGiacomo was the reigning queen of our junior high. She had dirty blonde hair that rolled down to her shoulders in two perfect seventh grade sausage curls, flawless olive skin, and the body of a 20-year-old stripper. She was a cheerleader. She was also our brother’s girlfriend.

Our brother was captain of the football team and the baseball team. Back then he had a lot of hair and looked like Matt Dillon on steroids. He was very popular. He and Brenda had been going out since the beginning of the school year. She would come over after school and they would slink off to his room, where they’d listen to Boston, Journey and Steve Miller Band records and presumably earn the reputation the school had secretly bestowed upon them.

We didn’t know for sure of course, my sister and me. Not that we had any idea what third base was aside from being a very big deal. I was 12 and spent most of my time at the horse farm down the street. People often mistook me for a young lad with a budding weight problem. I was somewhat plump and had unfortunate bangs. I had no breasts and no hips, facts which were glaringly apparent in my hand-me-down Levi’s corduroys. My brother and I could not have been at more opposite ends of adolescence’s ruthless sociological rainbow.

In addition to being a cheerleader, Brenda was on the softball team, even though she didn’t play much. She looked cruelly beautiful in her polyester blue and white uniform that was unforgiving at best for the rest of us. When the team had physicals at the beginning of the school year, we were lined up in the nurse’s office wearing nothing but paper johnnys with a plastic string belt. Brenda’s body made her johnny look like Prada had made it. I remember wanting to look as good in my best dress as Brenda looked in her paper johnny.

When Brenda came over to “hang out” with our brother, she would take off her sneakers and leave them in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. When I came home from the barn each afternoon I would pass by them, sitting there smugly on my carpet - the podiatry perfection of Brenda DiGiacomo personified in these particular Nikes.

The Ladies Cortez, in red, white and blue, was the most sought after athletic shoe in the entire school. If you ever hoped to have a boyfriend or get asked to the dance you’d better have a pair. You simply had to have them. You had to. God forbid your parents couldn't’t afford to shell out $42.99 for sneakers. Desperate, baffled parents would try to reassure their kids that footwear didn’t matter, a sneaker was a sneaker. Perhaps you too, were once told, “it’s what’s on the inside that counts!” Right. When you’re ninety.

For us, the answer was Kmart’s Jox. A sorry substitute, Jox spelled certain social doom for anyone foolish enough to don them in 1982. You were better off going to school with plastic bags on your feet. An early candidate for fame, Brenda DiGiacomo knew this. The rules only came to me a few years ago when I first started therapy.

There they were. Neatly removed from her princess feet, one leaned up against the other, cuteness oozing from every stitch, every lace hole, each perfectly wrinkled bit of nylon down to the beaming red swipe that said I am pretty and popular and you’re NOT!

I stopped in the hallway and looked down at the shoes. I was in my riding boots, covered with wood shavings from the barn. Behind my brother’s door, Journey blared.

One love feeds the fire...
She was so perfect, what was it like? What could it possibly feel like to be the most popular girl in school? What was it like to have the prettiest clothes, to have a new outfit every day for two weeks straight, to have every girl want to be you and every guy - including my brother - want to be with you? Did she have any flaws at all?

Two hearts born to run...
Did she have any self doubts? Did she worry about ANYTHING? Did she have the problems of normal people? Did HER FEET SMELL?

I had to know. I had to be assured that there was one normal thing about her, a single simple detail that made her human. There had to be something she could be vulnerable about. Otherwise life was unbearable.

I picked up one of the shoes. I glanced toward my brother’s room. No one would know, and I’d be so much happier if I knew that Brenda DiGiacomo had smelly feet. I could write it in my journal over and over again and be reassured that no matter how many times a mean kid whinnied in my direction, I knew the truth.

I held the unsuspecting footwear up to my face and looked deep into its cavernous arch, the space that carried Brenda DiGiacomo through her sunny world every day. I looked both ways and sniffed deeply.

It smelled just like my Jox.

A letter to my 10 month old son...

