NYC Moms

Part Time Mom

“Mommy, you’re a cliché” my three year old said to me, albeit out of context, but, sadly, he is right. I am now a working mother and I have become a cliché: the woman who wants it all, gets it all and is still antsy. I have been a full time mother since before The Boy was born (I was put on bed rest) and since Baby Sister was born a year ago, I had the itch to get back to work. Well, not back “to work” per se, more like the itch to get THE HELL OUT OF THE HOUSE.

I envied my husband who got to ride the subway and read.  I was beginning to resent the piles of laundry that exponentially reproduced in the basket. I wanted to be like the wives of my stay at home dad friends- all dolled up with places to go, people to see and problems (not involving poo) to solve.  And, and this is a big “and,” I was getting sick of my kids. I mean 24/7 they are literally on top of me. I was willing to pay someone to hire me.   So I made some calls to some old contacts and found the perfect fit. Now I work at a wonderful non-profit doing something I love part-time. I am fulfilled.

When I am at work, I am not at work I think of my kids. “I miss them,” “Are they napping?” “Are they not napping?” “Do they miss me? Are they ok without me? Poor things.”  When I am with them I think of work: I wish I could go to that meeting with my boss,” or “oh I better remember to tell Rita about XYZ.” Or, more likely, “Where is the sitter, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

On Death and Dying

Of course I have the three year old who completely grasps the concept of death after watching the scene in The Lion King where Scar kills Mufasa. I mean really, it’s a simple Disney movie. I was not ready for the existential crisis that ensued.  Well, lesson learned, movies have ratings for a reason…He asked me if his pet fish, Twiga was going to die.  I told him yes, one day, a long time from now. Then, as if in slow motion, his lower lip began to quiver, his eyes welled with tears and his face got progressively redder as the thought of Twiga ceasing to exist registered in his racing pre-school mind. He wailed, “but I will miss him!” and “he can’t die.”  Then, his thought process began to get more sophisticated and more emotional as he realized that I could die one day too, as could his father, and sister, and each family and friend member he went through.

Lies I Tell My Kid

 

Honesty is not always the best policy. Sometimes I don’t want to deal with the outcome of the truth: usually a full blown tantrum. So yes, Chuck E Cheese is closed on a rainy Saturday afternoon, or you can’t have a cupcake because you are allergic to the ingredients in this particular cupcake. Lollipops make your stomach hurt or the old standby- we can’t buy that toy because I don’t have the money (not always a lie.) or Dora isn’t on TV anymore (no one will blame me for that one.)

 

I bet I am damaging my kid, you don’t need to tell me. First, I am making him paranoid, and confused. Also I am exploiting his blind trust. And,  what’s wrong with simply telling the kid “NO!”- he’s got to learn, right? I know, know. But it is so much easier (whine, whine) to make something up. I don’t want to deal with his disappointment, or his rage. I deal with so much throughout the day since I am a full time mom, can’t I cut myself this little slack? No, I can’t.

Hi Boobs, Welcome Back

Nursing my two kids was the greatest and happiest surprise of motherhood for me.

I went into it dreading the pain (my dear Dutch friend, never one to sugar coat said it felt like “a million razor blades cutting through your nipples”) the hassle, the constant reminder of giving up most of my self to become a mother.  But I loved it. I don’t know who enjoyed it more out of all us, my son, my daughter, or me. Even my husband enjoyed how happy it made us and I basked in his admiration. The endorphins released were unlike any level of contentment I had ever felt. No drug I had ever tried (not many) was this good. The intimacy the and the bonding, the knowledge of the benefits of breast milk, all of it was just so, so gratifying, for lack of a better word. It was heartbreaking when I weaned my firstborn and was just as heart breaking this time around.

I have never been too attached to my breasts and I was pretty much ok with their small size and perky form- “European” someone once called them.  I never perceived my breasts as a component of my sexuality. Sometimes I did toy with the idea of a breast enlargement  or coveted the larger breasts of my friends or celebrities but was quickly brought back down off the ledge when I could wear great clothes or forgo a bra.

Bad Parenting At Its Finest

 

This weekend gave a whole new meaning to long weekend. I was a bad mother. I am not saying this to fish for compliments, or to hear the “don’t be too hard on yourself” platitudes. I really was a bad mother and I hope you would agree. The following is a compilation of examples that include but are not limited to:

1. Almost killing the fish. And telling my toddler son about it.

2.Threatening violence.

3. Loosing the lovey in Chinatown.

4.Taking my kids to Chinatown.

5. Exacerbating a few  bad manners episodes by raising my voice, thereby embarrassing my kid even further.

6. Hearing “Oh, Sh**!” from my toddler, not once but several times (At least it was in perfect context)

7. Letting the baby walk around with food in one hand and a pencil in the other.

8. Undermining my husband’s authority. When he said no. I said yes.

9. Giving up the going to bed battle and letting my kid stay up to watch Nip/Tuck with us. Wrong on so many levels.

10. Underdressing the kids in the cold weather.

 

Simply put, these examples are a result of one thing: EXHAUSTION.  

Whose Pacifier Is It, Anyway?

