Santa as a Conspiracy Theory

Adam and I wrestled with the Santa concept and what to tell Alexandra. I wasn't told that Santa exists. Coming from a very religious house, Jesus was the only reason for the season and that was that. We got presents and all, but they were from mom and dad and there were no cookies for Santa, letters, blah blah blah. Overall, I don't feel this detracted from my childhood at all. Adam's family, on the other hand, was all about Santa. So, we had to sit down and decide what we wanted to do for our family. After much negotiation we decided that Santa will come, he will fill stockings only (we're trying to avoid the whole materialistic Santa angle), and we'll do the whole Santa myth. Alexandra is already on board. It's really quite amazing how quickly they pick up on a storyline.

It seems like we weren't the only ones trying to figure out what to do with Santa. A dialogue was posted on our local neighborhood listserv about what to tell kids about Santa. Lots of interfaith families (particularly Jewish/Christian) struggle with it as well, and the perspectives vary greatly. But one mom's post was my favorite. It reads:

My son (at age 10 or 11) logically explained,
"Santa Claus MUST be real. Otherwise, it would mean that there was
some GIANT conspiracy, and EVERYONE got together and agreed to lie to
all their children that there is a Santa Claus. And sing songs on
the radio about him, and decorate all the stores, and play movies on
TV, and put up a tree in your house. It's just not possible that
EVERYONE would be lying."

"What, and you become a grownup, they pull you aside, and say 'Oh,
also, Santa doesn't really exist, but don't tell the kids! Keep
playing along and pretend he's real!' It just doesn't make any sense
that a lie that big, that massive, could possibly be pulled off. So
there must really be a Santa Claus."

You're absolutely right, I told him.

This is killed me. Santa as a conspiracy! From the mouths of babes come words of wisdom, no doubt.

Merry Christmas everyone! May your night be filled with family, love, and a smidge of conspiracy!

A Year of Books

"Chatting" with an old friend from middle school/high school about a year ago on Facebook revealed a couple of things I didn't know about her. One, she is a rabid Jane Austen fan. Two, she tries to read 50 books per year. I thought that seemed like a good idea (50 books per year, not Jane Austen rabidity), so I have kept a running list of all the books I read this year. I only made it through 30, but I figured that was pretty good. Here's my tally (* means reread for the 2nd time):

1. Netherland by: Joseph O'Neill (great NYC setting with cricket. love cricket.)

2. Unaccustomed Earth by: Jhumpa Lahiri (my fave of hers so far)

3. Pride & Prejudice by: Jane Austen (such a great soap opera of a novel)

4. Made in America: Immigrant Students in our Public Schools by: Laurie Olsen (a decent read for an academic book)

5. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle by: Haruki Murakami (LOVED this book. not sure why, but it was beautiful.)

6. The Road by: Cormac McCarthy (horrifying and realistic)

7. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close* by: Jonathan Safron Foer (best 9/11 novel; best child protagonist)

8. Sister of My Heart by: Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni (started slow, good middle, blah end)

9. The Blue Sweater by: Jacqueline Novogratz (see review here)

10. A Saint on Death Row by: Thomas Cahill (Texas: you suck)

11. My Antonia by: Willa Cather (don't think I could have been a pioneer, but those who were were bad a**es)

12. A Hope in the Unseen: An American Odyssey from the Inner City to the Ivy League by: Ron Suskind (amazing and illuminating)

13. The Ventriloquist's Tale* by: Pauline Melville (second read didn't like as much)

14. The Robber Bride by: Margaret Atwood (don't like her stuff unless it's about the end of the world and decided that during this novel)

15. Oral History by: Lee Smith (gothic and creepy and love the South!)

16. Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? by: Beverly Tatum (transformative stuff on racial identity formation)

17. Birth: The Surprising History of How We Are Born* by: Tina Cassidy (fascinating and amazing anthropological and historical look at birth)

18. My Brother by: Jamaica Kincaid (oh jamaica, we have the same family issues...)

19. The Skin I'm In by: Sharon Flake (Young Adult--YA--book)(not bad, abrupt end)

20. Monster by: Walter Dean Myers (YA book)(liked a lot, actually)

21. Annie John* by: Jamaica Kincaid (didn't like as much 2nd time)

22. Prospect Park West by: Amy Sohn (trashy book about Park Slope, my 'hood. fun read.)

23. The Outsiders by: S.E. Hinton (had never read before!)

24. Farenheit 451 by: Ray Bradbury (loved it)

25. Angela's Ashes by: Frank McCourt (wowza, wish this guy had taught me)

26. Flowers for Algernon by: Daniel Keyes (weird book, man.)

27. The Joy Luck Club by: Amy Tan (meh--didn't like)

28. The Year of the Flood by: Margaret Atwood (great, not excellent)

29. Oryx and Crake* by: Margaret Atwood (both books are better together)

30. Eclipse* by: Stephenie Meyer (after seeing New Moon I couldn't remember what happened next so I reread Eclipse. the writing is awful, but so much fun)

31. Every Time A Rainbow Dies by: Rita Williams-Garcia (YA book) (good)

32. Sisters on the Homefront by: Rita Williams-Garcia (YA book) (better)

33. Nurture Shock: New Thinking About Children by: Po Bronsen and Ashley Merryman (I think the writing is pretty awful, but good/interesting ideas)

Student Metrocards

This week it was decided to slowly phase out the student metrocards here in New York City. For you guys unfamiliar with school transportation here, after elementary school there is really no such thing as zoned schools like in the suburbs. Well, there are, and if you're in a good zone you're psyched, but for a lot of this city if you're in a zone where the middle and high schools are less than appealing you try to get out and into schools in other parts of your borough or the city at large. You escape from your zone school by taking middle and high school entrance exams and your grades. These exams are no joke. There are cram schools, books, and tutors who specialize in getting your kid to pass the high school entrance exam (the Stuyvesant Exam) here in NYC. I swear, getting into Harvard might be easier.

But even for those kids who don't make it into the four top high schools of the city, getting out of your 'hood and into a different environment is important to them and their families. For example, the school where I teach. I work in Cobble Hill, at Cobble Hill School of American Studies. Cobble Hill is a very nice neighborhood. The two main streets are lined with expensive boutiques and restaurants, the brownstones (even ones in need of gut renovation) start at a million dollars, and the elementary schools are excellent. It's the safest precinct in Brooklyn as Cobble Hill was the first neighborhood to house the Italians when they left Little Italy in Manhattan, and all the mafioso grand-daddies are still there. It's beautiful--I can't afford to live there.

However the high school in Cobble Hill where I teach is less than okay. I would never let my kids go there. The test scores are low, the students enter reading at approximately a 4th grade level, and we have a lot of fights. We became a metal detector school this year. The students are lovely kids, and I work with some incredible educators, but we have no art teacher, few extracurriculars, and it's just not the environment I want my kids to have their high school experience in.

