Thinking About Having Another Baby

This weekend I told my husband it’s important for our son to have a brother or sister. He was a bit shocked because although I think this was always his hope (he’s a traditional guy, at heart), he thought I was set on our son being an only child. While we love being parents—and I love being a mom—I’ve been mostly set on having only one child, in order to be able to give our son everything he needs, and all the attention he deserves.

But lately I’ve started to consider how this will affect him as an adult. Will I be the controlling grasping mom when he is in college and brings his girlfriend home, someone who he will eventually marry and build a life with, apart from me? Because that is the goal—happiness and self-sufficiency—and maybe I’d put too much pressure on him if I pin all my hopes and expectations on just him—about what he studies, where he lives, who he eventually marries. Would that make him happy? (I just read a book where the main character is like this—it made an impression). Now of course, I may not be that way (it’s not really my personality, when I think about it) and may be lovely and understanding and highly evolved (well, I’d like to believe that’s more my style), putting his happiness before mine and calmly letting him make his own decisions, offering sage advice only when asked and unconditional support when needed, because I trust him and believe in him. That might be too high a bar, but hopefully I will be content enough with my own life apart from him so that I don’t get overly involved. That would be great too.

But I would love for him to experience the joy of having a brother or sister. I know there are times when I don’t want to talk to anyone else but my sister—she’s the only one who grew up the exact same way that I grew up and knows me inside and out. How awkward and imperfect I can be, how brave and graceful at times. When she compliments me—or for that matter, tells it like it is (apparently I can be bossy and judgmental)—it resonates and touches me more than anything else.

Besides, he may be better off with a brother or sister. Someone to commiserate with (“our parents are so embarrassing, yet they think they are soooo cool”) and someone to take the sole focus off of him. We may regret not having another one – our son is so great, really – while we still can. There’s also this horrible underlying worry that something may happen to him, a worry that I am not sure ever goes away, and maybe another child will take some of that nervous pressure off of focusing solely on one little boy and all the good and bad things that could happen. Maybe it will help with perspective.

I also feel guilty about my friends who can’t have kids: the ones who want to but can’t; who haven’t found the person they can start a family with and are wondering if they ever will; and the ones who have one child, and now that their marriages have ended, they don’t see having another one anytime soon. Do I have some sort of obligation to have another if I can? Intellectually, of course, I know that’s not the case, but some part of me feels selfish for sticking with just one.

There are other concerns too, some of which I am embarrassed to admit. I’ll gain weight again, never mind that I still haven’t lost all the baby weight from two years ago when my son was born. Here’s my chance to get into shape before the summer. Late night feedings, teaching a new baby how to sleep through the night, breastfeeding—all of these things make me squirm and remember how tired I still feel now on a good day.

There are many options. How about waiting until our son is four and in pre-school or pre-K? How about adopting an older kid from the foster care system? I know that’s fraught with it’s own set of issues but I really cannot stand hearing about all the older children who have been in foster care since they were three or four and are now too old to be adopted by a young couple who want a baby. Where do they go, where’s their chance at a nice life? Maybe I can help that way. And, this planet of ours is overpopulated as it is, and shouldn’t I try to minimize my genetic footprint (is that the term?) as much as I can and take care of my own small family instead of overcrowding the earth even more? I happen to have a few good friends who I admire who grew up as only children and they are happy and well adjusted people, real mainstream society types— not remotely the type of people you’d find living in their parent’s basements torturing small animals (for example). So that’s a plus—only children can be well adjusted—maybe even more so—then someone with siblings. That still may be the answer and I believe he would have a perfectly wonderful life if that were the case too. I like the idea of just the three of us against the world.

Who knows what the future brings or how his adulthood will turn out. But I have my ideas, obviously. For now I’ll focus on living in the present, always a good idea.

Just Pretend It's Your Party

This weekend we had my son’s 2nd birthday party. I think I might have enjoyed it more than he did. Which is not to say he didn’t enjoy himself. For about 2 weeks I’ve been telling him about his upcoming birthday party, describing it in detail, so much so that all last week, when he woke up, he’d pop his head up over his crib and say “Birthday?” We had it a place called The Art Farm in New York City, where they have music, an art activity, and time with the animals.

They basically have a whole petting zoo in their basement, with bunnies, turtles, guinea pigs, mice, birds, fish, lizards, and even chinchillas (did you know that it takes about a 100 of these harmless animals to make a coat?) Ten kids ran around petting animals, watched a giant turtle walk by with a lizard perched on his shell, and played inside the pen with the bunnies. It was chaos, but controlled chaos, with three “helpers” in red & white checked shirts and overalls, who were very efficient, almost too efficient, handling me like the paying client I was and moving the party along like clockwork. (Only later did it occur to me that they had another party the hour after ours, and while we should enjoy, we should enjoy on time and move on).