2007-12-04T15:48:00.000-05:00

One of the things that changes as you get older is your relationship with your parents. I saw it happen with my parents and their parents and now I’m filled with a sort of melancholy resignation that it is happening to me and my parents. And someday, it will happen, as it is bound, to you and me.

“Your parents get left behind,” my mother said one Christmas, when we were talking about family. I didn’t know then if she was talking about herself or her own mother. Now, years later, I know she meant both. She said it without sadness or bitterness. She can be very sensitive, your grandmother, but also very matter-of-fact.

When you are very young, your parents are everything. They are like God and can do no wrong. They are your leaders, your protectors, your caregivers, your fun providers, your sunrise and sunset and they give order to your world. There is no universe without them for they ARE your universe.

Then you become more independent, and eventually, a teenager, God’ cruelest creation and karmic revenge upon those parents who were themselves teenagers once. You question them, defy them, resent them, hate them even, doubt them, mock them. Every force in you bears the opposite of when you were a trusting child. You feel in your bones that only if they weren’t so stupid and naïve, if only you could free yourself from their maddening, relentless oppression, your life could be everything you imagined. You are not right, but you are not necessarily wrong, either.

But then, a funny thing happens as you approach the twilight of your fiery youth and slip gracelessly into early adulthood. Either you go to college, in which case you learn to think in a new way while prolonging your adolescence, or you grow up quick by getting a job and living in what we like to call “the real world.” You roll your eyes at this. You may begin yearning for your lost childhood adolescence which you never before, it is suddenly clear, appreciated.

And you begin, slowly, to understand your parents a little better. You start to appreciate everything they did for you. You may even begin to see the sacrifices they made - perhaps are still making - for you. You get this nagging feeling that you want to make them proud. You can’t possibly repay them with money or material goods, not yet anyway, so you try to reimburse them in spirit. With kindness, thoughtfulness, maturity. A good job, health insurance, or a spouse with a good job and health insurance. You might pick up the check when you all go out to dinner. You might put more care into selecting their birthday or Christmas gifts. Maybe you now call them regularly, not to ask for permission, money or advice but for no good reason at all.

And you realize, this is the time in your relationship with your parents when you are almost, but not quite, peers. They are your friends. You are a young adult and they are…we’ll call it, maturing adults. They are middle-aged. (My parents’ generation all had their children in their early twenties. At that age I was privileged enough to be traveling Europe, learning French and throwing up cheap red on the Metro but never mind.)

This period - the peer period - is a wonderful time. You feel comfortable and maybe even proud that they can hang out with your friends. You do stuff together – plays, dinners, trips, bike rides – and laugh at other people and gossip about other families.

And you help them, as best you can, which admittedly isn’t much, deal with their own aging parents. You’re still living in the imaginary world where this will never be them, this will never be you, this sad scene in a nursing home or hospital, that frustrating helplessness passing through everyone like a virus. Your grandparents are not your parents, after all, they’re…old. A different generation. You can not picture your parents ever being as doddering or vulnerable as their parents have somehow tragically become. You try not to think about it. You don’t.

Then as you slide toward middle age, grow in your career, maybe start producing a family of your own, your relationship with your parents shifts again. You’re suddenly aware of their politics, and it confuses or even frightens you. You seem to have less in common and you don’t always believe in their advice, though you still ask for it. You are able to see your parents, for better or worse, through the eyes of your spouse. Family holidays and vacations take on the strain of too many preferences. You don’t love them any less but you don’t understand them anymore. Maybe you don’t like to do the same things, and this at first makes you sad, then annoyed. Don’t be.

They might want to get home early and watch the news and not spend money in restaurants. You watch movies and television shows they can’t follow and your kids play with things they find absurd. You can’t bear their choice of music. You don’t understand the car they drive and they marvel in horror at how you grocery shop. Laugh, don’t dwell, on this.

And, a quiet realization is sneaking up on you, year after year. They are getting older. And so are you. You want them in your life but it is increasingly difficult to accommodate everyone’s preferred eating times. You struggle and worry and wonder whose needs to put first, because you have your own family now.

And your parents get left behind. But you know what? They don’t mind.