So who goes to this school? NOT the kids in Cobble Hill. The students come from Red Hook, Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Bed-Stuy, East New York, Carnarsie, Sunset Park, Coney Island, and Bushwick. They commute to our school on multiple trains and buses, some for over an hour, just so they can escape their zone school and come to school in a safer neighborhood.

Keep in mind that over 80% of my students live below the poverty level.

Students currently receive free metrocards to come to school each day. They are assigned these metrocards in the beginning of the school year; they get three swipes each school day between the hours of 5:30am and 8:30pm which allows for them to get to an extracurricular activity or job afterschool. Currently the cost of a swipe to get on a bus or subway is $2.25, which make the metrocard valued at $6.75 per school day, about $34 a week, about $135 a month or $1280 for the school year (180 days of school).

Now you tell me, if a kid can't afford to eat lunch, wash his/her clothes, or is living in a shelter (common issues in my school) are they going to be able to pay that money to get to school? Hell, no.

Guess the city isn't THAT worried about their graduation rates after all.
(article in the Times on this situation)

You're a Sucky Parent Awards

Back when Adam and I first met, we had this idea that we wanted to make stickers that said "Bad Walker" and just stick them on folks who stopped immediately on a busy sidewalk, who walked like they were drunk (w/o being so), or who took up too much space. Last weekend I wanted a variation of this idea, a "You're a Sucky Parent" award to give out to some families I saw at brunch on Sunday. Here's the story:

My birthday is two weeks after Alexandra's. For those with kids, you'll understand the hype that goes into celebrating a birthday, therefore by the time Alexandra's day has come and gone we are out of birthday spirit for a bit. I love birthdays, but this year in particular we did nothing for mine as my birthday was right after Alexandra's two year old bash, my mom/stepdad visiting, and one week before we moved. And I was huge and pregnant. The day came and went with minimal fanfare.

Adam then proceeds to feel guilty about the pooh-pooh by birthday received after I give him a kick ass birthday (like I said, I heart birthdays), so he decided we needed a do-over this year. So, my unofficial birthday was celebrated on Sunday, December 13th, which is my second birthday as it was the day I was adopted by my parents. We decided to go to brunch at Bubby's to celebrate. It's not a fancy place, but it's a small schlep from our house to Dumbo and it happened to be pouring rain which made the journey even more purposeful. If we were going out in the rain with two kids, we were going to get our brunch on in a serious manner.

Bubby's is great b/c there's lots of room (a rarity in the city) and it's very kid friendly. In fact, they have a kid wing of the restaurant where there are some grimy plastic toys in a play corner and they corral all the parents and kids in this one area. Good strategy I must say, but annoying when you're surrounded by douchebag parents.

Now I understand that some days your kids are satan's spawn and no amount of good parenting will change that. But the sense of entitlement that the parents exuded was disgusting. One family across from me had two toddler boys. The dad sat reading the Times and the mom staring off into space (huh?) while their kids proceeded to throw food all over, wander to tables and antagonize other patrons, and be loud and annoying. Their 18 mo old came over to our table, took Alexandra's crayons, ripped her coloring sheet away, stole some cutlery, etc. I was trying to politely tell this kid to go back to mommy/daddy but he was with us for about 7 minutes (no lie) until his dad put down the Times and got him. Seriously, dude, I do not want to watch your friggin' kid for you while I'm holding my baby, dealing with my toddler, and trying to sip a bloody mary. Step up. Those two needed a "You're a Sucky Parent" award. Big time. And when the mom stood up she was 8+ months pregnant. God help us.

Then they left and were replaced by a diva-esque mom with a 4 year old boy sporting a stylish faux-hawk. This kid was--no exaggeration--running laps around the restaurant. All over. Bumping into waiters carrying trays with hot coffee, speeding up and down the stairs, and his mom was lamely saying, "Sit down now." "I'm serious." "Come here." but she never once got off her derriere to put this kid in a seat, give him a time out, or whatever. He was out.of.control. WTF? A "You're a Sucky Parent" award was very much needed.

I know how hard it is to be a parent, but I am very conscious of my kids and us out in public. Going out for a nice brunch isn't an every weekend event for us, and I just wanted these folks to get it together so that I wouldn't be distracted by their lack of parenting skills. Sad thing is, these kids are probably going to grow up to be douchebags like their parents and it's really not their fault, it's just a case of sucky parenting.

Toddler Negotiations

When I picked Alexandra up from daycare yesterday, she proudly ran to me and told me that she had taken a nap without her beloved "pass" (pacifier) and that she was a big girl. She went on to list who else no longer used a pass (Luca, Daniel) and other reasons why she was a big girl (she pooped in the potty Sunday night and peed in the potty all day Monday). Adam jumped on this initiative as reason to evict the pass from our house for good, starting with last night. I told her that if she made it through the night sans pass we'd go to the store today to get her a special candy. It was all set up and seemed foolproof.

Then the 45 minute tantrum ensued.

Let me just say that Adam is a god when Alexandra loses her sh*t. I cave immediately. I wanted to give the pass, could NOT deal with her screaming fit, and was about to have one myself and Adam just negotiated with her as if she was some sort of terrorist and this was a hostage situation. Here's how it went:

Adam: Get in your bed, Alexandra.
Alex: Pass.
Adam: Do you want your lovey?
Alex: Pass!!!
Adam: Do you want the light on?
Alex: Pass!!!!!!!!!
Adam: Goodnight Alexandra. I love you.
Alex: Pass! Pass! Pass!
Adam: Go back in your room, Alexandra.
Alex: Pass!

And so forth for 45 minutes. In between the repetitive demands for Pass!!! Alexandra also used the pee pee, poo poo, water, and blankie cards but she always returned to the demand for the pass!!!!!!

In the end, we made it through night #1 with no pacifier. Our doctor said it would take three nights. I'm mentally preparing for night #2. If you hear the screaming insistent pleas for "Passss!" throughout the neighborhood of Park Slope tonight, you know whose house it's coming from.

(Photo is evidence of her pass addiction. She'll see a pass anywhere--on a stroller, the ergo--and grab it for a quick suck-y fix. It has gotten out of control. And, since she's the size of a 4 yo, I'm tired of the dirty looks from other parents, too....)

Movie Reviews

Finally saw New Moon yesterday. Meh. Not fabulous, but the music was great (esp during the chase scene between Victoria and the wolves). Heart the werewolves. Bella not quite as annoying as Twilight, showed a tad more facial expression but still overly mope-y a a bit of a tease. I mean, seriously, I have had guy friends and I don't nuzzle with them and breathe all over their faces and then not put out, you know? (To clarify: not that I do that and put out, I just don't do that). The film was a tad choppy, and if you hadn't read the book not sure if you'd get some parts, but overall it was an entertaining couple of hours. The setting is just gorgeous and makes me want to leave the East coast.