During the music segment, all the kids were sitting around in a circle while someone led them in songs. My son was sitting in the middle of the circle with a tambourine and a maraca, happy as a clam. I just assumed they asked him to sit in the middle as the birthday boy (I was saying hello to some friends who had just arrived) but in fact, he just jumped right in there and led the group. I never would have had the confidence to be the center of attention like that, and I watched him with amazement, and pride, that he’s able to do that. He’s a happy, outgoing confident kid.

Which leads me to reflect on my own birthdays. I couldn’t wait for his birthday party, and to see the excitement in his face as we talked about the details (a Thomas cake! Animals! Music!), and then to have all those kids there celebrating him. Since the person that reads my blog more religiously than anyone, and subsequently takes whatever I say as a personal jab at her, is my mother, and who feels obliged to send me long, rather detailed and it must be said, just outright nasty e-mails (“Listen Mrs. Upper East Side…I hope you have a nice life!”) I’ve been taking an unintentional (unconscious) hiatus. But a few kind diehard fans have asked me “what happened to your blog?” and after explaining that my mother happened, I decided that as a soon to be 35-year old woman, and a mother in my own right, I should be immune from my own mother’s comments. So, mom, if you’re reading this, here’s a disclaimer right from the start: if you think that I am saying this to offend you personally, if you are jealous/nervous/sad/embarrassed/wish I would re-write history to make you look better, well, don’t read on.

Ok, disclaimers aside (xanax, anyone?) here’s what birthdays were like in my house. No, it wasn’t like a “Breakfast Club” Christmas (“You know what I got for Christmas? Oh it was a banner f***ing year at the old Bender family. I got a carton of cigarettes. The old man grabbed me and said ‘smoke up Johnny.’”) There were no cigs, or at least, no cartons of cigs given to me as a gift. But I do remember my ninth or tenth birthday, which happened to be the same day as my cousin Lexie’s (my mother would say she wasn’t my cousin, but her father was married to my Aunt, so we were cousins, if you know what I mean). I digress. We went to her birthday party, it was in a park, at sunset, and we walked through a path, through the trees, into a clearing, with anticipation. She’s four years younger than me, but even so, I must have pointed out that it was my birthday too.

“Just pretend it’s your party, too” my mother told me.

Hmmm… let’s try that. I did, up to the point of the birthday cake that said “Happy Birthday Lexie,” standing next to her awkwardly as she blew out the candles, playing with her friends, in the woods, all of whom were younger than me and disinterested, and mostly sitting alone on the edge of picnic table. This was clearly not my party, and frankly it didn’t feel very nice pretending it was either. Actually it felt a bit shameful and was a total letdown. I knew that other kids were celebrated (my cousin, for example!) but it was only later that it occurred to me that I could throw my own parties, whenever I felt like it, in honor of myself or whomever I choose. Even better, now I have the pleasure of showing my son that he is special, that he deserves to feel confident and good about himself consistently, that he can be honored by a group of friends and family just for being him. It’s a nice feeling.

Ah Man, Sad

That’s what my son said the other night, from his crib, when we weren’t coming to get him. He lets us know what he wants. He gets infinitely more verbal—smarter, more articulate, better able to express himself and mimic us, everyday. In fact, he’s a terrific mimic.

I was reading part of About Alice by Calvin Trillin in the bookstore the other day. Amazon Link to About Alice
It’s full of life—with lots of wisdom and family anecdotes about a woman who was a kind, interesting person, a mother to two daughters and wife and muse to a successful writer. But she was never boring. Her husband is still mourning her death, and celebrates her life, in this book. He talks about a letter she wrote—she saved all the important letters she wrote or received in a folder marked “important things” to the daughter of a friend who had been attacked, a girl they had known since she was a young girl. Alice compared the attack to her own struggle with cancer (cancer of the lung that would eventually kill her), making the point that these difficult, traumatic, life-changing events do teach you something. While they are in no way the same, and of course, not the way you would have chosen to learn these lessons, given a choice--they have the upside of leaving you open to experiencing life most completely. I think there is some truth in that. And it makes you more interesting, that’s for sure. Humor comes from sadness, as they say.

I visited with my cousin last weekend in Denver. She’s really terrific, a mother of two, a busy work-at-home mom with an equally busy physician husband, juggling it all. What strikes me now though is something that we have in common—something we do without realizing it. We both tell traumatic or hurtful stories, about growing up in our family, in an entertaining style full of funny ridiculous asides that leave the listener not sure of whether they want to laugh or cry. And then we let them off the hook, as if we were just kidding, it really wasn’t that bad, and carry on with our own secret knowledge of what it felt like, how strange it felt to be disconnected from everyone, the shame it felt being “different.” But one thing we always shared in our family was humor—no matter how crazy it got, we could always find a way to laugh about it later. People within our family—my mother, my Aunt (her step-mom) and her father (my uncle) were laugh-out-loud hilarious personalities who could hold the attention of a room and certainly the attention of four young impressionable girls (me, my sister, and my two cousins). And we were lucky to have that, that sense of the ridiculous, those belly laughs at the table where everyone is laughing so hard they are crying.