I understand now, and I won’t blame you for growing up, older and out. But for now we have lots of time. Remember, you don’t have to have it all, you just have to get some.

Love, Mom

The Far West Peace Talks

2007-11-29T10:42:00.001-05:00

With all the brouhaha surrounding the Mideast Peace Talks (a one day meeting of speeches where leaders of various nations decided there will be peace by the end of 2008), I was reminded of the daily struggles for peace between men and women, husbands and wives, selfish jerks and cranky bitches, in the never ending quest for balance in what we call "family life."

There are two sides to every story, unless you're in a marriage, where there are seventeen, depending on the day and who's in therapy. So herewith, straight from the Navel Gazing Academy at Happy Lane Estates, a list of demands - I mean resolutions - from each side:

The senior representative from the Selfish Jerks rises, straightening the tie his wife had dry cleaned and laid out for him last night because he'd otherwise never be able to find it hanging in front of the bathroom mirror:

"We come here in the hope that our differences may be resolved, that we can work together to better understand each other's needs (he struggles with this last word; having difficulty reading his secretary's writing) and live in harmony together, sharing the land known as "our home," in peace."

Several coughs and sighs are emitted from the rows of Cranky Bitches.

"We hereby list, in order of preference, our dema -- (he squints at the paper, frowning at something) "-er, resolution requests:"

One - We request the right to buy whatever we want when at the grocery store, especially if the packaging appeals to us, whether or not it's on the list, on sale, and whether or not the household has a specific and timely need for it.

Two - We request at least a fifteen minute grace period when being called to a meal, unless the meal is held outside the home at a steakhouse.

Three - We request that all pink razors be removed from the floor of the bathtub. We are not stupid, and we know a booby trap when we see one.

Four - We reserve the right to archive select newspapers and magazines in the bathroom for up to one year.

Five - We move to submit the motion that calling to say we'll be late is just as good as being on time.

Six - We request that when dressing the children, outfits are not scrutinized for cleanliness or "matchy-matchyness."

Seven - Finally, when initiating conjugal relations, we respectfully request that the response, "I guess so but can you brush your teeth first?" be stricken from all records.

Polite applause as the lead delegate from the Cranky Bitches rises, smoothing her inappropriately expensive Anthropologie skirt.

"Thank you delegate Hot Stuff. Nice tie. We too come in the hope that in the spirit of our children's futures we can and will work together to resolve our differences, even when it's obvious someone is right and someone else is just being a selfish jerk."

Uncomfortable shifting in chairs is heard, one low whistle echoes across the chamber.

"And so, herewith follow our requests:"

1) We humbly suggest that you do what we ask, when we ask it, without debate or confrontation, and without offering "options."

2) We request that when household flowers / plants appear to be, or are in fact, dead, they be thrown away by the first person who sees them and has in fact, noticed they are no longer alive.

3)Ditto with visible, recent cat vomit, dead spiders and accidents committed by the dog.

4)We hereby move to limit any and all pretense of sleep and excessively loud snoring when a child is crying / whining / asking for a puppy.

5)We humbly suggest that when you ask us how we feel about something and we tell you, that you assume the response is true and non-negotiable.

6)We reserve the right to be emotional, weepy, cranky, tired and generally bitchy at any certain or uncertain time for any and all reasons, due to hormones and various planetary alignments.

Loud cheering and applause by the other bitches; while the Selfish Jerks roll their eyes and exchange knowing glances.

The participants exit their chairs, find their partners, and embrace in one giant though imprecise group hug.

Hot Stuff stands atop his chair, stoking his tie and gazing lovingly at his smartly tailored wife.

"Here's to Getting Some!"

MomWear, Part I

2007-11-26T14:36:00.000-05:00

How should I dress, now that I’m “at home?” I’m still working, part time, from home as a consultant, but not many people see me all day. My son’s daycare, the local coffee shop, the lawn guys. My husband occasionally. It’s a peculiar dilemma. You have your work clothes of course, the chic, the conservative, the daily staples from Anne Taylor Loft (a real bargain for corporate wear that’s not necessarily sexless). You have your fun-night-out wear, which doesn’t really fit anymore but whatever. You have your public weekend J. Jill catalog look. That’s it! It must be.