Best review I have read so far is here.

Also saw Pirate Radio = a very sweet d*ck flick. Great music.
And Good Hair = educational! Learned a lot about Black women's hair--no lie.

Next: Precious. I'm mentally preparing.

Goodbye Pregnancy Hair & Skin

The time has come...

...Nico is 10 weeks old and my hair is falling out by the handfull. I am constantly being tickled by random pieces of hair that linger in my clothes. Nico looks like a baby tumbleweed covered with my hair. I sweep the floor and the broom is matted with hair. My brush needs a daily cleaning, and the drain will certainly soon be clogged.

But, not only my hair falls out--my eyelashes fall out, too. I noticed this on Thanksgiving when I went to put on mascara and I had huge clumps of eyelashes missing. I went and bought volumizing mascara on Friday, but you can't volumize what's not there.

And finally, my skin is so dry I feel like a prune. Besides the lack of pregnancy hormones coursing through my veins, the radiators have come on making everything resemble a tiny Sahara Desert in our apartment. Between nursing, losing the pregnancy skin, and the radiators I feel like I have the skin of a 100 year old woman. I moisturize like it's going out of style, but to no avail. Oh--and I have a few pimples thrown in for good measure. Hawt.

I remember this all happening around the beginning of September after Alexandra's birth, and my hair came back in as did my eyelashes, I just had to endure the shedding for a few weeks. I will certainly miss my pregnacy hair and skin. It makes me kinda sad that I won't experience them again. Boo.

Oh, Christmas Tree...

Decorating the Christmas tree is one of my best memories of childhood. We would lug out the fake tree from the garage on my dad's bowling night (he did not like decorating the tree), put a Bing Crosby record on the record player, and my mom, my sister, and I would go through the ornaments and place various Christmas items around the house while eating popcorn and drinking soda. My dad would come home and voila! The entire house was full of Christmas cheer.

I have fantasies of emulating this happiness with my kids. It's one of those things that I am so eager for, but it is not happening yet. Last year Alexandra was terrified of the tree and this year proved to have its own set of challenges:

First, I tried to put on Christmas music, but Alexandra only wanted "Kevin's music" (her music teacher from daycare). I won (?), but only after putting on Kevin's music in her room softly and Christmas music on in the living room. There's maybe 25 feet between the two spaces. It was a mash-up of the dinosaur song and Christmas tunes. Not really a good mix...

Then Alexandra threw a solid 30 minute tantrum upon the emergence of the lights. "No lights! I don't want lights! Lights are hot! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" That was fun.

And onto the decoration of the tree: Alexandra managed to redecorate it/pull ornaments off it and put them in ziploc bags, her dump truck, her various purses, or just throw them on the ground in a fit of two-year old attitude about a gizillion times. I kept moving the ornaments up the tree out of her reach, but she's too smart for that. She got a chair and dragged it over to the tree in order to reach ALL the ornaments. This hasn't stopped since Saturday afternoon. It's going to be a long month.

I guess if I had really thought about it, I'd have realized that maybe a tree wasn't such a great idea this year. I already have fantasies of re-selling the tree on Park Slope Parents and ending the insanity, but we'll probably stick it out. But by Christmas, I'm sure all the ornaments will be scattered all over the apartment, the tree will have no needles, and it will be begging to be put on the curb for tree recycling. Maybe next year we'll forgo the tree for a nice wreath....

*Sigh*

Yesterday was the first time I have tried to look nice since having Nico. I try really hard on a daily basis not to slip into that sliding slope of mom-dom, of wearing sweatpants and no makeup and having that haggard look. Or, somehow not noticing that I have suddenly started wearing mom jeans, etc, but I haven't had to go out to be around a group of people for a nice event since birth, and getting dressed for it was challenging.

At a physical therapy appt last week, I asked my awesome physical therapist what was up with my gut. Granted, I have never been one with washboard abs, but I have this plateau of something on my mid-region now--what is that? Fat? Skin? My guts? And it has been getting smaller, but I am impatient. She told me it was mainly stretched out skin, that my abs had split a bit (called diastasis) and that all was a bit...slack...but that it would remedy itself in time, with exercise, and some pilates. Sigh.

Well, I don't like that. Besides having D boobs (they have retracted from the DD I was rockin' immediately after my milk came in), I cannot handle a gut. And wearing clothes is impossible. Everything I put on makes me look 4 months pregnant. NOT how you want to feel 2 months post-partum.

As evidenced by sweet Alexandra, who, upon me putting on my baggiest of sweaters yesterday, ran up to me, lifted up the sweater, and exclaimed "I want to see the baby!"

*Sigh*

Thankful Deux

Last year I took on the challenge from another bloggess to make list of six unimportant things that I was thankful for in the advent of the Thanksgiving holiday. While those six things still rock my world, I felt the need to take on the challenge once again to find six more things that I am thankful for because--hopefully--it goes without saying that I am immensely grateful to the universe for my beautiful kids, my loving husband, my health, my kick-ass friends, and dysfunctional yet wonderful family. Ya know?

So here are six things that I could live without, but I'm thankful I don't have to (not in order of importance):

1. Parsley Plus Cleaner: Years ago my friend Hagar was using this in her apartment and I was thrown by how delicious it smelled; I have had it in the house ever since. Use it on counters, tables, high chairs, the floor after my 2 yo has a pee accident...YUM. It makes the whole place smell like sweet parsley and, of course, it's organic and yada yada yada. Thankful that it can make my apt feel clean in one minute.

2. Parenting Listservs/Classifieds: Our nabe is known for it's huge group, Park Slope Parents, and I have benefited immensely from the classifieds (both selling and retrieving) and the Digest (where parents post ?s from serious to the ridiculous). As much as these networks are ridiculed, a few weeks ago a mom who was literally suicidal posted anonymously that she was scared and needed help, and the community reached out to her, watched her kids, got her help, food, etc. It's not all about stroller selling or questioning when you can tell another kid to shut up...There's some real community there. I'm thankful for that.

3. Dansko Clogs: Even though my students tell me that they make me look "retarded," like shoes that kids who have "deformities" wear, I could not teach were it not for my Danskos. Ugly, yes, but necessary when you stand all day long, walk a mile to pick your toddler up from daycare, and then walk another mile home. Sarah Jessica Parker only wore heels 24/7 b/c she took cabs everywhere. Not realistic in my world.

4. Kiehl's Coriander Essence Oil: Who'd of thought that coriander could smell so lovely? I adore this fragrance, and they just redesigned their bottles so it's a cute little roller bottle like from when we were little. And they're cheap! I put a little on my wrists and neck before leaving the house to cover the smell of rancid breastmilk and baby barf. Works for me.

5. Trumpette Baby Socks: Dear Trumpette folks: Your socks are way too expensive, but they are the only ones that stay on. How do you do that? Why haven't others figured that out? And your socks are too cute for words. Nico is currently wearing gray cloud socks and they make me cry, they're so precious. Love them!