My son has discovered humor, too at 23 months old, and it’s a decidely goofy sense of humor. The other day a mom and her young daughter at the playground asked him his name. He said, without missing a beat, “Applesauce” and then laughed wholeheartedly at his own hilarious (to himself!) joke. For the rest of the day we kept saying “Applesauce!” and he’d throw his head back and giggle, catching my eye every now and then, his big appled cheeks and gap toothed smile --definitely my favorite moments of the day. What a nut. I’m glad he appreciates a good laugh, and it makes me happy thinking about how much he will enjoy his life now that he appreciates a good belly laugh, however silly.

Who Me, an Optimist?

While filled with amazement at my son and his intelligence, and spirit, I was struck by something: He’s his own person, and I am just his caretaker. More than that, of course—I’m his mom and am bonded to him forever with a fierce protective devotion—but he has his own mind, and will go out in his own direction, and I am just helping him grow up and get there. I can already feel him pulling away and asserting his independence—isn’t that natural?

I remember before he could walk, and how the idea that he could actually get up and walk out that door, on his own, was terrifying. It still is—and should be I guess, as he is not even two yet—but what happens when he is five or six and just opens that doorknob and walks out?

I was seriously considering one of those tracking chips, implanted in his arm or in some other undisclosed location. Then a friend, most likely trying to talk me through my escalating paranoia, pointed out (thank you very much, Amy) that a character on “24” had one of those tracking chips, which they detected with a scanner, and subsequently cut out of his arm while he was strapped to a table. Hey thanks again, Amy, if I didn’t thank you enough the first time (sicko.)

I actually talked to someone (ok a pediatrician) and brought up my sometimes overwhelming fear that something may happen to my son. Mainly kidnapping. I am scared to even write it, in case that makes it real and somehow more plausible. But he very reasonably pointed out that it is actually very rare for these cases to happen—which is why the few cases that do are so publicized—and that letting myself be overcome by this terror gets in the way of enjoying the moment, and all the good things that are happening right now. Was I always waiting for the next shoe to drop, so to speak, when I was growing up? Always waiting for the next crisis, because it always seemed to inevitably happen? Why yes, why do you ask? Well, perhaps that has something to do with your inability to enjoy the moment and accept it for what it is. Hmmm...how I love being psychoanalyzed by the layman. Or whomever. BUT when I take a deep breath and actually think about it, I can see that it’s a good time in my life where nothing bad is happening, and probably won’t be happening, anytime soon.

In fact, my favorite moment of the day is when my son curls up in a goofy giggle, or when he hears some music in the background of “Thomas the Tank Engine” and looks at me and says, very matter-of-factly (I’m making up words now that I’m an optimist), “trumpet.” And as I slow down and actually listen, I can hear a trumpet in the background. How does he know that? He was so captivated by the band at the Christmas Tree Lighting IN DECEMBER, that he now actually remembers what a trumpet sounds like? Obviously he is brilliant (I’m kidding naturally and then of course quite serious) and has an acute ear for background instruments and will soon be on stage at Lincoln Center....

My point being, that I am enjoying this-motherhood-and why shouldn’t I?

Since I am determined not to put any of my childhood crap (is that a bona fide psychological term?) on my son, I am making the effort to not envision horrible scenarios. I have to say that watching the news and reading the paper doesn’t help. I’m a big fan of fiction. And, on that front, if anyone has a good book to recommend, I’m in. One disclaimer here: I’ve read a lot and am picky, but I am open to suggestions. Nothing too sappy like Tuesday’s with Morrie please. I may be channeling my optimism, but that doesn’t extend to a sudden desire to dip into some piece of syrupy non-fiction (just saying.) How about something well-written and not too dense? I’m a Mom, after all, who needs something entertaining and then some sleep—so if anyone feels like recommending a 600-page political biography, thanks but no thanks. (I am pretty sure no other mom would do that to me!) If I didn’t scare you off (like I said, or rather implied, sappy wimps need not apply) please send me your recommendations. As you can see, I’m still in the beginning fazes of “channeling my optimism.”


And to my friend Jenna, whose son was born on January 2nd and just had her first 4-hours of consecutive sleep: Hang in there! I know you are loving it and taking good care of him, and I just wanted to remind you that if ever the schedule is driving you crazy, it’s only temporary. At around 3-4 months you will have a nice routine down pat. I’m thinking of you!

Is my job babysitter worthy?

