NYC Moms

Done or diagnosable?

Yesterday after our weekly music class, Sam, Sam's Gigi, and I went across the street to the neighborhood diner for some lunch. Just walking down the sidewalk felt a lot like I was Moses and Third Avenue was the Red Sea. Groups of school kids took notice of me and scurried off to the curb, grown men nodded and stepped back, the old women on the bench smiled and leaned in to one another to exchange knowing glances. No one made direct eye contact (aside from this being the city and only tourists make eye contact), all eyes were on The Belly. I must've been looking especially pregnant because EVERYONE and their sister seemed to stop me and ask when I was due, or nod at my belly and say "Any day now, huh?" At the diner alone, four women of a certain age each, independent of one another, were eager to point out how hard it was going to be to have two children so close together. "You'll have a hard time, dear. So hard to have two kids in diapers."

Seriously? Who says this (out loud) to a pregnant woman?

My mother would wash my mouth out with soap

Yesterday, after a red-faced, braced-against-the-door-jamb, grunting session I asked Sam if he pooped.

He blinked, looked at me with that sweet, innocent, chubby-cheeked face and said “Mommy, I shit diaper?”

To begin, I feel compelled to defend our parenting practices here: neither The Mistah nor I use that word in that context. We use “doodie” or “poopie,” but never “shit.” We can’t figure out where he learned it. I'm certainly prone to yelping "SHIT!" when I drop the DustBuster on my toe or bang my head against the cabinet door. I can't help it. It's a reaction. We also understand that, at this age, Sam only has to hear someone say something once before he's repeating it in a chant. I have these visions of Sam in school in September telling his teacher he’s shat his diaper. Can’t wait to get that note back with his empty lunch box.

You are cordially invited...but your newborn isn't.

I've known Esme for almost *cough* thirty years. We've had some good times, some bad times, went our separate ways for a few years, but we managed to reconnect and have really enjoyed a nice, fairly adult relationship for the last eight or nine years. In fact, Esme and her fiance, Norm, recently bought an apartment in our neighborhood and we've enjoyed spending more time with them. Esme and Norm are getting married in September.

The Mistah and I are anticipating our daughters' arrival in the middle of June. When Esme and Norm tie the knot, Baby Clara will be just 10 weeks old and, presumably, nursing.

This afternoon, I received an email from Esme saying that she would love to have The Mistah and I attend her wedding and help celebrate her special day...as long as we left the baby at home.

Never say never

We've always said that, as parents, we'd never say never. But we did have a few little things that we were sure we'd stick to while raising our children. One was fostering good sleeping habits. The other was not watching television until our children were at least two years old.

On the whole, I'd have to say that we did a fairly good job: Sam slept through the night at nine weeks, with very little thanks to me and all props to The Mistah. He's always napped in his own bed. With the exception of a handful occasions (such as tonight, when Sam has fallen asleep at his bedroom door instead of his bed and I can count on one hand the number of times he's napped in his stroller) I'd say we've been fairly successful in raising a good sleeper. What can I say? We're a family that likes to sleep.

But at what point do we, the Self Righteous Parenting Decision-Makers eat humble pie? I can tell you exactly when. 

Birth of a Mommy Blogger

Three years ago, I was offered a great job at a salary that nearly doubled my income and allowed me room to grow and develop in my field. I had spent years stuck in seemingly dead-end jobs with very little room to grow. Finally, this was my shot. I was pleased to accept a position working as an editor at one of the world's largest healthcare communications group. Days later, I found myself staring at two faint lines on a stick.

Nine months later, I was home with my newborn son and bleeding nipples and perpetual exhaustion. In the first weeks of motherhood, Sam and I spent entire days in bed nursing, napping, and trying to figure one another out. My c-section left me in a lot of pain and with limited mobility and heaps of guilt. At any given time, I had an arc of debris surrounding me: water bottles, Lansinoh lotion, snacks of both the sweet and salty variety, Kleenex, remote controls, cell phone, house phone, and my trusty laptop. If Sam wasn't on my boob or showing off his mad pooping skillz, maybe he was napping on my lap or propped up on the Boppy. These were to be the most exciting and fulfilling moments of my life, and yet I felt myself feeling completely alone and desperate for some contact with the world.