6. Washer/Dryer in my Apartment: I had a dream that our apt was broken into and all they stole was our washer/dryer and I was hysterical. How anyone with two kids doesn't have one in their apt. is beyond me. I caress the stacked machines as I walk past. They save my sanity (and keep my obsessive/compulsive cleanliness under control!).

There you have it. I"m sure once I post this I'll come up better things I'm more thankful for, but those are the first that come to mind. Happy Thanksgiving!

Dissertation Haiku

I have been struggling lately.

My two month old seems to have stopped believing in naps. He is awake from the time big sister leaves for daycare (8-9am) until I put him in the Baby Bjorn to walk down and pick her up (3pm-4pm). One of the biggest reasons for keeping her in daycare was so I could write, but writing is very difficult when you get little to no time to conjure up your academic mind. If only my vocabulary, theoretical knowledge, and data flowed as easily as my breastmilk...

And honestly, how can you get aggravated with a 2 month old who just wants to be cuddled? I feel like such an a-hole for getting frustrated with him, b/c he's just a baby and babies just want the milky-milk, the snuggle, and the interaction. And he'll be small for such a short time--a fact exaggerated for me because he's our second and this time I know that before I can blink he'll be wiggling out of my arms when I try to hug him.

Needless to say, my dissertation is moving at below a snail's pace. I am not sure it can register a heartbeat. I started crying in frustration last Friday, when, for the fourth day that week Nico hadn't napped and I hadn't gotten any work done. I am not sure I can finish this to graduate in May, but I certainly don't want this to continue on into another summer of dissertation hell. I am barely holding back from a full-blown anxiety attack.

But my lamentations aside, today I found this great link that a friend, Lynn, sent me last spring: DISSERTATION HAIKU. The premise is simple. The site explains:

Dissertations are long and boring. By contrast, everybody likes haiku. So why not write your dissertation as a haiku? Please email yours (along with your name, institution, a 1-2 sentence text description of your work, and any URL you'd like your name linked to) to dissertationhaiku@gmail.com.

Brilliant! Here's mine for today:

Immigration is
Changing our schools but not books
Students are left out.

Dissertation title: Curriculum & Complication: A Multiethnic High School in Brooklyn

Can this count as my writing for today?

Show me your tips!

When you live in a neighborhood that's notoriously bougie, such as Park Slope, you are prone to great amounts of criticism from the media masses. Our 'hood is known most aggressively for entitled parents of brats and over-protective helicopter moms with strollers that cost as much as an used car. Regardless, every so often a piece of legit factual reporting comes out (gawd forbid!), such as the NY State Dept of Labor Report's special investigation which revealed that 23 of 25 restaurants and coffee shops along 5th and 7th Aves in Park Slope were found to be commiting "wage theft" and totally screwing their employees.

To quote:
"In total, 207 workers were underpaid more than $910,000. Some of the worst violations were for delivery employees working 60 to 70 hours per week and paid a salary of $210.00 to $275.00 per week. At one restaurant, workers were paid as little as $2.75 per hour."

I guess this shouldn't surprise me, although the two greatest transgressors were two of our local faves--Rachel's and Coco Roco--both owned and run by Hispanic men who were rabidly effing over their own peoples. For shame, guys.

Regardless of the craptastic ethos of these establishments, it's a good reminder to tip and tip heavily those guys on bikes who schlep you your scallion pancakes in the dark, rain, and crazily driven streets of the slope (saw two car accidents since Thursday!). As the holiday season's upon us, here's my list of hired help I always tip well, but tip particularly well during this time of year:

1. Delivery guys: Sure they didn't wait on you like in a restaurant, kissing your derriere and telling you it's okay if you kid smears yogurt all over god's creation, but they rode their bikes to YOUR HOUSE, usually in the dark, often in weather that prevented you from doing a pick up...They are target to teenage theft for their small amounts of cash, to whack drivers, and you know their hourly wage is not the minimum wage in most places. Their job sucks. Be nice.

2. Waxing ladies: You would think it would make sense to tip the Russian ladies to rip out your hair on your legs and other unmentionable places with hot wax, but upon questioning my lady I was surprised that many leave only a few bucks. Seriously? You want her to remember how cheap you were next time she has hot wax dripping over your eyeballs for an eyebrow wax or next to your girl parts for a bikini wax? Those Russians might not be the best at small conversation or smiling, they they can wax like nobody's business. Tip them. Or face the consequences of no eyebrows for your holiday party.

3. Daycare providers: The holidays are the time to show those women who work tirelessly changing your kid's poop and singing annoying kids music with them how much you care. Don't give them a cheap ass present from the drugstore or bake them cookies, give them cold, hard cash. Daycare providers and early childhood educators really do make crap for money. Unlike a teacher K-12, they have no union, no rights, and although they might have a master's in Early Childhood Ed., their salary in comparison to a teacher's sucks. And, with the amount of poop, pee, vomit, tantrums, and time outs they have to administer--they deserve a nice holiday cadeau of money.

Just food for thought as the holiday season officially begins this week.

Time out/Special place

It is truly amazing how quickly toddlers pick up on EVERYTHING. From swear words to using "I have to go potty" as a manipulative force to get out of the crib after having been put to bed, Alexandra picks up on the mundane to the important at light speed. No wonder they encourage language learning at this age--she is a veritable sponge.

Being a two-year old, and having just transitioned to being a big sister, time-outs have become way too common in our apartment. I am determined that I will not have a child who hits me, is sassy or rude, or is misbehaved and I am even more determined that I will not spank my child. As someone who grew up being spanked with any/everything around (hairbrush, wooden spoon, belt, willow branches, hands, etc.), I do not think spanking taught me shit. But, I am not going to be one of those White liberal yuppie parents who, after their kid gives them a black eye, says, "Let's talk about your feelings!" before tossing that brat into a time out. We can talk after time out, but if mommy doesn't put you in one, Dept of Child Services might have to be called.

With all the time outs around here, Alexandra has recently started self-imposing time outs when she starts to feel out of control. It's pretty amazing. Usually a small fall or a slight transgression in behavior (as in screaming bloody murder inside = not using inside voices) will foster the Pavlovian association in her head. She'll look at me and say, "I need to go to the cosleeper." Then she'll march into our bedroom, grab a blankie and her pacifier reserved for snuggling with mommy in the morning, turn on the white noise machine, and lay herself down in the cosleeper for five to ten minutes. Then she's back up and good as new.

When she did this yesterday, mid-playdate as her and Phoebe started to fight over big baby doll, I thought that we ALL need a cosleeper--a special place where we can put ourselves for five to ten minutes to drown out the stressful world around us. Wouldn't that be amazing? I can see myself, in the middle of a classroom altercation, just retreating to a little bed in the back of the room and ignoring the students. Or, mid-marital dispute declaring, "I need to go to my special place!" and doing it before words get said that you'd like to retract, before things get ugly, and before you have regrets.