MomWear. The good yet sensible jeans, snug (but no so snug as to accentuate the UGL - Unexpected Gelatinous Layer - where your abs once summered) long sleeve T-shirts and a cute fall vest or sweater, reasonable suede boots of some sort, perhaps. Matching belt – more of a benefit to your fashion sense than a device to actually hold up your pants but whatever.

Still, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re dressing up, sort of. But for whom? Your infant or toddler? The women in your playgroup? The UPS guy?

A recent New York Times magazine article (one of the funniest things I’ve read in ages) reviewed a series of wardrobe changes for the author. He described what each outfit said, since clothes do make the man and have a way of well, talking. I happen to agree. Your daytime MomWear can’t scream, Look at me! I’m LEAVING THE HOUSE! HUBBA! nor should it mutter shamefully, That’s right, I never leave my neighborhood and have forgotten how to dress myself. In fact, I don’t even know what looks good on me anymore. Pass me that Mumu.

I had been going for coffee (just me and the baby) in yoga pants, imitation Ugg boots and a large hooded sweatshirt. No, I haven’t been to yoga in months and yes, an old fashioned, bulbous sweatshirt, not a cute, fitted “hoodie.” This even after I’d managed to lose the baby weight. One day I realized I hadn’t put on a pair of earrings in weeks. And why not? Just because there’s no one to see them? If a stylish mother falls in the forest of diapers and onesies and there are no women or gay men there to check out her shoes, is she still stylish?

Yes, I say. Because she is the only one that matters. After all, we dress for ourselves, right? What I mean is, we do and you should. Put those diamond or cubic zirconia studs in, give yourself a good blowout and use a handbag you love to go to Stop&Shop, dammit, not the plastic coated diaper bag that’s cool but not a purse. Put on an outfit that makes you feel happy, even if it’s imitation Ugg boots and yoga pants.

And if your clothes don’t fit, you have my permission to buy new ones. At least a good pair of jeans. And once piece of cashmere. On sale at Marshall’s or Loehman’s.

Take Mr. Kanye West’s advice: Go on, girl, go’head, get down. Here are a few more suggestions to get you started (or finished as the case may be).

1. Check out other women. Come on, admit it, you’ve been doing this your whole life. Whose style do you admire? Whose could you afford? Whose could you reasonably mimic, without seeming like a Single White Female?

2. There’s nothing wrong with Loungewear, but there’s everything right with quality loungewear; it lasts longer and doesn’t look cheap. Remember Carmela Soprano’s sweatsuits, so elegantly accessorized with heaving mounds of gold and diamonds? The woman never worked a day in her life, yet she was masterful at fashioning the right outfit for every occasion: therapy session, sons’ suicide attempt, rival family wake, dysfunctional in-law weekend on the lake, etc.

3. The right jeans. I can’t tell you what they are for you; there are thousands of options. But you know what you look good in, what’s comfortable, what’s in your budget. They don’t have to cost $200. You’d be surprised what the Gap has to offer these days. Magazines like In Style are always running articles on how to find the right pair. Invest.

4. The right jacket – Cropped or long, denim or cotton, this gives the long sleeve T or fitted sweater a stage. And the UGL (see above) some much needed confidence.

5. Accessorize – Especially if you’re not at your ideal weight and don’t want to spend on clothes that might not fit next week / month. Earrings, scarves. Even fun hats in fall or winter. Belts can make an outfit. And we’ve already discussed your favorite handbag. If you don’t have one, find one and put it on your birthday / Christmas / Valentine’s Day / I’m-just-an amazing-wife-and-mother / list.

6. Makeup – It’s not an indulgence if you feel better wearing it. Drugstore varieties (i.e. reasonably priced) abound. Allure magazine is fabulous at listing them, with fun photos of crushed powders and smeared lip gloss. Call me shallow, but I always have a better day when my lashes are coated and curled. There, I said it.

