NYC Moms

When Toys Lose Their Magic

"Go play," and its counterpart, "Go play with your toys," are two phrases that can often be heard 'round these parts. As parents, we invest in playthings for our little ones (or over-indulge, depending on the amount of restraint one shows) and then we're often frustrated when they don't translate into the long minutes (even hours) of playful bliss that were sold to us as part of the package. It's not just the thing that you buy or make for the child that enthralls you, it's the possibility that they will be transported to a timeless place once that darling little thing is in their grip.

But our toys have been losing their magic--how about yours? Recently I realized this was because we had gone on auto-pilot with them. We were using them as a distraction. Here--You build with the blocks while I sit next to you and watch, and perhaps I will talk to the other parent or let my mind wander while you do so. Or--You go play in your room while I clean the apartment/make dinner/fill-in-the-blank. Now, there may be a time and a place for this posture towards toys, but when it's the only posture being modeled, it's no wonder the juices of imagination begin running dry.

Don't Give Me That Look: yes, I am giving my kid Benadryl for the plane ride

My sister is about to deliver her third child in a third world country and I was not about to miss the momentous event. I didn't dare ask my husband to travel with me; we're grateful he has a job in these tough times. So I packed up my two kids, cashed in my miles and booked a business class ticket to Colombia. When I checked in at the gate, I was told that if my bag weighed more than 50 pounds I would have to pay an additional 50 dollars, and the total bag weight could not exceed 70 pounds given an embargo with Colombia which apparently does not affect travelers leaving from JFK. My suitcase topped the scales at 75 pounds so I quickly shoved five more pounds into my already heavy carry-on.

Both of my perfect angels were melting down when we boarded the first leg, screaming and kicking. I could see every passenger in the front of the plane role his eyes. They did not cash in all of *their* miles to hear two kids exercise their vocal chords for three hours. So I drugged them. I slipped a little Benadryl into each of their mouths and asked everyone to give me five minutes. It took less than sixty seconds for the drug to kick in.

Gray Hairs and Really Bad Parenting

There’s an old joke that kids cause gray hair.  I don’t have scientific proof, but in the almost 18 years I’ve had children, my gray hair quotient has increased exponentially.  I have, of course, aged 18 years over that time so it’s likely that there is some correlation, but Friday night into Saturday aged me considerably.

It was my oldest daughter’s high school prom.  My husband put me in a fearful mode earlier in the day, telling me about a cautionary movie his mother forced him to watch before his prom, The Last Prom.  This was not like Reefer Madness, the unintentionally hilarious  1936 movie about the dangers of pot smoking.  The Last Prom, which I’ve never seen, apparently is one of those drinking and driving horror films that we in the city can feel smugly safe from. 

But back to prom.  We have a usual 11pm curfew, mainly because we can’t sleep if our kids aren’t home.  We knew this would not do for prom, but we never discussed a specific time she had to be home.  Prom went till midnight or so, then there was the after party.  We figured she’d be coming home around.. damn.

Mean Girls

My daughter broke up with her best friend and I am in pain.  They were inseparable for years, but now, in middle school, they are in different homerooms, different class ‘streams’ and different talents, so they don’t see each other in class.  The friend, B, was jealous when my daughter made new friends, but rather than try to keep her old, best friend, and make new friends, my daughter completely dumped B.  Maybe it speaks to the helicopter parent in me, but I take it personally when my children behave badly, and B is the aggrieved party.

The crazy thing is that my daughter is far from a Queen Bee; she is more like a bird testing her wings.  She was not popular in elementary school, but she had enough friends.  Now she has more than she can handle, but it seems like she is make the wrong choice in dropping a true friend.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised that this nascent mean girl has reared her ugly head, because I was guilty of a similar transaction in junior high.  I remember the girl, I remember some of the cruel things I said about her, but I really don’t remember why I mistreated her so badly.  It was slightly different circumstances; she was a new friend, and became instantly clingy, and I was put off.  But the friendship that my daughter has ripped apart was a long-blossoming one, one that meant they spent many weekends together, at our house or hers; we took her on vacation and they took my daughter.  B was like a fourth daughter at times; she fit into our family rhythms, loved our older girls, and was a true friend to my daughter.

Boys Will Be Boys. And Girls Will Be Girls.

As parents, J and I have never been that into the idea of pink as the base coat for little girls' wardrobes.  And in our home, the sports section is usually used to make a play tent for the cat.  So it's probably not that surprising that for the first nine months of their lives, almost all of the wardrobe for our boy/girl twins consisted of the same pool of t-shirts and pants from American Apparel (a brand I can no longer bear to purchase, ever since that Dov guy - always a little creepy - finally lost me when he managed to make me feel sorry for Woody Allen). 

Somehow, I made it this far in life with the impression that our gender differences were nurture, not nature.  Sometime in the late 90's, I almost threw my hardbound copy of Defending Pornography at the TV when John Stossel tried to suggest that his kids just naturally oriented themselves to traditionally gender-oriented playthings. 