I know we have gyms, alcohol, femme dates, and so forth that serve in place of our metaphorical cosleepers, but last night, as I watched Alexandra trudge to the cosleeper to gather herself, I couldn't help but wish that having a special place as an adult was a bit more literal and simple.

Birth Control

I am in agony at this crossroads.

So, here I am, 35 years old, 99% sure that I am done having children, and I have a good 10+ years of potential fertility left. I have to do something a tad more foolproof than condoms to ensure that we don't get pregnant again, especially when you consider that we have gotten pregnant twice using condoms (our miscarriage and nico). Obviously Adam and I are not exactly model condom users. With that in mind, there are two options: IUD or for hubby to get the big snip of vasectomy.

Neither option appeals to me.

IUD: I don't like the idea of a random piece of plastic wrapped in copper floating around in my uterus. Nor do I like what I have read of IUDs online. Granted, yes, I understand that only folks who are freakin' miserable post of their horrifying IUD experiences online, but those posts have scared the bejesus out of me. And, quite honestly, it does not seem right. Shoving a T-shaped hijacker in through and into your most important girl part just. seems. wrong. Sorry. I know some folks love it, and maybe I'm a purist, but ICKY. And the side effects...Don't even get me started.

THE BIG V: Adam is more than willing to undergo the big snip. He is 100% sure he does not want three kids, and I am 99% sure that I agree with him. And it's not that I feel bad about him ending his fertile life--the guy obviously is potent and has used his forces for good. But here's where I sound like a crazy lady: I feel if he gets snipped, I'm going to die in the next 10 years and he'll remarry, want to have kids with hot young wife #2, and then he'll resent our decision. In some sicko way, I feel if he gets snipped I will die, a Murphy's Law of vasectomy. I know I should venture into therapy for this crazy fatalistic thought processes, but I can't help it. I guess I have known too many healthy, happy folks just up and die in my life to think otherwise.

I am surprised at how much agony this decision is causing me. I have been menstruating regularly since I was 11 1/2--that's TWENTY FOUR YEARS!!!!!--and I used my body for childbearing purposes for a total of three years. I feel so thankful for my fertility and my healthy pregnancies and beautiful children, but I wish I could just somehow turn this business off without hormones, surgery, or intra-uterine devices.

UGH.

Watch that Finger!

I am sure every parent out there has heard of the Maclaren Stroller recall. Supposedly, if you young one (or mother in law, as reported in the Brian Lehrer show on UNYC, the local NPR station here!) gets his/her fingers into the folding hinge, s/he could get a digit amputated. Twelve cases of finger amputation were reported to Maclaren in the past 10 years, therefore they are doing a voluntary recall on over ONE MILLION strollers. Unfortunately, you don't get a new one, just some fabric thingies to put over your stroller hinges to prevent finger mutilation.

A couple of things cracked me up about this recall:

ONE: The declaration to immediately cease use of your Maclaren until you got your fabric thingies. Pul-ease....As if anyone in NYC with kids can go without their strollers for a single day. Granted, we have FOUR strollers (jog stroller, double stroller, traditional Maclaren, and Maclaren for infant car seat) which seems kinda sick, but keep in mind that they are our main form of transportation here for kids. That just made me laugh.

TWO: The loss of finger digits. I guess it's really no laughing matter, but it reminded me of my dad. When I was in elementary school, my dad, a librarian at the CIA, got ink poisoning in his middle finger of his right hand. One of the complications of diabetes is that you have poor circulation to your hands/feet, therefore this paper cut, ink poisoning situation could not and would not heal. Eventually, he had to have the top digit of his middle finger amputated.

While the loss of a digit is not funny, my dad loved to put his amputated middle finger up to his nostril in public, making it look like he had the entire thing shoved up his nose, to embarrass me and my sister. We'd scream and giggle at him and his antics, and he'd laugh at our humiliation. One of my favorite memories of my father.

Thanks, Maclaren recall, for sparking that memory of mine.

BLAZ

Life is funny.

Right after Halloween, we found Alexandra's old letter magnets shoved into her toy kitchen's oven and I put them back on the fridge. She has managed to get most of them back into a purse or her shopping cart, but a few remained on the fridge, and last week I went to get something out of the refrigerator and the letters spelled BLAZ.

This isn't the first time baby girl has spelled something out with her magnets. At the ripe age of one, she managed to string together a swear word:








But this accident of letters was different. One of my close childhood into high school friends, Heidi Blazevich, died in November of 1990 in a car accident while driving to school. Every November I constantly wonder about her, who she would be today if she had not died, how her parents are coping years later, what happened with her older brother and sisters...A whole mind full of questions that all begin with the "What if..." regarding her death. I can replay the day of her accident like yesterday: I remember where I was standing in the hallways of Park View High School when I was told, where I was when she died, how she looked in the casket...It seems like yesterday, but here I am, 19 years later and still thinking of Heidi.

When Alexandra accidentaly strung together BLAZ (Heidi's nickname), I couldn't help but think that this was Heidi's way of giving a little wave in my direction, reminding me to be thankful for the past 19 years of my life that I have experienced.

Although each November I repeatedly meditate on my life while thinking of Heidi, I love that my daughter was the one to prod me into this reflective space this year. It really is the small, simple things that make life so beautiful and make me so thankful to be alive.

Losing Parents Now

As much as Facebook gets a lot of criticism and mockery from the masses, I adore it. I have caught up with so many old friends, and I feel much more connected to those with whom I have always been close. I have shared recipes, advice, and been witness to the ups and downs of others' lives. I totally understand why some folks don't like the level of transparency that comes with Facebook, but I embrace it.

Through FB, I reconnected with the first boy I majorly crushed on in high school, now a grown successful man, and watched him travel around Europe with friends via photos, saw him shuttled down a mountain after breaking his leg via video, participated in the healing process via encouraging wall messages...It has been super nice to reconnect to this guy whom I held very highly in my youth only to find that he's still a good guy. To me, it makes life make sense; it fosters a continuum of sorts.

This guy recently lost his dad. Having lost my father when I was 22, I feel deeply when others lose parents, particularly dads. I know losing a dad is different for everyone, different for a son than a daughter, and so forth, but I ache for my peers when I hear of them losing parents. A literal ache bubbles up in my chest.

But what really moved me about witnessing his loss via Facebook was a photo he posted yesterday--a congregation of his guy friends, most of who went to high school with us--who came out for his dad's memorial service. Dressed in dark colored suits and looking like men instead of the boys I knew them as, they posed with my friend on the day his family memorialized his dad. I haven't been able to stop thinking of this photo and now I know why:

When you lose a parent at a younger age, your friends don't know how to react. It's awkward...You're too young to have the sensibilities to know what to say, what to do, and it's just a mess of emotions on how you should handle it. Many of my friends didn't even acknowledge my dad's death, and as I shuffled through the summer after he passed I never knew how to bring it up even though it was all I thought of. I had a couple friends who came to his funeral (to whom I am eternally grateful), but most people politely avoided the topic. And honestly, that made it worse.