7. Layers – can divert to attract or detract the eye from our “special areas.” (I don’t call them “problem” areas, that would give them a complex and they have enough challenges.) Long tank tops from Old Navy under fitted shirts, crisp (or not so crisp; they have stretchy ones now) oxfords under a V neck (try Eddie Bauer), even the right scarf can update any exhausted mom. French women know this. And some of them do get fat, so there.

You don’t have to be a fashion rock star. You just have to rock your own world. Remember, you don’t have to have it all. You just have to get some.

The Poo Also Rises

2007-11-18T10:37:00.000-05:00

Have you been here? Sitting in your car in the driveway 1) reading 2) eating 3) sleeping or 4) writing because your baby is asleep in the back and you stupidly made the move from removable carseat to non-removable carseat because you were thrilled your baby was ready for it? You didn't stop to think if you were ready for it, did you?

Not to worry - we've all made this mistake and now here we are, imprisoned in our cars in our own driveways, waiting for the baby to wake up and feeling idiotic. Use the time to do something productive - like take a nap. I'm serious.

When this happened to me yesterday, I reflected on the morning's events, the Morning of the Infinite Poo...

It all started when I assumed I could take 23 seconds to review the life insurance policy I'd just opened which had arrived three weeks ago. Standing in the middle of the kitchen with my 9 month old happily entertaining a plastic potato masher at my feet, I made the mistake of focusing on what I was reading. When I realized that nearly half a minute had elapsed without my looking at the baby I glanced down to see...a slump of brown matter near the fridge and several, smaller islands of brown surrounding it. Fearing at first it was a dead rodent family of some kind, I put down the policy and bent over the baby. He was staring wondrously at a smear of the substance on his finger and another the size of a Nike swoosh on his left thigh. I breathed a gasp - Poo! But how? When?! He was fully clothed and diapered. Then I remembered - he's a baby, he can do anything.

It was a regulation "backupper" - that is, an overflowing diaper that releases excess contents "up the back" although in this case it was more like a "neck upper." I'd never seen anything so monstrous come out of him (since the first, tar-like poo in the hospital but let's not). It reminded me of Poltergeist.

In these situations a mother makes choices. Clean the baby or kitchen floor first? If I took seven seconds to wipe the floor, said baby would waste none of them in further exploring the delights of his own hideous creation, spreading it on his hands, face and eventually, mouth. Am I right, o tired moms of the world? I scooped him up and at a complete loss, deposited him fully clothed into the tub.

Things were progressing in a generally forward direction in the tub when the spouse re-entered the kitchen. "What happened here?" came the bewildered cry. Then, "Is everybody allright up there??" God bless him, he actually sounded genuinely worried.

"A slight accident," I reported, wondering anew whether to clean the newly poo-spackled bathtub or dry the baby, who was now headed for the door / hallway / emergency room.

Guess which I did?

Please share your favorite back-upper story. I know there are worse ones out there.

Shorter, Darker, Colder

2007-11-15T11:19:00.000-05:00

Shorter, Darker, Colder

If you live in the northeastern section of the states, you've set your clock back, reveled for a few days in the extra hour of sleep (even though the baby didn't quite get it despite your explanations) and watched the curled, brittle leaves raining down in blustery gusts that have arrived like a mother-in-law post partum: here to stay.

Fall is finally here, really here, and the holidays are gathering steam. Maybe you'll delight in shopping and prepping a big Thanksgiving dinner at home, maybe someone else is cooking, maybe you're gearing up for the trip from hell complete with lugging strollers and carseats down the jetway while on the cell phone yammering your flight number to your drunk brother-in-law while having to pee really badly. Or maybe you're still arguing with your spouse about whose family gets to spend Baby's first Thanksgiving / Christmas / other PC holiday with you and why can't you just stay home and watch football?