We all have our own pacifiers that help us relieve stress; some of us smoke cigarettes, some drink wine, others do yoga or meditate.  My one -year-old daughter, her pacifier is, well, a pacifier.  Oh, I have fallen prey to those people have strong feelings about babies using pacifiers. Some believe the kid will get too dependent and not be able to soothe themselves while another argument is that the babies orthadonture is being permanently damaged. Personally, I don't like the way the hideous plastic fluorescent Silence Of The Lambs type of device looks so I have tried and tried again to "wean" her off of the need to suck on her baby crack-pipe. It was torture for us both. Look, she doesn't ask me to give up my glass of wine, so I am no longer going  to ask her to give up her paci. We have come to a mutual understanding that the house (and the subway, and the store, and church, and the plane) is more at peace when she gets her darn paci-fix. So yes, I am very selfishly letting my daughter use a crutch to calm herself.

Why over-complicate this already daunting responsibility called parenting? As parents we are faced with problems ranging from high fructose corn syrup to teen pregnancy, so what harm is a little bit of non PBA plastic for my daughter's and my own peace of mind?

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It is really cold here in New York and staying inside is a pain. Our apartments our small, toys limited. Going outside is a pain:  layers of clothing, losable accoutrement such as gloves and hats. However, I  will take 19 degrees and sunshine over 90 degrees sunshine any day. You will find us out in any weather, often, my kids and I are the only ones in the playground giving new meaning to freeze tag. They seem to be impervious to the cold, although their chronic coughs belie otherwise.  We will load up  with snacks and clothing for the day and take trips to The American Museum of Natural History, MoMa, The Cloisters or Met. The Transit Museum and the Brooklyn Museum of Art are local favorites.  This week, we have The Empire State Building on tap as well The New York Public Library. We travel underground any way or by bus. It is awesome fun simply going to Daddy's office and stopping for hot chocolate on the way. There are other advantages to the cold. Other people don't like to go out, so they invite you over. Cool. No mess in our house, my kids get to play with "new" toys and we can leave (end) the play date on our timing. Staying inside has its advantages as well though.

Dreaming of a Big Christmas

"'The Economy, The Economy The Economy- all this Economy talk is spoiling every party this Christmas" To paraphrase Scarlett O'Harah's opening line of Gone With The Wind ("War, war, war, all this war talk is spoiling every party this spring"). Like Scarlett though, I will think about it tomorrow because after all, tomorrow is another day, and I will continue to celebrate as if nothing were going on. Not to trivialize the financial agony that some are going through now, not at all, I do feel for them. Because truth is, as a one income, middle class family, times are always lean - or on alert - for us. We have always had to be "careful." But now...now it's CHRISTMAS.

I admit, I want to go overboard. I have a nearly three year old whose excitement is contagious and a baby girl whose first Christmas this will be. Our first Christmas as a family of four! The apartment is looking nice (thanks to decluttering) so I want to entertain (cha-ching) buy anything and everything my toddler wants (cha-ching!) just to see the look on his face. I want to deck the halls with all of the surprisingly ungarish decorations from the new discount store on 9th street (cha-ching). I want to bake or attempt to bake with the finest organic local ingredients available (cha-ching!). And Christmas cards! I want to send to every recently discovered FaceBook friend (cha-cha-ching!).

Baby Sock or Multi Purpose Household Tool?

I am not one who generally applies household tips. But I do hate waste. I hate a lot of things actually, like when you ask someone the time and they show you their watch or when you are already late for school and the toddler runs away from you as you are trying to put on his coat. But I digress. I hate waste and losing things. I have lost a lot of things of value over the years, for example a vintage Hermes Belt, an elephant hair and gold bracelet, several earrings and even an emerald. Those are losses one can mourn and move on. But irritating little insignificant mindless losses drive me most crazy. Like those infernal baby socks. Mother F’n baby socks. I had a whole drawer full of partnerless socks until I let go and let God and got a little creative.

Adios, Casita Linda!

Being a New Yorker, I grew up in a townhouse then have always lived in apartments, my kids too. My only "house" per se was my granparents' in Lima, Peru. Today, as I write this, it is being packed up and sold. My eyes are welled with tears, not only because I never got to say bye but because my own children, as siblings, will never know it.  The Boy was there when he was 10 months but he won't remember the sway of the hammock on the patio. The same hammock my brother and I would pretend was The Battle Star Gallactica. He won't remember how much he loved the giant, impossibly heavy and loud copper bell, centuries old, from my grandfather's farm. He won't get to sneak out of bed with his sister and climb up to the rooftops (the houses are attached in Lima)  in the middle of the night with flashlights and candles like I did with my brother.

Since I was born, my brother and I would spend our summers at my grandparents' house. Some kids went to sleep away camp. We went to Peru. In 1981 we lived there for a year with our parents, and like Scout and Jem, we were each other's best friends and lived for the adventures that house and the neighborhood had to offer. My wish for my son and daughter, already a brother and sister team to rival Bart and Lisa at 2 years and 8 months and 8 months, respectively, is that they will have the same shared adventures, curiosity, and sense of roots, or raizes, as we call it in Spanish, that a permanent house, a home, can give them.