But now that we're older, we are wiser. We can stand by our friends when their parents get sick, or when our friends get sick, or when their parents die, or when they lose a friend, a spouse, a pregnancy...In all the instances where life ends. Nobody ever knows what to say, but we know now to say something. To reach out. To be there. Because not acknowledging loss is worse than the loss itself.

I guess that means we're the grown-ups now.

May my friend's dad rest in peace. I never knew him, but he raised a great son who was even a kind, funny, and smart person when I met him in middle school (a time when most kids are not decent people!). As a new parent, I feel that is testament to a life well lived.

Regression, example C

35 lb
37"
2 year old

in a mini-
cosleeper

(they can
hold more
weight than they
claim--
so we think.
we'll let you
know when she
breaks it.)

Wanted: Sports Bra

I have watched the NYC Marathon religiously since I moved to New York. Having had run my first marathon in 1999 (San Diego) immediately before moving to NYC, I came to this city on a marathon high. Each year I have found some place along the marathon route, bunkered down, and cheered from beginning to end--hands freezing, voice failing, and energized and inspired by all who run.

This year between Halloween, Daylight Savings Time, and negotiating two kids instead of one, we were late getting down to Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, the first main stretch of the race after the runners cross the Verrazano Bridge in Staten Island and enter into Brooklyn. We finally made it down to the corner of our street and 4th Ave, with our friend and neighbor Kate, and in between running into about a dozen friends we discussed the overwhelming phenomenon this race: the complete and utter lack of a decent sports bra.

Okay, ladies of the race--WTF? We saw medium and large-chested women jiggling like nobody's business. Not only did it look uncomfortable, but holy god, the nipple chaffing that must have happened to those girls! One woman wasn't even wearing a bra, but a camisole, with her goods shifting up and down a great deal. A GREAT DEAL. We saw so many women running with not enough support and it was greatly disturbing--both as a woman and as a former distance runner.

As someone whose normally small B boobies have shifted to be DDs, I am acutely aware of trying to move with small boulders attached to my chest and it is not fun. I wore a unsupportive bra on the elliptical machine last week and felt like I was going to knock myself out--and the elliptical is low impact! They make great running bras for ladies who are larger or, if you don't want to admit that your chest falls into that category, then double up a normal sports bra. What's wrong with these women?

I think that next year I'll create a stall at the marathon expo on proper sports bra usage...Or maybe I'll film a public service announcement and post it on YouTube...Or start a grassroots campaign for better running bra usage...I'm not sure, but those puppies have got to get strapped down.

(Photos: A group of British ladies walk the marathon each year in these crazy decorated bras--not whom I'm talking about in this post b/c they're walking, not running, but very amusing! And Alexandra getting into the cheering. Children's toys make for great marathon noise makers :)

The Referendum

My insightful and lovely adviser at Teachers College posted this link on Facebook the other day, an editorial pinpointing the endless job of comparison with others, particularly as we enter into a time in our lives when we have done enough to look back and question our decisions, perhaps mourning the roads not taken, perhaps celebrating some paths chosen, but also comparing our choices to those of our peers--close friends, co-workers, acquaintances, family members, etc.

I found this piece super insightful. And as much as I have comparison issues that I constantly strive to make peace with, I found that upon reflecting I am pretty content with my life and my choices. So, of course, I made a list of the questionable and the sure things:

QUESTIONABLE:
*My doctorate work--Worth the fact that I now can't buy an apartment until 2017 when my debt is paid off? Don't think so. I have heard that it'll open doors, blah blah blah, but right now I'd just like to stop renting thank you very much.
*Living in NYC. God, I adore this city, but at times I'd like a nice little house in Carrboro, NC, with a yard and proximity to biscuits and Southern accents and kudzu.
*Teaching as a career path. So rewarding, so underpaid. Will my years of feeling satisfied personally outweigh my floundering bank account? God, I hope so. Why didn't I go into a more lucrative profession? Why do I give a shit about others? Dammit!

NEVER DOUBT:
*Marrying Adam. He's the best guy out there for me. No doubt. Never doubt getting married, either. I think all folks should be able to get married if they want to. It does mean something, although I'm not sure I can pinpoint what that is.
*Having kids--was never not an option. Even glad Nico--our little surprise--brought himself into the world when he did. Being a mother has made me a better person.
*Waiting to have kids until my 30s--I traveled all over, took classes, and made myself as good as I could be before having these two babes who will hopefully reap the benefits of my time cultivating myself.
*Moving to NYC--undoubtedly the best move I ever made. Found my career, my partner, and the woman I needed to become. This city defines me in many ways, and I like that.

That's my list for now...Just thinking out loud to cyberspace on a rainy day...

Anatomy Gone Awry

When we were shown the penis at Nico's 12 week ultrasound, we began to explore the wonderful world of anatomy explanation to Alexandra. The pending arrival and welcoming of Nico and his boy parts was simultaneous to Alexandra's potty training beginnings, therefore we have had lots of discussions of boy's having penises and girl's having poo-cats. In the past couple of months, I have said the four P words more times than I wish to admit: pee pee, poo poo, penis, & poo-cat.

But Alexandra has taken this anatomy lesson to whole new levels with her vocabulary that expands by the day. And it's beginning to get uncomfortable. Here's a conversation from yesterday regarding Kevin, the music teacher who comes to her daycare whom she adores (she has a thing for boys who play the acoustic guitar, just like her mama). We were listening to Kevin's CD (which is decent for kid's music), and she announces:

Alexandra: Kevin has a penis.

Mommy: Yes, Kevin has a penis because he's a boy.

Alexandra: Kevin is a big boy.

Mommy: Yes, Kevin is a big boy like Daddy.

(can you see where this is going?)

Alexandra: Kevin has a big penis! (big smile on her face = terrifying)

Mommy: (Looks at husband with a WTH do I say to that? Trying not to laugh...)

Obviously, my silence and stunned face gave the signal to my oh-so-observant 2 year old daughter that she had said something golden, therefore for about 1/2 hour she ran around the house, dancing to Kevin's CD, screaming, "Kevin has a big penis!"

I REALLY hope she doesn't remember this association she made come Wednesday during music class. Can you get kicked out of daycare for that?

Halloween

I have never, once trick-or-treated. Sad, but true.

My mom, the born again who speaks in tongues Catholic, thought Halloween was Satan's holiday. For years, she would keep us out of school so that we could not partake in any Halloween parties. She kept me out of the advanced reading group in second grade because on the reading list was "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" and she didn't want me to read anything with a witch in it. On Halloween night, we'd lock ourselves in our house, turn out all the lights as a signal to the candy-hunters that we were not giving out the goods, and hide in the back rooms and watch TV. If she were feeling generous that year, my mom would get us some candy of our own, but that didn't always happen. She was a pretty big health food freak, too.


