NYC Moms

Young love... a lot like married love

Several days ago during a routine pickup from school my eight -year-old daughter seemed to float into the car. Really it was almost as if she has bitty gossamer wings strapped to her back. And while she's a generally happy kid her demeanor had an air of excitement that was unusual. So like any good parent, rather than the kind who continues to text and e-mail on their smart phone once they've briefly acknowledged their kid's presence and ensured that no arms, legs or book bags were left precariously dangling out of any car doors- I actually put down my new obsession and asked my daughter how her day was because of course I am NOT one of THOSE parents!

She looked at me with these dreamy eyes; ones which seemed to sparkle like glistening blue pools and said, “Oh mommy something wonderful happened today. “ Of course I immediately thought my little brown noser (yeah she's a bit of a teacher’s pet) must have gotten a good mark on her spelling test but nothing could've prepared me for what she was about to say, "Michael said I looked beautiful in my glasses."

Now let me give you just a bit of background here... my little redhead has been given the decree by her doctor that she must wear glasses all the time and unlike the Disney tween starlets she so completely adores, she feels that only thin-lipped librarians, wearing tight pinned up buns- wear glasses. And despite the fact that I think her copper colored wired glasses which rest comfortably on the bridge of her little nose- are so much a part of her unique beauty, it pains me that when she looks in the mirror-her glasses overshadow those sweet peaches and cream colored cheeks.  

A full-time glasses wearing mama myself- I've repeatedly made a point of choosing my glasses over contacts on almost every occasion- telling her I think girls who wear glasses are both smart and gorgeous... but I’m just her mom, my opinion doesn't hold nearly as much street cred as Miley's or Selena’s.

My NYC M.D. husband has hung up his stethoscope for good...now what?

When I married my husband 10 years ago- like many blushing brides I had my life neatly planned out... and you know what they say, people make plans and G-d laughs... or something like that. I was sure that my husband a well-established double board certified kidney specialist, who was 15 years my senior, would keep putting on his white coat-  and dialyzing patients until well into his seventies.

Did I know that he was not quite happy being a doctor when we met- yes.  Did I care? probably not as much as I should’ve. I really figured anyone who would sacrifice their twenties and early thirties to fully entrench themselves in medical school, internship, fellowship and  24-hour on calls day after day- had got to be in it for the long haul.

So I did what any good wife would, I let him lament about his non-compliant patient grievances, the sky-rocketing costs of malpractice and his general and increasing disdain for a profession that had once been a passion. I think so many of us enter our jobs with the bright earnest hope of making a difference and then somewhere along the way we lose that initial spark that propelled us in that field.

I've wanted to kick my kids out of the car MANY times

There I've said it, just like this mom there have been many times that while driving in the car, with my four and eight year old that their incessant bickering and screaming, "Mom Jackson is licking my ear," or "Mommy Madi isn't letting me play with her DS," which never seems to dissipate- has me fantasizing about stopping short on the brakes- carrying them out of the car by their shirt collars and leaving them to their own devices on a street corner. Then my mom car magically turns into a red convertible sports car, I put the top down and take off into the sunset, with the wide open road ahead me and all the child-less opportunities just mine for the taking.

But like I said, I fantasize about this- actually stranding my kids on the street corner- would brand me a derelict, a human piece of garbage who deserves to be locked up in a jail as the media casts aspersions about what kind of mother I could possibly be. Truthfully I don't know this woman (although having her mug shot plastered on every local new station- I feel like any of us could be in her shoes- although I hope if I am ever taken into police custody I don't forget to apply some mascara and brush my hair before mugging for the camera).

It's true; kids can be happy playing with a cardboard box

My little redhead is turning eight years old and somehow my very frugal husband has managed to convince her that she should have an "Army party”. What is an army party you ask? Well my husband has printed out "draft notices" to all the invitees that they are summoned to appear at a local Staten Island Park; Jennifer's Playground, at 10 hundred hours -lay terms 10 am-and he's going to put them through obstacle courses and relay races which will culminate in a feast of butter cream frosting and apple juice around the park's tables. 

When my husband told me his idea-which of course was fueled by his life's mission to spend as little money a humanly possible on a minute-by-minute basis-I laughed in his face  you know one of those wicked Glenn Close from Damages types of cackles- and said okay honey- I'm sure Madison is really going to forego- a pimped out shin-dig for a romp in the park with her friends.

 My husband ever the optimist about how ALL kids would be far happier playing with the cardboard boxes our appliances come in- told me he would suggest it to our soon to be eight -year-old and would gauge her response. And, after having executed more parties than I'd like to remember- stressing over invitations, cakes, favors, places, entertainment I  was more than eager to hand over the party-reins to him and  curious to see  how my daughter would respond.

I refuse to be my mother (not that there's anything wrong with her!)

You know the depiction of Jewish mothers frequently seen in movies? The ones with the whiny, nagging voices who are always shtooping food down your throat- and then telling you that you look like you gained a little weight all in the same breath? The ones who are constantly agonizing over every little sneeze or bruise on your body? Well imagine that caricature multiplied by ten and that was the kind of mom I grew up with. Not that I don't love my mother dearly...after years of therapy's at $150 an hour I figured it was my best option… but I did promise myself that when I finally had kids I was going to treat motherhood similar to that Seinfeld episode, where George says- he's going to do the opposite of every impulse he has knowing full-well that having been raised by a woman who had me in an MRI machine when I complained of a headache it was both predetermined in my genes that if I didn’t consciously control my impulses I’d very likely continue to treat my kids the same way.

