NYC Moms

Stroller Rage NYC

The first time I encountered Stroller Rage was pre-kids when I was on line at the post office.  Did the mother’s stroller inhibit her travel and allow me to get in front of her on line?  It’s debatable, but I think she was mad because she kept pushing her stroller into me.  Finally, I’d had it.  I turned around, annoyed and confrontational, and encountered two adorable, huge baby eyes looking up at me.  I smiled and turned back around only to be pushed again by the stroller.  Things like this happened to me now and again.  For example, there were several times I dodged a fierce mother and her state-of-the-art stroller careening down a sidewalk.   ‘What is the matter?’ I’d think.  It was around this time that I met a woman who told me that she can’t stand how people push her around when she has her stroller and as a result she will “ram them” if she has to.  This was before I had my own children and those words haunted me: ‘Ram them if I have to.  I will ram them if I have to…’

Then I had my own baby and got my own stroller.  From the start, strollers and I were not a love story. Soon I discovered that getting on buses or into taxis was particularly annoying and I would slam that thing as if I wanted to kill it. (A different kind of stroller rage, but real nonetheless).  Then I had to learn how to get the stroller into stores and elevators and restaurants while people squeaked by, glared or goo-ed at the baby.   Inevitably, I bumped into someone or rolled over someone’s foot.  Or my pocketbook fell off my shoulder and hit someone and my bra was showing and I looked exhausted and the baby threw raisins.  As I sat, the phone rang. I answered it, crooking my neck, while taking the baby out of the stroller only to have the whole stroller and diaper bag fall backwards—most likely on someone.   

Take My Mother-in-law--PLEASE!! Hahaha

I don’t have a mother-in-law.  By the time my husband was 25, both of his parents were dead.   All I know of his mother was she was pretty, driven, a smoker who played Mahjong, and my daughter’s namesake.  She raised a wonderful boy.  And I am extremely grateful to her for that. 

It may be this lack of a mother-in-law that has led me to romanticize the presence of one.  I see my friends’ mothers-in-law picking up their grandchildren from pre-school.  Mothers-in-law showering grandchildren with affection and adventures. One of my friends has never had anyone but her mother-in-law and her own mother as babysitters.  Still, it seems that none of my friends actually like their mothers-in-law. Why, I ask?  They’re dominating.  They tell the daughter-in-law what to do and/or how to raise the kids.  They give the kids late afternoon snacks.  They play too loudly with the child.  They feel entitled to the child’s time.  Okay, these all sound potentially annoying, but is it that bad?  Yes, they say.  And their own mothers?  Totally different. Their own mothers are a huge help.  They ‘get it’.    Their own mother might bother her, but not like this! Hmmm.  Well, what about you?  You have a son.  You might be a mother-in-law one day.  What will you do?  Then there is either silence or nervous laughter. 

One afternoon, I was having lunch at E.J.s Luncheonette with my son when an older woman sitting next to us struck up a conversation.  She had raised two sons and had a young grandson.  Her sons lived far away and she saw them for major holidays.  Then she said, “You really raise a son for other people.”   I

Just Don't Call Me Late for Dinner...

Sometimes I have strange experiences here in New York City.  At a dinner for the Kindergarten mother's a few week ago, a group of mothers stood around me asking me how their daughters should address me.  The school discourages using first names for adults and I didn't change my name to my husband's.  Should they call me Mrs?  The kids are too young for Ms., they thought.  Well, the head of our school is a Ms., I said.  So is the librarian who's single and over 50 (I hear kids calling her Miss and I cringe every time).  As I stood there with my watery mojito in hand, I thought, are we really having this conversation?  Was I really just asked why I hadn't changed my name?  Yes, indeed.  In our class of 43 mothers, I am one of five who hasn't changed my name, but I am the only one of the five who doesn't work.  How dare I not change my name and not work! 

When I think about it, it does seem odd.  But, for me the changing of the name seemed more odd.  I remember discussing it with my husband and saying, imagine you are Jack Green and now you get married and you're suddenly Jack O'Malley or something.  Wouldn't that feel strange and confusing, Mr. O'Malley?   

Dreams of Homeschooling

My daughter was a quiet baby and then a quiet toddler.  When we were touring pre-schools, I remember asking one of the directors we met how they handled quiet children and she said,

"We teach them to stand up for themselves.  To say, ‘No!’ and maybe even to grab a toy back!" Uh oh.  That wouldn’t work for my little Buddha.  She just wasn’t going to grab that toy back.  So, we didn’t pursue that school.

Still, our daughter’s calm nature became even more noticeable when she actually started pre-school.  She was not one to push or hit or scream.  She was happy to play and when asked to line up or clean up, she would do so without pause.