Needless to say, when I went to school the next day all the kids would be like, "Why was your house all dark?" "What's wrong with you?" "Your family sucks!" Blah, blah, blah. And I would have to decide if I wanted to reveal that my mom was a religious zealot or lie and say that I had a terrible stomach virus for 24 hours. Usually the latter won out. Yes, I have years of psychological scarring from this.

In college and my 20's I loved to whore it up for Halloween as an excuse to make out with boys; it was a very successful mission and worked most years. But, of course, those years are long gone.

But now I have kids and I can embark on a new and previously uncharted part of Hallowen: I can trick-or-treat! And now that Alexandra can walk and talk this is year one. Last year we managed to score some loot as I drove her around in our stroller dressed as a chicken and Adam and I as wolves in sheep's clothing. She had her first Blow Pop and her first Kit Kat, and it's been a downward candy spiral since then. But this year we are doing it--door to door, pounding the pavement trick-or-treating.

And I am more excited than she is.

snuggle bunnies

Parenting a newborn and a two year old is nothing less than a roller coaster ride. And I don't mean one of those smooth-moving sleek new 21st century roller coasters, I'm talkin' about the Cyclone at Coney Island, a ricky, wooden, neck-jerking up and down ride on a wooden great-grandma that's simultaneously exhilarating and life-threatening.

And let me preface this by saying that I have two good kids (knock on wood). Alexandra has always been such a good girl and Nico, swear to god, has yet to cry ONCE in the night, even last night as he sniffed, coughed, sneezed, and wheezed with this cold he's contracted from Alexandra and her daycare of germs. But they still work me.

Last night Alexandra was in full force two year old mode. She spit her chewed up dinner on the floor, was doing circus acrobatics in her Stokke high chair, had a full-blown meltdown after she threw a Play-Dough toy at me and I promptly removed it, her meltdown caused Nico to cry...She threw all the refrigerator magnets on the floor, pretty much screamed all though dinner (when not spitting food)...It was a shitstorm of two year old behavior. By the time Adam came home I was about to turn to heavy drinking.

Then she woke this morning at 5am. As selfish as I am, I laid in bed and let Adam deal, because he's on morning duty with her b/c I was nursing Nico (btw, Adam is the best dad and husband ever). I could hear him taming the wild beast (since our apt is only 800 square feet) and I turned on the white noise machine to ignore them. Then Alexandra burst into our bedroom yelling,

"Mommy, I want tickies!"

She climbed into the bed, snuggled down in the covers, and I tickied her arms. I could tell she was tired, so I thankfully remembered a random pacifier in Nico's cosleeper. I popped it into her mouth, and we all woke up over an hour later when Adam nudged us to say that it was time for her to go to daycare. I was snuggled between my two babies, and it was glorious.

I haven't snuggled/napped with Alexandra since I don't know when. It was pure bliss and made me love her even more than I already do. I needed that reminder.

Now I'm recharged for another afternoon of insanity.

Why I Teach, #5

In my two weeks of teaching my freshmen before giving birth, this happened:

In the middle of my lesson, a student called me over: "Excuse me, Miss?" and since she sat in the front of the room and I was going over something at the Smartboard, I walked over to her desk as the students copied something into their notebooks. She turned a piece of looseleaf around and I read it. It was the above piece of looseleaf.

Teaching is a continuously humbling experience. I misspell words on the board and am corrected by my students, I receive comments such as, "Ms. Vann had a baby after you and she's already skinny!" or "Miss, you have a LOT of gray hair" or "This sucks." And, I am constantly reminded that I am your Grade A prototypical White girl.

Not that other races don't overuse "like" in their dialogue--god knows my biracial niece Annika sounds just like Alicia Silverstone in the movie "Clueless"--but I never realized that I, too, sound like that "Clueless" heroine much more than I'd like. This was brought to my attention many times in my first years of teaching when students would mimic my voice perfectly and I, in denial, said, "I don't sound like that!" Then I had to make a teaching video to get permanently certified by NY State, and OMG, that was ridiculous because I realized that I do, indeed, sound like that.

In a lot of ways, I think it's good to be continuously reminded of how I appear to others...It no longer bothers me at all. In fact, when the student showed me this paper, I said, "I have to..like...have that!" and she happily gave it to me. I try to defy a lot of the stereotypes about White folks, but some I just can't shake.

Regression, example B

This is what a 35 lb, 37" two-year old looks like on an infant playmat:

Tarantula

Alexandra is in daycare right now where she produces massive amounts of art projects, letter and number coloring worksheets, and just coloring overall. This is one that was sent home.

I look at all her work, but when I saw this one I had a moment in which I was like, "WTF?" Tarantula? What kind of coloring book is this? And who's this dude with a tarantula on his shoulder? He looks like some child-toucher who should be driving a van with a circle-shaped window in the back. CREEPY!

And then I remembered one the pets of my very first childhood friends, Chris Buddie. He lived across the street from me in Fox Lee, and he had a cornucopia of little boy animals (alive and dead) at his house such as a turtle who lived in a built wooden box in his backyard, fish, a ton of frogs and snakes in jars (like a science lab)on shelves in his room, and most frightening of all, a pet tarantula. I remember going over to his house to play and being terrified of that tarantula. Once it got out and I was convinced it was strolling across the cul de sac to get me.

I had a nightmare of that same childhood tarantula a few weeks ago, and when Alexandra brought this home from daycare it caused me to recall that dream. Then I realized that I have been dreaming, repeatedly, of that same tarantula for my whole friggin' life! I have ALWAYS had a recurring tarantula nightmare as long as I can remember, and the only reason why goes right back to Chris Buddie.

Chris Buddie grew up to be one of the nicest guys you'll ever know, and he now has a son. I wonder if they'll have a pet tarantula? And if that tarantula will psychologically scar one of his son's first friends for life? Keep me posted, Chris. I might be on to something here...

Video Pancakes

Our old upstairs neighbor (we have both fled the realm of our prior insane landlord on 8th street to other apartments...on 8th street!) has a hilarious website called Video Pancakes where she makes videos that either make me cry or crack up.

This is of the crack up variety.

Mary--what goes on in that head of yours?

MARY JUST EDUCATED ME ON KEYBOARD CAT--CHECK IT OUT...FASCINATING! BRILLIANT!

National Walk to School Month

I'm listening to the NPR program "The TakeAway" which I find simultaneously annoying (why does John Hockenberry insist on trying to be so clever?) and informative. Right now they are talking about October being National Walk to School Month. Fascinating conversation.