Does anyone else feel guilty leaving their child/children with someone else during the day? A babysitter, a nanny, a grandmother—whomever it is? I do. I know my son is in good hands, and that we’ve established a routine that makes him feel calm and secure. And I know that when he cries when I leave in the morning, that it is just a dramatic moment, and that after I leave, he is fine. I know this because my babysitter tells me. So, when he is pulling at my boots—literally, pulling at them, because he knows once I put them on, I am out the door—crying “nooooo, nooooo, stayyy, playyy,” my heart shouldn’t break a little. When I say goodbye, at the door, and he says, “come back,” I say sweetie, I always come back, and then I think – I’ve become a pessimist now, as a parent, with an overactive imagination — what happens, god forbid, if I get hit by a bus, or a train, or a stray bullet (unlikely, as I don’t live in Fallujah.) Seriously, though, what I am trying to say is WHAT HAPPENS if I don’t come back, and now I’ve lied and disappointed my sweetie who is just going to have to learn to live with disappointment? Don’t even talk to me about kidnappers, child molesters and just all around sleazebags who exist to prey on children.

As you can see, I am a more than a little wracked with guilt leaving him everyday. I work full-time, and have a babysitter/nanny who comes at 8 am and leaves at 6 pm. She’s terrific, and has taken care of my son since he was 3 months old. We started slowly, at two days a week, 3 days a week, then 4, and finally worked our way up to 5. Our family knows her family; her sister was my sister-in-law's nanny for 13 years. So they are a wonderfull, extremely trustworthy family. Having said that, is it worth it to be away from my son every day of the week? When couples weigh their nights out, making sure it is something that is “babysitter worthy,” I wonder if my job is “nanny worthy.” Which is why I left my last job, with a horrible maniacal boss and drama every day; I thought, this is what I am leaving my son for every day? No way. I had an Erin Brokovich moment. This ispersonal: “it’s time away from my kids, and if that’s not personal, I don’t know what is!” (I also started wearing tight boobalicious tops, but that’s another story.) Only kidding. So I got a new job, with a non-maniacal boss and a better work environment, and I still wonder, is this worth it?

What’s ideal? What do I WANT? What I want, I think, is a job where I work 3 days a week. Wouldn’t that be nice? Enough time to get the satisfaction that I am working on my career (I’ve worked hard at it), using my brain (seriously, it turns to mush quite easily when I don’t engage it, it’s a scary thing) and socializing (which, beyond work, I don’t do very often anymore.) But I don’t like leaving my sweet little boy every day, and short of winning the lottery ( I was really counting on that last Megamillions jackpot, such a disappointment) I have to find a way to balance work, taking care of my son, and getting some "me time" as well. I haven’t found the answer but what they say (they, not sure who theyare in this case) is to take time for yourself and not feel guilty about it, because it makes you a better mom.

Well, not sure if it makes me a better mom, but I did get a pedicure the other day after my son looked at my toes, with the horrible peeling red nail polish that had been there for an unspecified amount of time (am really trying to NOT gross you out) and said “what happened, Mama?" Umm, poor hygiene sweetie. You know that book we read where Elmo talks about hygiene? Take a bath everyday, wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, don’t take a cookie if you aren’t going to eat it (I love that one)? Well, Mama has poor hygiene.

I guess that’s why “me time” is important—to take care of yourself so that you can better take care of your son. I’m not talking about pedicures here, really, (am really not that shallow) but about the whole gamut: work, play, kid time, you time, and balancing it all. That’s the trick, I guess.

Everybody Poops, Sometimes

Yep, it’s true. Everybody poops. Mama poops. Mimi poops. Kitty poops. Fire truck poops. Well, we’re working on it. But this is the conversation in my house these days. And it’s confusing. Poopee or Peepoop? Are these one word, Harris wants to know?

I read somewhere (I can’t remember where I read most things nowadays) that it’s important that your child doesn’t feel self-conscious about his bodily functions. It’s all natural. Enter Everybody Poops Barnes & Noble Link to Everybody Poops, the Japanese megahit that was embraced on our puritan shores and explains, quite simply, who poops, and as a bonus, what it looks like when each animal poops (a zebra and a hippopotamus poop differently, just so you know.) Anyhow it’s a classic and gets the point across: if it eats, it poops. And that’s all good.

We were at B&N the other day, where we collected some books off the shelf and sat down on the dias in the center of the children’s section to read, surrounded by other kids, nannies, a few moms, and a dad or too. Harris assesses the situation, looks around, and announces proudly to noone in particular, but to what feels like the ENTIRE Barnes & Noble on 86th St: “MAMA POOPS.” Big smile on his face. Couldn’t be more pleased with himself and this undeniable fact. I, of course, cannot be embarrassed—everyone poops and the whole point is not to be embarrassed—so I just smile, nod my head, and begin to read a book about trucks. Ah the glamour. Just another day in the life. But under the surface I am thinking: this is what I’ve become, an unshowered woman in cargo pants that poops. If anyone looking at me found me vaguely attractive and/or interesting, now they are imagining me pooping. Or something.