The days are shorter, darker, colder. It's a time of year, despite the festive glow launched by the pumpkins and skeletons of yesterday (yes I'm still dutifully polishing off the bite size Snickers and Milky Ways, you?) when some people get depressed. Some suffer from SAD syndrome - Sun Also Disappears. Some of us just get the blues. Most of us just feel exhausted and overwhelmed. Joyful yes, but resigned to being exhausted and overwhelmed until January 2, when we start a new anxiety over taxes and losing weight.

If you're a first time mom, maybe you're remembering fondly the year you abandoned Christmas in favor of a romantic getway to Hawaii or Chile. Seems like a lifetime ago doesn't it? Sister, it was.

Not to fear - there's a new lifetime ahead. One where you get to gloriously re-live all your bizarre holiday traditions through the eyes of your child. If you're like me and put off having a baby til the last chime of the clock, you might wonder sometimes if you really have the energy to do this. You do. You can.

Bring the baby to the early parties and start thinking right now about getting a sitter for the ones with spiked punch and late night charades. For God's sake, shop online, unless you're one of those creatures immune to mall rage. Give. As much as you can, without draining your reserves of cash /kindness / compassion.

And don't forget to panic about unsafe toys from China. Consumer Reports has launched the "Get the Lead Out This Holiday Season" campaign. Check it out here.

Speaking of safe toys, click here for something proactive and positive you can do

If you need more tips on how to calmly launch yourself into the storm of the holidays, read one of those helpful yet overly ambitious articles from Martha Stewart Living or Real Simple or watch the Food Network. Or book a trip to Hawaii or Chile - you, the spouse and the baby - and leave it all behind.

What the Breast Pump Said

2007-11-13T12:36:00.000-05:00

Why did I start this blog?

First the orchid died.

It was a parting gift from my supervisor who left the Company the week I returned from maternity leave. “It’s yours,” she said after I commented how gorgeous it was sitting on her window ledge, observing downtown Back Bay from its comfy perch in her corner office. A week later, relocated to the desk in my windowless box under fluorescent lights, it was shriveled, drooping forlornly like a used penis toward the floor, its stem brown and leaves withered. Dead. I wondered vaguely about the effect the office had on me after four years. I was thirty-nine and my new baby was four months old.

A few weeks went by, the “transition” back to work which everyone said would “get easier” even though it “was awful” at first. It stayed awful. And I thought, does this really “get easier” or do you just get used to it, like insomnia, cheese and crackers for dinner and the brand new roll of skin over your jeans?

Oh, I tried. I tried to settle into the “normal” routine: Up at 5:30, feed and dress and try to interact with the baby before showering, dressing (and for the first few days, redressing, after he puked on me as soon as the power outfit was assembled) and getting us both out the door with the pets fed by 7:45 a.m. Drop him at daycare, then stop at the corner store for the breakfast of champions (pastry, coffee and a granola bar) which would be gobbled navigating the morning rush hour traffic while tuned to NPR (thinking, somehow, that if I listen to the traffic reports it might actually improve my commute), and hallucinating about all of the things I could alternatively get done with the 75 minutes of sitting in my car that lay ahead.

Two weeks of this and I’m sitting on the floor of a takeout Mexican restaurant outside San Francisco, plugged into the Pump In Style Medela Breast Pump. Yes, it is actually called Pump In Style, as if there were an alternative to being unstylish when pumping out one’s breasts. Whirr umpahhh, whirr umpahh, it says to me. We have a pitch meeting with a potential client. The rest of the pitch team are next door lunching at Panera Bread Company, but their public restrooms had no electrical outlets so here I am on the floor of El Coyote, my pitch outfit - a combination of chic and deeply competent - on a hanger leaning against a box of industrial paper towels in the corner. It was a six hour plus flight, and American Airlines has no outlets in their bathrooms. Like so many moments of my new working motherhood, this one involved a choice: eat my lunch or empty my breasts. There wasn’t time (ah, that four letter word) to do both, and so, fearing an embarrassing and inappropriate leak situation (and I don’t mean confidential corporate information) mid-pitch, I opted for the latter.

Whirr Umpaah, Whirr Umpahh.

Wow, look at me. Glamorous six figure working mom, on her way to a big pitch meeting with a sexy entertainment client. Whirr Umpahh Whirr Umpahh. I’m one of them, now. Working mothers. Those women who have it all.

