NYC Moms

Battling the Birth Order Blues

Recently, msnbc.com reported on a recent study in the Economic Journal that confirms what many a first-born child has long suspected:  parents really are harder on oldest children.  The study documents that parents provide more financial aid for grown younger siblings than their first-born counterparts, also showing that the discrepancy in parenting continues on after children become adults.

Most oldest children would attest that being first isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Sure, our clothes weren't faded the first time around and our playthings were more likely to sport that new-toy shine, but other firsts aren't always pleasant, like being the first to negotiate curfews, the first to not make it home for the holidays, the first to disappoint parents with our choice in careers.  As a first-born adult, I'm still pioneering new ground with my parents for my sisters to glide through behind me. 

I'm familiar with Birth Order Theory, and now, even armed with new research validating my suspicions, do you think I can overcome this disparity in myself--in my own parenting?

Not a chance.  Please pass the guilt.

The Good Girl Myth

Recently my husband and I and our two daughters (ages four and one) visited friends who have a son, and the mother said to me, “We really try not to use Good Boy with him.  We do want him to understand manners,” she tried to explain.

“--and kindness,” I agreed. We both knew the fixation with being a Good Girl or Good Boy wasn't helpful, but part of me thought, please. Is avoiding two words going to create a magic new reality all by itself?

And then I had a suspicion—you may have felt it, too—that this friend was doing more than Just Sharing Her Opinion. Was she correcting me? In an indirect way, as in, I've heard you doing this and maybe I can gently help you out here?

Naw, couldn't be.  We never say Good Girl to our kids.

Not a week later, I started hearing it. Over and over; time and again. Coming from . . . my oldest daughter's lips. Good geh-rel, she cooed to her sister in her distinctive little accent. You said, Thank You! You used your fork! You picked up your toys! Good girl! Good girl!

Oh, dear, I thought.  Oh dear oh dear oh dear.  What. Have. We. Done.

Kid Hater

When my kids were two or so, we took a class at the Children’s Museum of Manhattan.  There was one little girl in the class, a beautiful blond, about the same age as my twins. She had a lovely smile, a cute little laugh, and I couldn’t stand her.

Something about her rubbed me the wrong way.  Even at two, it seemed to me (and I know this sounds insane) she was full of herself, like she was some miniature adult who knew how cute she was, and was flaunting it.  I’m not proud of this.  And to this day, I can’t really explain why. But there you have it.

See, we’re supposed to like all kids.  Think they’re special, or cute, or funny.  Like babies.  Who hasn’t heard the dictum:  all babies are cute? Puh-lease.  All babies are not cute.  Some babies look like a cherry tomato after it’s been in the fridge too long: wrinkled, red, and ready to burst with something that probably won’t look or smell too good.

Kids are the same way.  I’m here to tell the truth:  there are kids – little kids – that I don’t like.  They’re bratty, or pushy, or too whiny.  They’re bossy, they don’t share.  They just rub me the wrong way.  Do I think this makes me an exemplary parent?  Of course not.  Can I help it?  Not a chance.

Is There Such a Thing As Mommy Rehab?

It seems like every time I turn on the television or open a magazine-there's a newsy alert that yet another celebrity has entered rehab...Imagine having unlimited funds and hand-servants to do your bidding- and still not being able to handle all the pressure! What about all us regular Moms, trying to stay on this treadmill of tending to our children's every need and desire while attempting to successfully balance a career, still remain a skinny minny--okay that is one thing I am SO Over!- and have a fantastic relationship with our spouse! You know what I'd really love...a Mommy rehab! Because despite the fact that I love my kids to death-- heck I went through major agony; infertility treatments, way more needles than I ever thought I could endure, poking and prodding to finally conceive my son--all these expectations are overwhelming!

If I could create the perfect rehab setting it would be; an hour long venting session with other mommies- who like me finally had a place where they could honestly admit- that sometimes, they would rather be doing anything but playing blocks with their kids, coloring pictures or reading Dr. Seuss...just writing that

Learning from Dutch Mothers

I just spent 2 weeks in the Netherlands and I am always amazed at the control Dutch mother’s have over their lives and of motherhood in general. It all starts at birth. A good friend of mine had all 4 of her babies at home. The last one she claimed only caused her 15 minutes of pain. All four of them were born using mid-wives, no epidural, no drugs, no nothing.  After each birth, mom took a shower in her own bathroom … got into her own bed and slept. Historically the Dutch have relished the idea of having their babies at home. It is only about 50/50 now with more women heading for the hospital. But this is also due to the fact that more moms are older and in need of fertility treatments.

Uptight mom vs. laid back mom

This isn't an us-against-them post. The struggle between the uptight and laid back mom is an internal one. I try to take a laid back approach to most things but it's hard when there are certain principles I want to uphold. It always seems uptight to try to stick to some rule or other in the face of lawless fun. I don't mind if the boy eats sweets but I hate it if he fills up on cookies or juice and won't eat a healthy-ish meal first. I also prefer that he be asleep at 8 PM, except for a once a month indulgence. And when he's older, I do not expect him to stay up until the wee hours, even if he is lost in a good book. It sounds like uptight is gaining ground.