Eight Babies and Six More at Home...Was her Doctor on Crack?

 When I first heard that a woman had given birth to octuplets to be quite honest I was not all that surprised. In recent years it seems every woman pushing 40, whose biological clock is thumping and making her painfully aware that if she doesn't try to have that baby soon her chances to conceive might just evaporate, is seemingly by "divine intervention" giving birth to multiples.

Believe me, I am all for every woman getting her chance to experience pregnancy, but having undergone fertility treatments myself, I also feel  that there have got to some checks and balances when it comes to how many  babies a woman should be ALLOWED to carry.

I know what it's like to feel that yearning each month, counting the days of your cycle, grieving when each month it doesn't happen and having to continually endure the grueling process of trying; timing sex, screaming at your spouse when he's not in the mood, knowing full well- you've got a tiny window in which to get pregnant and hoping that this month you'll finally see those two magnificent lines on the EPT stick.

Musings from a Bad Mommy

With my daughter I was the uber mom--maybe even slightly overbearing. I could anticpate her crying before she even began to whimper- I sat with her for hours and poured over alphabet books reading and quizzing her and stockpiled every Disney princess fairytale movie available and watched them with her religiously.

Looking back I think my obsession with her was more a result of of my own feelings of failure, than the fact that I wanted to be this super-involved and enmeshed with my child type of mom. I suffered with severe post-partum depression for the first year of her life and when I finally came out of my fog I felt as if I'd lost those first 12 months--all her "firsts" were blurred images that I couldn't truly decipher or recall. And since I could never get them back, I was determined to soak up every single experience left of her baby/toddlerhood. And I pretty much stayed true to my word.

She became the focus of my being, a permanent fixture on my hip, as we spent our days on the mommy and me circuit sampling classes by day and watching Baby Einstein videos by night. When it was time to cut the apron strings my heart bled.

Why am I Depressed that Debra Messing is no Longer Depressed?

Is it just me or is it completely fu%*ed up that based on the media’s coverage, 90 percent of celebrity moms seem to sail through pregnancy-- still bleaching their hair to its roots, (I'm pretty sure bleach can't be a GOOD thing for that baby in utero),  wearing spanx and strappy four-inch heels (do none of these women fear their clumsy pregnancy waddle might not fare too well teetering around on those stilt-like pumps- or is it possible that pregnant celebs actually do walk on air!) rarely sporting any extra weight other than a basketball sized baby bump- and six weeks post-partum they’re back in size 2  jeans with a set of washboard abs- appearing as though they've never even had a kid?

I mean seriously what is UP with that?

Mommy- Am I Fat?

As I stare in disbelief at my seven-year-old, with her ever-so-slightly protruding belly and the sweet baby fat filling out her apple cheeks, I am taken aback by what would possibly possess her to utter those words. Instinctively I respond with, "You are beautiful, just as you are- every last inch of you is perfect... why are you asking me this?"

With tears welling up in the corners of her eyes my daughter says, "Rachel's nanny told me I shouldn't eat any of the cookies on the table because I'm getting fat," and then her voice trailed off and her little body began heaving as she sobbed.

Of course when we face these moments as parents we think we're supposed to have all the answers and make sure we never let our kids feel bad for even half a millisecond; a feat which is not humanely possible. (Unfortunately, despite my best efforts-as soon as she graduated from diapers, and spoke her first word, the control I thought I had over her little universe was all but lost). And yet, it is these very moments that catch you completely off-guard which you hope you can handle and tie up into a pretty little bow- as opposed to them being the catalyst for more painful incidents down the road.

Why Are Moms in their thirties Already Hitting up Their Dermatologists for Botox Injections?

I was recently out to lunch with a bunch of friends; all of us moms over thirty five- some of us pushing forty and out of the six of us, four were currently getting regular Botox injections every three months at $500 a pop. I actually braved the Staten Island Ferry and was ready to hop on a subway- when I decided to throw caution to the wind and get in a cab instead (of course that was a big mistake- as there was so much traffic and the ride cost me almost as much as lunch did!).

Of course yours truly has never had a Botox injection, but it probably has more to do with my aversion to having someone stick a long pointy needle in my face than because I'm trying to make a statement about wanting to grow old and keep my wrinkles, frown lines, laugh lines and crows feet as badges of honor- testament to the years I’ve put in on this planet. (Of course the other reason being that this bleak economic period we’re mired in has also got me hoarding every last one of my pennies-none of which I’m at liberty to part with- especially for a temporary wrinkle fix!)

Sitting in that swanky NYC restaurant-surrounded by baby-faced, still wet-behind the ears twenty something girls-I realized I didn't long to trade places with any of them, and trying to recapture and chase down that dewy, unspoiled  youth is kind of tragic. Not just because that fountain of youth is simply unattainable-- and can have you looking like Shauna Sand if you're not careful- but it's a slippery slope that you'll never reach the summit of.