I'm astonished, though, to see how my two year olds are gendering up.  First Ruby was loving on all the stuffed animals, then it was a sad little rain-soaked baby doll someone left behind on the playground.  Which I didn't forbid her from playing with, but that's a different post.  She tooled right out of the gate, and when I asked her where she was going, the answer came back:  "I get the baby food," which she did.  Apparently this particular baby digs clover and gravel.  Oh, and everything must now be pink.

Growing Up

If you had asked me three years ago as I planned my wedding if I felt like an adult, the answer would have been no.  I was receiving all of these adult gifts from my registry for my home.  At the time, we were living in a loft style apartment with a kitchen tucked into one nook.  It had a mini stove, three cabinets and a sink the same size as one you might find in an elementary school bathroom.  I felt like an adult imposter.

Five months later when I became pregnant I still did not feel like an adult.  I started to feel like one as I viewed apartments to buy.  And once we closed on a new place I felt like I was playing house versus actually having a house.  My wedding china remained in storage in my dad's basement.  Of course there were occasional moments when I felt more mature than others, like the time I yelled at the movers for not completing our move before the condo hours prohibited any work.  But then I went back to me, a 28 year old pregnant newlywed.  

One kid is a fluke. You can still be immature with one kid.  Hey, Courtney Love has a child.  Two kids however feels like the real deal.  Contrary to the myths, two kids is not triple the work of one, but it is still plenty consuming.  

Excuses

John Lennon said Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.  As a mom, I’m understanding this more and more.  When I have an afternoon with my kids, going to the grocery store is not just an errand for me but an adventure for the kids.  An opportunity to explore.  That is life. If I am not in a rush, cold, exhausted, impatient or [insert adjective] I delight in watching my toddler’s experience whether it is climbing up a brownstone’s steps or jumping over a crack in the sidewalk. 

This also means that a simple trip to the nearby store can take significantly more time than one might anticipate so less important things may not get accomplished, a call to a friend, an email return, [insert a task that regularly slips through the cracks].     

And when I do have time to follow up with someone, I don’t necessarily want to engage in a long detailed conversation so I may cue a child to cry.  Instead of replying to specific and lengthy emails, I’ll cite a crying munchkin even if both are out at the park.  It’s just that life is fast and I’m learning I cannot do it all as thoroughly as I might like.   I'm trying.

Lice vs. Pink Eye

When my daughter brought home pink eye – repeatedly – from preschool, I thought this was the scourge of the earth.  She herself never got pink eye – she wore glasses – but she passed along the insidious virus to me.  A carrier of plague.  I was pregnant at the time, and I couldn’t use the steroid drops that my ophthalmologist otherwise would have prescribed.  So I threw away my contacts, and every bit of make-up I owned, since the hardy virus could lurk there, and wore my glasses.  Add up the value of your make-up sometime.  Clarins, Lancome, Origins, Mac – a few eyeliners, mascara, eye shadow, undereye concealer (yes, there is an eye theme here) – even blush and foundation, all in the trash.  Hundreds of dollars worth.

My weakened immune system became susceptible to conjunctivitis, and I swear, if  a toddler in sippy cup distance sported pink-rimmed eyes, I got pink eye.  I had it 3 times that pregnancy, and I had not yet switched to disposable contacts.  I bought, caught, tossed, all through that pregnancy.

But oh, innocent times.  I had not yet learned about another plague, one of the 10 plagues in Passover, in fact; lice.  Yes, our preschool had it, but somehow we managed to avoid it then.  One family, the so-called lice mongers, had it repeatedly, and even years later, the mom was telling me the story and she burst into tears.  I have to say, at the time, I was neither sympathetic nor empathetic.  I just wanted her kid’s lice ridden head away from my daughter’s.

Zits: A Pop Quiz

Although I was pretty lucky in the teen skin department, I do remember being devastated by just one pimple.  I would truly agonize over the slightest bump on my face and it wasn’t until I interviewed Dr. Doris Day, as an adult, that I found someone who could relate to my ‘one pimple is earth-shattering’ story.  Try telling a friend who is covered with zits that you are upset about just one pimple and you’ll see what I mean.

Last year I also interviewed a New York mother, Dr. Amy Wechsler, who is both a dermatologist and a psychologist.  She has this unique perspective on teen skin, from her professional and personal life.  It makes sense to me; the stresses of the teenage years can overwhelm your skin.

The Climb Up The Career Ladder Made Me a Perfect SAHM

This week marks one year since I stopped working, left my job voluntarily, to become a stay at home mom. I sit here, sleepy and exhausted from fighting off a cold whilst entertaining my toddlers, cleaning my home, caring for my family, and finishing writing projects, completely appreciative that I have the opportunity to be home with my kids all day.  Yes, they drive me batty, yes, it's a lot of work, and no I didn't always love it, but now, a year later, I seriously cannot imagine doing anything else with my time, with my life at this moment of theirs.

I still talk to many of my former co-workers from my previous job here in NYC, and from my previous job in Madison, WI.  I hear their stories about the same managers, directors, supervisors, clients, co-workers that I used to talk to others about.  I hear about exciting (and not so exciting) projects, events, office parties, and anniversary celebrations of those who are still there, in the working world.  Often times, when I listen to them share their day, their week, my heart grows heavy, but not with regret that I am not there, but rather with memories of what it was often like for me when I was.