Chicago Moms Blog

I brought my babies to Lollapalooza

Just because you can bring your kids to Lollapalooza doesn't mean you should. Yes, there is Kidzapalooza and it is wonderful (more on that in a minute), but you don't need 75,000 grungy boys and bikini-topped babes in 90 degree heat before 8 stages of very loud music and row after row of ripe-smelling port-a-potties to expose your kids to your favorite music.

Here's what we loved (all free):
- Body painting "tattooz" and freshly silk-screened t-shirts and tote bags by artists from Small Paul.
- Playing with the real rock band instruments in the School of Rock Petting Zoo
- Designing a CD cover with the nice folks from Crazy Kids Chicago and Art & Soul
- The Paul Green School of Rock All-Stars. I didn't spy any pre-pubescent guitar protegies, but the world-touring band of teens did some great covers of rock and roll classics.

Here's what we hated:

I've made peace with the Disney Princesses

When I was growing up, in the 1980s, the Disney princesses had yet to become the Disney Princesses. But I had access to Barbies with their tiny waists, big boobs and long, blonde hair. I ground them up against Ken dolls, took them camping in my Tonka jeep and created mini dresses for them out of cut-up socks. I don't recall comparing my body to their impossible measurements, but I remember feeling more than a little envious of my neighbor's high-class Barbie with her 3-story mansion, convertible and whirlpool spa.

The 1990s brought me to college, where I took my fair share of women's studies classes. Much of my feminist reasoning has faded away, but I remember deciding no daughter of mine would grow up idolizing Cinderella and the lot and "waiting for her prince to come."

Lost in translation

I've been Blackberry-less for six months now, and one of the way I've coped with my lack of a PDA is by using Jott. This free service lets you call reminders directly to your email. Today, as I was stepping off the El I dialed Jott from my mobile phone to remind myself to write down the serial number of my bike (a friend recovered his because he knew his) and sign up for our neighborhood block party.

This is the email that was waiting for me when I logged on: "Get serial number from bicycle and write it down. Also, register for Black(?) party."

I'd always assumed a machine was transcribing my voice mails, but now I'm not so sure. The capital "B" for "Black" party? The question mark? Is someone out there wondering if I'm registering for the Black Panther Party?

My VBAC birth story

I've always felt committed to natural childbirth, but despite a lot of handstands in the pool and an unsuccessful external cephalic version, my first daughter remained in the breech position and was born via a scheduled c-section in November 2004. I refused to feel like a failure, but I was disappointed to have had such a clinical birth. I never even went into labor!

So I was doubly committed to doing things the natural way with #2. I found a midwife practice supportive of my decision to have a VBAC delivery and I hired a doula who was finishing up her training to build my confidence.

Then wouldn't you know it, my second girl refused to turn head down! I upped the ante, doing headstands and acupuncture, moxibustion and chiropractic. She stayed breech. Finally, I scheduled another version at 37 weeks. And much to the shock of everyone there, it worked!

Stevie, it's a Wonder we made it at all

Call me crazy. My husband and I buckled our two girls, 11 months and 3 1/2 years old, into a stroller and Blue Lined it into the city Saturday evening for the free Stevie Wonder concert at the Taste of Chicago.

It was a mob scene. Wall to wall people so crammed together the crowd actually stopped moving. The lines for food tickets were 30 deep. The air was rich with the aromas of cooking oil, barbecue, port-a-potties and bug repellent. I knew we'd left yuppie-ville behind when I heard the tenth person comment with wonder on our Phil & Teds stroller. They're as common as squirrels in Oak Park.

I was pressed flesh-to-flesh against the rest of humanity. My oldest whined, "I'm thirsty. Where's Stevie?"  My youngest threw her paci into the abyss and started screaming. A woman in the crowd quipped, "That baby wants to get the f*&k out of here too!"