On the same topic—we’re here now, can’t leave yet—you know it's love when you ask your son, with real concern in your voice "was that just a fart, or an actual poop?" Or you explain gently why you think it’s not ok to wipe pee on the wall. Or you comfort your sweet little boy when he has pooped in the tub, and you have to evacuate the bath—early—while he just wants to play. He’s looking at the poop guiltily—he knows he did something wrong and the fun bath is now ruined—and you say “no that’s ok, we’ll play outside of the bath,” while glancing worriedly at the mess on the bathmat, the tubmat, his lower back, HIS LEGS, and wonder how is it possible that one little boy—one little butt—could make such a mess, literally destroying an entire bathroom (for the moment, at least.)

Poor little boy. I say this to him comfortingly, as a mantra, and he looks at me with a goofy smile, says “poor little boy!” and laughs, like a hiccup. He fills me with joy, really. Yesterday, in the car he actually said “So happy. Mama happy. Car happy.” So, everybody poops, sometimes, but we’re happy, and that’s what counts.



Note to readers of my last posting “Best Advice for New Moms”: One of my co-bloggers mentioned that there is a lactation consultant on this site, and I took a look, and she looks perfectly nice and reasonable. Not at all like Satan’s Spawn and her helper, Nurse Ratchett, who were both on night duty on my maternity ward. So it’s a stereotype, certainly, but there must be some good ones out there. I wonder if lactation consultants are like dentists and psychiatrists, with a high rate of depression because of their horrible reputation among non-masochists? Anyhow, in the spirit of fairness, I am including the link herewith: Link to the Real Savvy Moms Even now if I dig back into the recesses of my mind, I vaguely remember a nice lady with a reasuring perky bob, a triangle silk scarf around her neck and sturdy, wide shoulders (was this before or after the percoset was offered?) who showed me how to hold Harris in a “football hold,” and it actually worked. And then she left, leaving Satan’s Span in her wake. But I digress.

Best Advice for New Moms

First, I wanted to thank everyone who sent me comments (publicly and privately!)--I love it and really appreciate all of your comments.

I visited a good friend (Jenna, shout out to you if you’re reading this!) and her new baby—born Tuesday January 2nd—this weekend, which has inspired me to list all the best advice that I received as a new mom. Some of this I received from other moms, and some of it I just learned myself, the hard way. A word of advice about advice: read as much as you can, talk to as many people who have experienced the same thing, and at the end of the day—trust your instinct and use your common sense. Most of the time, that is what will get you through.

Feel free to chime in here at anytime:

1. You can supplement with a bottle, and formula, to get some sleep at night (let someone else do the feeding) without jeopardizing breast-feeding.

2. Get outside at least once a day and take a nice walk.

3. After about 3-4 months, you can get your baby on a schedule. It will work wonders for your sanity. A book that helped me through this stage was On Becoming Babywise Amazon Link to On Becoming Baby Wise. It’s a bit militant, but I took the important points from it and it worked. (My dear friend Kelle recommended this one to me—and she gave me some of the best mommy advice, and still does!)

4. Another great one, written in a wonderfully chummy and comforting tone is The Girlfriend’s Guide to Surviving the 1st Year of Motherhood Amazon Link to Girlfriend’s Guide To…. This helped me through the trauma of getting my son to sleep through the night—epsecially the three-nights as he cried himself to sleep. She (the author, Vicki Iovine) rightly points out that this will be one of the most trying times in your marriage and as a parent. Knowing that other people felt the same way meant a lot. And after three nights, it really did work.

5. Clothes—don’t be ashamed to wear your maternity clothes a little bit longer, you will wear them for awhile. Then you'll discover the benefits of “transitional” clothes. I bought a very cute "transitional dress" for a friend’s wedding six weeks after my son was born, and no, I am not Heidi Klum. It was from Naissance on Melrose Link to Naissance on Melrose site, a LA site that has fun, non-maternity maternity clothes. Sizes run very small and when in doubt, go large. They don’t give refunds, only store credits, by they way.

6. H&M is another great resource.

7. Books and more books: Baby Signs Amazon Link to Baby Signs. This was fun to read and although I never taught my son sign language, I enjoyed the concepts, and you do end up signing with your baby in some way even if you don’t teach them traditional sign language. (A great gift from my great friend Aymee.)

8. Don’t speak to your baby in babytalk—use the real words and enunciate—and you will be surprised at how much they pick up. My son now tells me when he is frustrated, and it calms him when I say back to him “I know you are frustrated, but we have to leave now.” At least I GET it, he seems to be thinking, and we move on.

9. Baby Einstein dvds are great, especially when you need a break or need to take a shower. They actually do teach your baby stuff too. “On the Go” is a great one for boys, and Baby Beethoven was a lifesaver starting at three months, I think.

10. On that note, don’t feel guilty when you need to take a shower. The swing, a Baby Einstein dvd, and 10-15 minutes in the shower, while you get dressed & brush your hair, is worth it for your sanity. Five minutes of the baby crying while you do this will not scar your baby for life.