Like I told my single male friend (SMF) Friday night, if Diego naps for more than three hours, and it's after 5 PM, I've been known to call no less than three people to ask if I should wake him. I'll call my husband, my mom, and A.L., a Weissbluth expert. SMF's response was one I don't hear very often: what do your instincts tell you to do? My pediatrician has surely never uttered such free wheeling heresy. The only other person who made reference to these "instincts" was my sister-in-law, but it was a little derisive and part of a "watch the baby, not the clock" speech. So what's a normally relaxed person supposed to do?

He's definitely hungry

Diego was a very obedient newborn. He was a great starter baby, for beginners like my husband and me, with little to no experience. He made us look good. This was particularly true in the areas of daytime crying, napping, and nursing. He nursed slowly, and occasionally dozed off, but I managed to feed him fully and at regular intervals. No snacking, as per our pediatrician. That advice was the holy scripture to me and it was an empowering tip to which I held fast. My breasts needed time to recover, to fill up, and I had to nurse completely each time to keep up production, and to ensure Diego got the richer hind-milk. I was a factory and their were rules of efficiency and efficacy, not quite like that, but still. I had to stick with what worked.

I remember introducing Dieguito to my husband's extended family at a party, when he was five weeks old. I had thrush but my baby did not. I was treating my thrush but I did not plan to nurse every time he fussed in my relatives' arms.

Babies and bars

What is it about babies out on the town after hours that makes me cringe? So very many things. The most obvious problem is my thwarted goal of escaping to the bar to get away from the babies. Instead, I find myself smiling wearily at overwrought parents who were too cheap, clueless, naive, European, thoughtless, or blindly optimistic to hire a sitter. Even the now defunct Tots and Tonic, the Brooklyn baby friendly happy hour, was held between the hours of 3 and 5 PM. How I long for its return and its sensibilities.

The babysitting co-op

Matt and I are planning to go out this Saturday night. Our babysitter will be one of the moms or dads from the Prospect Heights Babysitting Co-op. Our co-op was featured on BusinessWeek Weekend back in August which highlighted some of its benefits. To me, our most notable characteristic is that we're the babysitting co-op where hardly anyone actually goes out.

It was ingeniously designed with a point system in place of dollars. The understanding, as per the bylaws, is that no one will acquire more than 20 points or fall below negative 20 points. Sadly, my fellow members hoard points as if you could sell them on ebay.

Small Town Livin'

Much of American mythology about the perfect family environment seems to center around the small American town.  The place where every shop-keeper knows your name.  The neighbors are nice.  The dogs bark invitingly.  White picket fences don't divide.  My Dad grew up in a place like that.  We visited it once, several years ago.  My Dad hadn't lived there in 50 plus years, but once he was in the town's only restaurant and started talking to people, they knew his family and his remembrances.  And they weren't even born when he lived there.  Amazing.  Does such a place still exist?  I'm sure it does; I'm sure many do.  But the closest thing I've experienced to small town living has been right here, in the hustle and bustle of eight million strong Manhattan.

I didn't know this until I lived here, but New York is divided into so many small neighborhoods that moving thirteen blocks uptown (as Mech, Bunny and I did) or even 4 blocks downtown (as Mech did when I moved to New York) can mean you're going to a whole new drycleaner, drugstore, grocery, bakery, nail salon and, of course, Starbucks.  And once you become a regular at those places, the people know you.  Before we moved our big thirteen blocks north, I went to say goodbye to Sondra at our drycleaners.  She was someone I saw several times a week, knew me before I was pregnant, while I was pregnant, and saw Bunny grow in her early months.  She had two children, and we talked regularly about pregnancy, children, work, and life.  Heck, in truth, I talked to her more than I talk to most of my regular friends.  And I certainly saw her more.

Much of American mythology about the perfect family environment seems to center around the small American town.  The place where every shop-keeper knows your name.  The neighbors are nice.  The dogs bark invitingly.  White picket fences don't divide.  My Dad grew up in a place like that.  We visited it once, several years ago.  My Dad hadn't lived there in 50 plus years, but once he was in the town's only restaurant and started talking to people, they knew his family and his remembrances.  And they weren't even born when he lived there.  Amazing.  Does such a place still exist?  I'm sure it does; I'm sure many do.  But the closest thing I've experienced to small town living has been right here, in the hustle and bustle of eight million strong Manhattan.

I didn't know this until I lived here, but New York is divided into so many small neighborhoods that moving thirteen blocks uptown (as Mech, Bunny and I did) or even 4 blocks downtown (as Mech did when I moved to New York) can mean you're going to a whole new drycleaner, drugstore, grocery, bakery, nail salon and, of course, Starbucks.  And once you become a regular at those places, the people know you.  Before we moved our big thirteen blocks north, I went to say goodbye to Sondra at our drycleaners.  She was someone I saw several times a week, knew me before I was pregnant, while I was pregnant, and saw Bunny grow in her early months.  She had two children, and we talked regularly about pregnancy, children, work, and life.  Heck, in truth, I talked to her more than I talk to most of my regular friends.  And I certainly saw her more.