Motherhood's shittier moments

On Thursday I had my debit card refused at Costco as I tried to check out with a $350 cart full of stuff, much of which was refrigerated or frozen food for the Prenuptial BBQ. Apparently my card has a $300 daily limit. And no, I didn't have my checkbook on me. I had to go to the customer service desk with my full cart and my tired and hungry three year old to call Chase and get my limit raised. They were very helpful, but it still took me 30 minutes to get the hell out of Dodge.

I should mention also that I had to stop on the way to Costco because Z had to "go potty right now." We were on North Avenue, in a questionable neighborhood. I passed hair braiding salon after liquor store before finally finding a Dunkin Donuts with a clean restroom where I had the pleasure of watching my daughter sit on the toilet for 20 minutes. Talk about time standing still. There is nothing so tedious as watching your child take her sweet time on a public crapper.

But at least that bathroom was tidy. Today I got to spend 20 minutes watching her poop in the public restroom at Taylor Park, where we attended a birthday party this morning (oh my God this day's been so  long it already feels like a lifetime ago). Now this  bathroom was nasty.  I'm

Best. Tattoo. Ever.

I took Z to Kiddieland for a preschool fundraiser Saturday afternoon, where I saw this gem of a tat on a mother of three young boys. I love that she asked her tattoo artist to include her toddler's pacifier and titled the picture "Angels in Disguise." It's so classy! Interestingly enough, the 300 pound "dad" with her at the park did not in any way resemble the bearded dude on her back.

Adapted from an original post at Marketing Mommy, where Alma chronicles life as a working mother of two little girls.

Pregnant sex is the best sex

My face was fat, my ankles were cankles and I suffered from an insane amount of gas, but I never felt sexier or randier than I did when I was pregnant. Even with an enormous belly that sent the missionary position on sabbatical, I was ready to go virtually every night. Was it the lack of desire-killing hormones in the Pill? The surge of pregnancy-related hormones in my bloodstream? Or just the surge of blood circulating through my veins and swelling the more, er, sensitive parts of my body, heightening sensation...

What ever it was, thank G-d for pregnant sex. For making this mama feel sexy at 180 pounds. And for keeping my husband happy for 9 months. Because he was about to endure a few months of postpartum sex. Meaning none.

An original post to Chicago Moms Blog.

A bedwetter goes back to diapers

Yesterday I purchased a package of size 4 diapers for my daughter, who has been potty-trained for a year. She's been wetting the bed pretty consistently and refuses to put on a Pull-Up. Not even a name brand Pull-Up emblazoned with the Disney Princesses. She told me they were too uncomfortable. I told her they're surely more comfortable than wet pajamas and sheets.

Waking her up for a midnight pee was unsuccessful. Limiting fluids didn't seem to make a difference. And while layering sheets and waterproof mattress pads made changing the sheets easier, peeling piss-soaked pajamas, underpants and socks off a sleepy 3 year old at 3am just plain sucks.

I'm leaving my babies behind

By the time you read this, my husband and I will be hurling westward at 30,000 feet, putting 2200 miles between us and our small children. Even though it's Passover weekend, it's a wedding we can't miss, and I'm sure the girls will be fine. We'll put Cinderella on the DVD player on repeat, scatter cat food and Goldfish crackers over the dining floor and draw pictures to help our three year old remember the mechanics of mixing a bottle of formula for her 9 month old baby sister.

Kidding! We're leaving the girls in the experienced hands of my mother and her fiance (yes, they're getting married in 2 months!). Sure, their child-rearing experience is 25 and 15 years old, respectively, but how much has changed since the 1970s anyway? (Aside from expensive, complicated double strollers, 5-point harness car seats, a reversal on sleeping positions, nutritional guidelines, poisonous plastics...okay I'm stopping now.) Anyway, how much damage can a grandmother do in three days?

I'm so confident in her and her future husband's abilities, that I'm meeting them at the airport to hand over our house keys, our car, and a little sheet of child care tips. That's eight pages long. Single spaced.

Adapted from a post at Marketing Mommy