Whirr Umpaah, whirr umpaah!

There is a knock (or is it a kick?) at the door. “Hola?! Jesus, is anyone in there? How long you going to be?”

Should I shout, about ten minutes per breast? I wonder what my son is doing right now. Drooling, perhaps. Peeing. Wagging him arms like the Lost in Space robot. Wondering where I am. The floor here is not very clean. I think of the movie star Will Smith and his son, spending the night on the bathroom floor in a subway station in last year’s film, “The Pursuit of Happyness.” At least I’m not homeless, I think. I’m getting like my husband, who chooses to see the bright side of a situation. “It could be worse,” he is fond of saying.

Yes, I think, I could have a two hour commute and one leg, I suppose, but its hard to muster up sympathy for the hypothetical when you’re busy feeling overtired and sorry for yourself and your breasts are in danger of exploding in front of your colleagues…

“Hey! Hello? Come on, man!”

Whirr Umpaah, Whirr Umpahh.

The sound of the familiar Pump In Style is oddly comforting. But after a long while, its chugs and hums assume the shape of words, a special message that only I can hear, a dog attuned to the high pitched whistle of its master. It sounds like this: What are you doing? Is it worth it? Why are you doing this? What are you trying to prove? Is it about the health insurance? Cause you know that’s not a reason to be trapped in a job that’s not right for you. But it’s your choice. It’s your life, and your motherhood. You do have a choice you know. You don’t have to have it all. You could just get… some. You know that, right?

I detach myself from the cone shaped receptacles and pour the milk my body made down the sink of El Coyote. I coil the plastic tubing and zip closed the case of the pump, so that now, in its discreet state, it could be a large briefcase full of case studies and not the substitute for my infant that it is. I squeeze myself into the pitch outfit, careful not to let any drops of milk touch the freshly dry-cleaned blouse. I exchange my clogs for pumps, reeling at the thought of my bare foot touching this floor, and pack up. Another knock.

“Hey, Brady, you in there? We’re getting ready to go.” It’s John, the creative director with three kids back home. John is talented and exhausted. “Be right out,” I chirp, sucking in my belly and zipping my skirt. I look into the mirror, greasy and steamy from the hot water rinsing the pump parts. My face looks more determined than confident. I sling the device over my shoulder, grab my bag and open the door. Showtime.

Welcome to "Getting Some"

2007-11-08T15:00:00.000-05:00

A blog by new mom, writer and former corporate achiever Tracy McArdle.

“Getting Some” is a chronicle of a new life stage for first time moms over 35, who have come to realize it’s an existential joke to “have it all” and who have settled for just getting, well, some. Bold indicates links for articles or sites for more information.

We were hot, hip and had careers. At least, we thought so. We had mocha lattes and conference calls, Jo Malone and Treos. We flew business class. Yes, we were privileged. Fortunate. Lucky. All that. But now things are different. We have thicker middles and shorter energy. Someone else comes first now, and although we love that little someone with the entirety of human existence, it’s so consuming that sometimes we forget to brush our teeth or insert a tampon.

Occasionally, we secretly think things suck and we long for our old life. Getaway ski trips, weekends that started at noon and $200 jeans. We have been humbled. Sometimes we are lonely and frustrated. Confused. Feel like Meryl Streep in The Bridges of Madison County, a desperate housewife of the other kind. We’ve thought about buying an apron. We’ve thought about antidepressants.

But somehow, we are also secretly delighted to discover the unexpected nooks and crannies of this new life. Music classes and the local library, first teeth and the delirious joys of Target. Buying groceries in sneakers, in the company of your child instead of everyone else in your city doing the 6:30 what’s-for-dinner panic. The surprising fun of floor play. The shaping of a little soul that’s yours – for a little while.

We struggle with guilt and entitlement, identity and self worth. Money, of course. Relationships. But as long as we can laugh at ourselves, it’s all going to be ok. I hope you’ll join me on this journey. As songwriter Ben Lee said, we’re all in this together.