11. Play music—it is a great antidote to TV and they are so excited once they take classes with other kids and already know the songs. Klutz has some good CD packages, and the Raffi songs are good. I actually downloaded those onto my Ipod and made a dance mix for my song. He loves it. "Baby Beluga," "Head, Shoulders, Knees & Toes" and "If You’re Happy and You Know It" are some of our favorites. I read somewhere that when the baby is in the womb, they hear sounds in stereo, and it is a comfort for them, afterwards, to hear music in the background. This has really proven true for my son.

12. The Beatles Lullaby is a terrific bedtime CD and won’t drive you crazy listening to it. Amazon Link to Bedtime With the Beatles. (Another gift from my fabulous friend Aymee.)

13. As soon as you can (three months is a good marker) get someone who you trust, or you can learn to trust, to babysit regularly. I know this can be expensive but it is really important for your sanity.

14. Baby Gap has great clothes and they go on sale often.

15. Barnes & Noble is a great place to stop by with your baby to kill an hour. If you have a great independent bookstore in your neighborhood, even better!

16. Once your baby starts eating real food, they will love edamame and soba noodles, so treat yourself to Japanese takeout!

17. You can add steamed brocolli or spinach to mac & cheese or eggs and they will eat it up gratefully and you are providing healthy sustenance for your baby. Nothing feels better than preparing good food for your baby and watching them relish it. Don’t be too saddened when your carefully prepared meal gets rejected and even worse, thrown. Experiment until you find the right thing.

18. In this vein—and it’s really easy (I am not one of those homemade babyfood moms although all the power to you if you are)—make a big pot of chicken or turkey soup. Then put it in the blender/cuisinart/ food mill and your baby will love it. It’s so easy to make too. Literally boil water, throw in chopped chicken or turkey breast, barley, broccoli, onion (it will add flavor and become sweet as it cooks) and a chicken or veggie boullion cube. I’d mix some cheese (light havarti or muenster) in with it when I blended it. My son loved it.

19. Plan a night out with the girls to feel normal again. Ditto on a date night with your husband—this is sooo important and I waited on this longer than I should have.

20. Your weight and appearance: try not to worry about the weight for 8 months or so—because it truly will start to melt off. It was about that time I went on the South Beach Diet to lose the rest. It worked although post-holiday weight gain is hard to avoid! I guess what I am trying to say is don’t drive yourself crazy early on trying to lost the weight. Give yourself time.

21. This is a great store in Brooklyn with highly edited flowy pieces—the dresses by Butter are very forgiving: Link to Neda’s Store. Full disclosure: Neda is a friend, and she’s great—but I wouldn’t recommend her clothes unless they were great too!

22. For the first year, get a book or subscribe to a site that will give you a week-by-week summary of what to expect that week. It’s just interesting to watch their progress and it’s good to have a yardstick.

23. Get a digital camera, and take lots of pictures and send them to family and friends. It’s an easy way to keep everyone in the loop. I like Ofoto.com Link to Ofoto. But there are lots of good ones out there. Once you have your pics online you can make a calendar as a holiday gift inexpensively—grandmas and aunts love these!

24. It’s impossible not to fight in front of your kid from time to time but when you do, stay calm, don’t call eachother names, and be sure to show them that you’ve resolved it afterwards. If you find that you are fighting a lot, don’t just try to talk yourself into thinking it’s normal. It makes your kid feel unsafe and nervous and like they’ve done something wrong. You’re only human, and this is a major life transition and bound to be stressful—it’s ok—but take care of yourself and find someone to talk to about it. Finding a good therapist really is a gift—and don’t be ashamed! I for one love my therapist. Now that you are a mom, it is your job to get in the best mental shape you can. Just do it!

25. Whoa, that was a heavy one, so here’s a transition one: don’t be afraid to question your doctor. If the advice seems not to fit—or goes against your instincts—by all means, ask around, talk to another doctor and get a second opinion. Doctors are only human too and don’t assume that they know everything.

26. Oh—speaking of doctors, two words: Lactation Consultants. If you found a good one, well then I’m jealous, because I only met Satan’s Spawn and her friend Nurse Ratchett. These people were awful and I mean awful. They just existed to make me feel guilty and bad about myself. I talked to another mom about this at the time, and she had the same experience, and I ended up saying “If I run into one of them at a cocktail party I am going to give her a piece of my mind.” (Big words!) And she rightly pointed out “You wont!” Meaning, of course, that Satan’s Spawn is a social outcast who wouldn’t deign to socialize when she can torment nervous new moms in her lactation house of pain. Ok ok they can’t be all bad (can they?) so ask around and get a recommendation. Just don’t assume that you will meet a nice one. How about that?