As she got a little older, I started to feel over-protective of her.  Or maybe I was just protective of her.  She was different, but in a lovely way.  If kids wanted to cut ahead of her in line for the balloon man, she let them.  It could seem passive, but I saw it as more…enlightened.  Go, Jared, get your sword balloon.  Om Shanti.

February, 18th, 2008. President’s Day, Boca Raton, Florida

We left NYC and went to Florida to visit my husband’s family for the holiday weekend.  One of my friends was also in Florida visiting her parents.  She invited us over to her parents’ condo for President’s Day festivities.  My two kids love her two kids, and my husband and I love her and her husband so we were thrilled.  Yay!  A family play date. 

As we approached her parent’s condo, my husband gave me the background on this condo.  How he knows these things….I don’t know.  Anyway, you have to be 55 or over to live there, there are 1300 residences and three golf courses.  We speed bumped by verdant green as he narrated.  A spiffy young fella parked our car for us and we peeled the kids off their car seats, grabbed our Publix bag full of swim gear and went inside. 

The place was massive.  We could see tons of kids and people out by the pool and found our way downstairs.  As we entered the outdoor dining area, we saw my friend’s mother.  She came over to greet us.

“Hi, I’ll eat now.  Then you guys can eat.  It’s hard to find a table.  Don’t worry.  Hey, no, that’s our table!  We are sitting there!”  She was pointing to a table strewn with a few personal items: handbag, sweater, hat. 

We followed the direction she was pointing in towards the pool to find our friends.  There was my friend with her adorable cover-up and hat.  There was her hubby in his orange swim suit.  We kissed and hugged.

 
“We lost our lounge chairs,” my friend said.  We didn’t understand what was going on until we saw the  signs.  Strewn all about were hot pink laminated signs that said something like this, “You cannot reserve lounge chairs.  Your stuff was here too long. We removed your stuff. Sorry, sucker.”

Motherhood in Real Time

Being a mother is the most rewarding thing I've ever done.  I truly feel that. However, this entry is not about that part.  I am not working because I want to be with my children.  Childhood is short and I don't want to miss a thing.  Plus, I was a latch key kid and associate certain negative memories with that experience.  So, I became a mother ready to play with my children, and coddle them, chase them in the playground, take them to classes and escort them to school.

Pretty early on I found myself avoiding the playground.  I used the excuse that there were safety issues, but if I'm being honest, I think I found it incredibly tedious.  Up the slide.  Down the slide.  Up the slide.  Down the slide.  Up the slide.   Down the slide.  Once in awhile was fine, but I was a full-time mother with a playground across the street.   I was supposed to being doing this all the time.  Then I started to finding myself completely daydreaming during their classes.  It was as if I was having an out-of-body experience.  Or maybe I was waiting for something to happen!  I was going to see a wonder.  A talent.  Something funny.  More often, I sat there with my foot nervously tapping.   In gymnastics  they rolled on mats.  In ballet they walked on their toes.  In pottery they mushed clay.   Everything in real time.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick. What is wrong with me, I'd think.   The problem was if I wasn't there, I'd wish I was.  It was the definition of being between a rock and a hard place.

It's the morning. There's my husband sitting and reading the newspaper.  He's informed.  He's dynamic.  He's out in the world and a part of the bump and grind of the city.  The churning, restless, endless action that is New York.  What did the Fed do?  What's going on with the sub-prime debacle?  What did Charlie Rangel push through the Congress that will effect retail space in co-ops from here on?   Was that me?  Did I just interrupt to ask him if we could go with the Walkers to Bingo night at my daughter's school?   Did I just get mad because I can't figure out the babysitter's schedule!  He's wondering why I haven't been able to pick up our shoes from the shoe maker in three months!  I can't explain it.  I'm not even sure.   Where am I?  I'm making french toast.  My daughter pouts.  I'm taking my son to Tae Kwon Do.  He's pitching a fit.  He's crying on the street.  I take him home for hot chocolate. 

"Mommy the witch is scary! Did he die? Is he coming back?" Or "Taking the Kids to the Movies"

During our winter vacation I inadvertently gave my children a lesson on death, loss and mourning.  To give some background, we are very careful about which movies we watch.  About twelve years ago I babysat for my niece who was nearly three years old.  I had her all to myself and was so excited.  We played and made cookies, and late in the day I thought it would be a treat to watch a movie.  I rented Dumbo, knowing only that he was an elephant with big ears who flew.  I popped in the movie and left the room to get the phone.  When I came back, my niece was crying.  Dumbo’s mother was imprisoned in a cage and someone was wielding a whip.  It’s all a blur because I ran and turned it off.  Guess what my niece remembered about that day?