27. On this note, another good mommyfriend, Mollie, told me that I should feel comfortable doing whatever will help me enjoy my baby. For me, that was stopping breastfeeding. That piece of advice really made me feel better and more confident. Talk to nice supportive friends who’ve been there before and don’t be afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions (latching on, etc…)

And I’ll end with that: Enjoy your baby! Do what you need to do to enjoy your baby—getting help, going back to work, staying home, breastfeeding, not breastfeeding—whatever is right for you. And since we all don’t have endless supplies of money and free time, give yourself a break, enjoy your baby, and pat yourself on the back, because however you do it, you are now embarking on the hardest, most rewarding job in the world and it is DEFINITELY worth it!

Other Moms: Neurotic Control Freaks, or Are We All Just Trying to do the Best We Can?

After I wrote the first two entries I experienced the euphoria that comes from sending it to a few close friends—instant positive feedback!—and after that passed, I felt the sinking sensation of over-exposure. How embarrassing—my innermost thoughts—musings, vanities—exposed now, for everyone to see in cyberspace. What could I have possibly been thinking? Better to write about other people, I eventually decided. Ah, sweet relief.

Although, to be perfectly honest, there IS an upside. Where my other writing is stymied (lets just say “slow to form”) this stuff just pours out of me. And writing consistently—for a community of like-minded moms—could actually be a good thing. So I’ve decided to forge ahead—or, in the words of a less-euphemistic minded friend, “suck it up.”

But I am still going to concentrate on writing about other moms this time…

So here goes: One of my co-workers lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn—a hip enclave with beautiful old brownstones and mostly artsy publishing types with bucks. Her friends are same-sex domestic partners (ok, lesbians) who’ve adopted a kid. At the playground, the other parents are stand-offish, paranoid and basically don’t engage in conversation. She asks if it’s like that where I live, on Manhattan’s Upper East Side—or is it, as she suspects, because her friends are “different.” No, I assured her, it’s the same up here. Even though I happen to be one half of a married heterosexual couple (ok you’re average family) with a son who’s almost two—the other moms are exactly the same at MY playground. That is: standoffish, paranoid, and basically flat-out rude slash miffed when you try to start a conversation. Weird.

Of course, not EVERY mom is that way—and when they aren’t, we both simultaneaously pull out our cell phones with relief and get eachother’s numbers—because it’s THAT rare! I was stranded in Starbucks for about twenty minutes with Harris in a stroller as it poured sheets of tsunami-like rain, and ended up talking to another similarly stranded mom. The conversation was natural, open, and we ended up sharing snacks for our kids—and then, GOT EACHOTHER’S PHONE NUMBERS because we NEVER meet people as easygoing, usually, in our neighborhood. Generally we (my husband, baby and I) just exist on our own island of three. This lady, this other mom, was perfectly lovely--
smart, educated, normal (which I am, I like to believe)--and my point is, I guess, that WE ARE NOT SOCIAL MISFITS! So why are we made to feel like ones?

Well, let me tell you about some of the moms—that I adore and are part of my social set, and as another disclaimer, are genuinely nice people who I would vouch for and call in a crunch for any reason. AND I hesitate to write this because I don’t think it’s really fair to criticize other mothers and their personality quirks—we’re all different and god knows I am not perfect. SO with that disclaimer, I write this so you can get an idea of the current zeitgeist of motherhood in the UES. Think of this as a cultural outing.

Courtney (not her real name) has a son who’s one week younger than my son, a great little boy who she is terrified of experiencing any physical hardship at any point. Which means, basically, that he never learned to crawl and just barely learned to walk. She carried him around like a doll and placed him in a seating position wherever they went, so much so that he never learned to lay on the floor, push himself up and crawl. After about 15 months he had to go to physical therapy for four weeks to strengthen his legs so he could learn how to walk. Now he is a walking machine, and I have to say, happy as a clam. A disclaimer here: she is beautiful, genuine and one of the least plastic people in a crowd of plastic bugaboo-and-stiletto moms-- just trying to protect her baby--and maneuver the new mommy landscape the best she can.

Another friend, Mindy (another made-up name), is tremendously efficient and well-organized (a quality I greatly admire, by the way) so much so that she confided in me that “my nanny knows not to dress Emily is anything that I haven’t laid out for her—and if the outfit isn’t laid out, she knows to come and get me.” Which is one way to handle it, certainly, as our babysitter dresses Harris in a combination of madras, stripes and plaids that I think could only fly in the circus. ANOTHER friend, Amy, limits the amount of toys her son can play with in a day e.g. “pick three toys to play with and that’s it." Why? She wants to maintain order, or limit the amount of stimuli(I guess.)

So, with that said, with my easygoing approach—if you can call religiously reading the week-by-week chart of my son’s growth his first year and calling the doctor when he had a fever over 100.1—I am in the minority. Or not. Who’s to say what’s right and what's wrong? Aren't we all just trying to do the best we can?

Literary Musings

We didn't go out last night (we try to get a babysitter one night a week)--Harris was sick, I was home yesterday and he had a 103.5 fever. After baby Tylenol and 1 hour in the doctor's waiting room ("He has a fever, can you hurry???") we found out it will just pass in a few days, which it has already. Anyhow! There was an article on mommylit and mommy blogs in the NY Times Style section last weekend—did anyone see it? Lots of mommy books were mentioned, by moms just like us. Basically, I am just jealous because I haven’t sat my fat butt down and written a novel. Isn’t that what Hemingway said—the only thing that separates writers from non-writers is applying the seat of your butt to the seat of your chair? I’m sure I bastardized that quote, but it’s in the general neighborhood.

I’m reading a book called Lost Hearts in Italy by Andrea Lee . She’s a terrific writer who used to write for The New Yorker, and it’s a novel about a young woman who, while living in Rome as a young mother, had an affair that destroyed her marriage. It’s beautifully written and takes you into that interior world that I think we all live in sometimes—where you just yearn to be outside yourself, and your own life for awhile. It’s also a wonderful cautionary tale about living too much in that fantasy world (hello Emma Bovary) and about having an affair—don’t do it!—and she touches on something that I really related to: falling in love with your child

When you have a baby, it really is like falling in love, except this time, it’s coupled with an all-encompassing fear, and almost certain knowledge that if something happened to this baby it would be a heartbreak that you’d never get over. I am sitting at my desk (he's at swim class this morning with his dad--two hours to myself!)and I can picture his face and feel that tug at my heart—and am able to perfectly visualize his skin, and the goofy way he walks, and his concentration as he lays down, drinks his bottle, and plays with his feet, legs straight up in the air as we read a book together (my friend Christine, a yoga teacher, says we are all born as perfect yogis, and when you see a baby stretch, you can see what she means.)

I guess the trick is reining in that love so your son (or daughter) has a healthy sense of self and a good life. I joke that Harris is going to live with me until he is 40 (hey, they do it in Italy!) but in all honesty, what kind of life would that be for him? My husband points out that don't we want for him to fall in love and be close to someone--to have a partner (besides his parents!) in this life? Well, yes, I do--just in his own sweet time. He's not even two yet, so I will, in the words of my lovely niece, try to "chillax" (chill out and relax, one of my new favorite words.)

Who Am I?

Why am I fishouttawater mama? Well, I think I was even before I became a mom. Growing up with a half-sister, a single-mother, in flashy ski resort in Colorado without a flashy income to match (although plenty of handmedowns and Christmas gifts from relatives who didn’t want their poor country cousins to embarrass them) did imbue me with a feeling of being on the outside looking in—an observer. Add to that the task of mothering my mother (cooking, making coffee—really, everything that comes with being the daughter of an alcoholic party-rock-star-groupie mom, pre-rehab—did you see Ab-Fab?) coupled with trying to help raise my younger sister too (um, you really shouldn’t be shoplifting, what if you get caught??) made me realize that I exist on my own island.

Then, when I had Harris (he’ll be two in April,) everyone seemed to ask the same question: When is your mother coming? Well, my mom is not like everyone else’s mom. She doesn’t feel that maternal tug, didn’t have that desire to be at my side, helpful and cooing over a newborn (her first grandchild!) And while I love my mother dearly—that fierce loves that binds you to family and to those you have a history with, good or bad—she’s just not maternal. (Therapist mantra: “Accepting that is the first step.” Towards what, I don’t know)

Having said that, she came to visit after six weeks. Why six weeks? Because that’s the first time my husband and I could “become intimate” as she calls it, after having the baby. What? Yeah, she wanted to fly in, from Colorado, and watch Harris for the weekend, for the first time, for the simple sake of allowing my husband and I to have sex. And for those of you moms out there—it’s probably all moms reading this, right?—you’ll know that THAT was the last thing on my mind. How about a shower, maybe a pedicure, and a long nap? She did come out to visit, and was out the door 24 hours later. Ah, motherhood. So, I guess that was my longwinded explanation of the fact that I am used to feeling like I live outside the prescribed norm—family-wise, certainly, and then my perspective, too I guess, is my own (as is everyone’s) in that it is not hemmed in by any particular stereotype of who I seem to be on the surface (a publishing exectutive, a lawyer’s wife, living on Manhattan’s upper east side.)

Who am I? Someone trying her best to be a good mom; someone in love with her baby; someone who’s married to her best friend, although not without challenges; someone who, for the most part (I have my husband and his family,) is doing this on her own, with no support system; and someone who desperately wants to create the oasis for her child that she never had –all the while trying to climb the corporate ladder and maybe, just maybe, in her spare time, write a book or a poem or two.

Maybe I should have called myself “desperately trying to mulititask and take on the world mama,” but doesn’t that describe us all?

Mood: Contemplative

Mood: Contemplative