Several years later, I have my own child and she is about the same age and everyone is talking about Finding Nemo and the adorable clownfish.  We decide to prescreen it.  In the first few minutes, the mother’s killed and then the son, Nemo, goes missing.  I ejected the movie and my husband and I stared at each other, befuddled.  Are they kidding?  So, we watched Singin’ In the Rain countless times, which never got boring.

Now we are in the present.  We are on vacation and want to have a low-key evening so we decide to order a movie and eat ice cream in our hotel room.  There is a G-rated movie offered called, Mr. Margorium’s Wonder Emporium.  It really should have been called Mr. Margorium’s Funeral Emporium because (and here’s a spoiler), he announces he’s leaving the earth about 8 minutes into the movie and his Wonder Emporium goes into mourning and attacks kids and acts grim.  There’s an unexplained friendless boy who invites an adult man into his home to “play”. I particularly enjoyed the funeral scene because it gave me a chance to field numerous questions from our children about death and funerals.  My four year-old kept asking, “Why did he leave? Where did he go?  Is he coming back?”

“No, honey, he’s dead and buried.  Isn’t this fun?”

My husband selected the movie for the flight back to New York.  He knew it was based on a classic children’s book and it was rated G.  It wasn’t his fault! I tried everything to get them not to watch it, but they were insistent.  So we popped in good ol Charlotte’s Web.  First off, there’s constant worry about the slaughtering of the main character, Wilbur the lovable, pig whose life is saved by the spider Charlotte, who dies when she lays her eggs.   Sorry Wilbur, she’s a spider.  Bye-bye.  My daughter was in tears. Why the little girl, Fern, doesn’t also die, I can’t tell you.  Maybe that will be the sequel. A vermin plague will afflict the farm, and Fern will be diagnosed with something terminal!  Bring the whole family!

Stranger in a Strange Land

After having my first baby, I learned very quickly that sometimes the only thing I had in common with another mother was that we both had a uterus (and not even that sometimes).  I had more in common with a cat who loved sardines, as I too love sardines.  Or an octogenarian who loved the movies.  Age, species doesn't seem to matter when it comes to friends. 

I am amazed and ecstatic that ultimately I've made some wonderful friends as a parent.  It seems that between the children's various personalities,  parenting techniques,  political philosophies,  disciplinary ideas--it's close to a miracle. 

   

Debbie Downer has babies

When most people think of ice skating, they imagine rosy cheeked children, entwining their arms and girls in wool coats with hand muffs.    I see stitches and blades.  When I was five I saw a kid fall and get a blade in her head!  Try to shake that one.  Did you know there are more head injuries from ice skating than roller blading or skate boarding? I strike up a conversation with a woman at Dean and DeLuca and she tells me that her daughter just got 15 stitches when she fell on the ice yesterday. At this rate, my kids will never skate or they’ll be wearing full hockey gear.  But it doesn’t stop at skating.

When my daughter picks her nose I blurt out, “Are your hands washed?!”  All I’m thinking is that she touched some counter or seat somewhere and now she’s sealed her fate for a stomach bug with that little finger.  I felt actual envy when another kindergarten  class did a lesson on germs by painting the children’s hands with special ink, having them wash their hands and then look at them under a special light.  They had to wash thoroughly or some of the ink was still there!  See?  So, are germs.  They’re invisible.  And they’re everywhere...

Three's The New Two

Soon after having my daughter, I felt like I was a part of a new club.  Friends who’d had children and stayed in touch, albeit peripherally, were now more present.  I was one of them!  And there would be comments of how many I planned to have and when would I start working on number 2? 

For the first time in my life (unfortunately it’s worn off!), I was calm.  I put my little dumpling in a sling and bopped around, blissfully.  I took her to swimming classes in a warm pool where I imagined her back in my womb, and I think she did too.   I must have kissed her a million times in her first month alone.  There was a completeness, a contentment, a groundedness to our life.    Her perfection was intoxicating.   When the subject of more children came up, I just didn’t feel a need.  If need is even the right word.  One is simple and lovely and whole.  I could do this and do it well.

Without getting into the physical details and symptoms, I discovered I was pregnant again and was nearly in my second trimester, and my daughter was just a year old.  It was a complete shock (again, who needs the details)  and unsettling.  Everything had been perfect.   I felt disloyal to my daughter.  It wasn’t rationale but I didn’t want her to think or feel that she wasn’t enough.   I calculated their age difference.  18 months.  Wasn’t that before her sense of self had fully developed?? And all the while my belly grew.