Of course they are debating child obesity, as well as the over-exaggerated fear of child-snatchers...But I guess what's really stopped kids walking to school is individuals' love for their cars--even in suburban areas where there are schools close-by and sidewalks line the streets from house to school.

I walked to school from kindergarten until 9th-ish grade, when it then became too uncool to stroll into high school and we had Jen Osborne's mom drive us in her red sports car, Jen and I smooshed into the front bucket seat and singing along to Heart or some other glam rock band. I only took the bus once, when we moved to NC at the end of 11th grade and we literally lived so far away from the school that it was impossible to walk, and that had to be the most humiliating time of my life. I contemplated begging the White Trash boy who lived in the cul-de-sac across from our house in our still-being-built neighborhood to drive me in his Camaro, but I didn't have the guts and I feared what the association with him would do for my future reputation at my new school. The longest months of my adolescent life were those at the end of 11th grade on that cheese bus. Potential social suicide.

On the contrary, I have so many fond memories of walking to school in elementary and middle school: In kindergarten my mom had arranged a car pool for me, but I told her I was going to "walk with the big kids" and set off with them at 5 years old. Being late to school b/c after a good rain I'd pick up the worms stranded on the sidewalk and toss them into the grass to save them from death. Stopping by the Hop In convenience store after middle school with Robyn or Heather to load up on sugar and chips. Walking by a boy's house you had a crush on by "accident." When Ms. Welke saw me litter walking home in 7th grade, stopped me and drove me back to my Coke bottle and made me pick it up (I have honestly never littered since!)...The list is endless.

It makes me sad to think that kids don't really walk to school anymore. . .Is it really true? Anyone have kids who walk to school?

the skin down there

I don't have great skin. I know this. I don't have horrid skin, either, but my years of poolside lingering sans sunscreen and slathered with tanning oil during my suburban upbringing which pretty much started when I was five and ended when I was 21 (a lifeguard), followed by more years of continuous tanning (because you definitely look thinner with a tan!) have definitely left their mark on my face. Not much I can do about it now.

Each year when we do collages in my English classes, some kid finds that advertisement for botox which claims you should not have parentheses on your face, and the students says, "Miss, you have these!" Yeah, I know. Thanks for reminding me.

I have a girlfriend Julia who literally has the most beautiful skin of anyone I know. When I was out visiting her in Colorado once, we went for these free mini-facials at the Clinique counter. Why not? I swear to you, the Clinique woman asked me if I was Julia's mom. No lie. I was friggin' pregnant! Julia and I are four months apart in age--her being older! WTF? And then the woman proceeded to put so much make-up on me that I looked like a drag queen. Not a great day for my ego.

With this in mind, let me take you to the recent present. In the hospital, a very cool midwife came in to give our boy the big snip of circumcision (spare me your circumcision opinions, if you're feeling inclined) and we were chatting. She had birthed a 10 lb baby the day before to a first time mama with no tears or stitches on the mama. I had just had a 9lb 4oz baby with no tears or stitches. Alexandra was 9lbs 8oz, my first babe, and I had one stitch. Adam commented that midwives were amazing, and being ever so humble she said, "It's not the midwife, some people just have good skin down there. You eat a diet of soda and Doritos, and I'll see it in your vagina."

Well, I might have look like an advertisement for botox or be able to pass as the mother of my same-age friends, but I've got good skin in a place that counts.

Xena: The cat, the myth, the legend

Xena, our cat, has struggled since we moved into our new place. In our old apartment, she pretty much had an entire floor to herself. When Alexandra would pull out her can of two year old kitty cat whoop ass, Xena could gracefully scale the baby gate that kept our daughter from tumbling head-first down a spiral staircase and retire to the sub-basement. It didn't bother her that it smelled of cat litter or was a tad musty; it was her paradise.

In mid-July we moved next door, to a smaller apartment with literally no area free of the two-year old's reign, and I have watched Xena morph into a whiny, whoosy cat who just lets Alexandra violate her and she looks to me and cries. My response is always, "Xena--you're a CAT, either run away or scratch her...Not a big scratch, just a tiny scratch that'll be a deterrent, but come on--you're a CAT!" Needless to say, lecturing your cat amounts to nothing. Alexandra tortures the poor cat from "petting" her (ripping out fur) to "carrying" her (picking her up by the fur) to "hugging" her (body slamming the cat) and "kissing" her (body slam with head butting). You get the idea. Xena has not once scratched or bit Alexandra. Crazy, but 100% true.

About three weeks ago, Xena disappeared and I can't say I was sad. I have loved Xena, but I am tired to playing referee between her and Alexandra, I'm tired of the cat hair that seems to permeate every inch of our 1-bedroom apartment that never gets under control, and I feel bad for Xena, who will most likely live out her years being tortured by our kids. After all, Xena will be 13 this fall...

...So when she disappeared, I figured it was Xena giving us the kitty middle finger, the "see ya suckas!" I thought she figured I was hugely pregnant and bringing another one into the fold to make her life miserable, and she was putting her paw down. We looked for her in earnest for about two weeks, and then figured either she had gone away to commit kitty suicide or had found a nice old lady who would feed her wet food and let her watch TV in peace. I felt she was truly at a better place--either option.

Then around 8pm last night I get a call. Xena had been found; she somehow got trapped in the boiler room of the house behind ours for THREE WEEKS. Adam went to retrieve her--she was pitch black (necessitated seven baths!) and skinny, but very healthy and walked back in here like, "What?"

Xena--I swear, this kitty has more than 9 lives on her. Anyone want to remove her from this space for her remaining lives?

regression

I heard the word regression about a million times while I was pregnant in reference to my two year old daughter. For example: Don't potty train her pre-baby, b/c she'll surely regress once he comes. Etc, etc.

Well, all the rumors were true.

Alexandra is, as I type, screaming "Mommy!" and sobbing hysterically in her crib. This has been going on for about 1/2 hour now. She has slept through the night about twice since Nico was born. Nico has slept though the night (with nursing in bed) every night since he's been home. Alexandra not only wakes during the night, but she throws full-fledged two-year-old tantrums that include banshee-like wailing that make her sound possessed. It is agony. There is nothing that will make you crazier than listening to your kid scream their bloody head off for hours on end and know that there's nothing you can do to pacify them. A-G-O-N-Y.

She also likes to strap herself into the baby's bouncy seat (see photo), crawl, and cry over who the heck knows what.

Thank god Nico is such a buddha, b/c Alexandra most certainly is not right now. sigh....baby girl...

Lifelong Dream = check

I had a startling realization last night.

My whole life, for as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of having my own kids. I think this stems from being adopted, from never having my own birth story, from not having had a mom who could talk about her gestational period with me inside her, and from not having parents with whom I shared a biological connection. Some little girls dreamed of their weddings, but not me. I just wanted to be pregnant and have a couple kids of my own. I had a plan that if I weren't married by 35, I'd get a wedding cake, eat the whole thing, find a smart/attractive guy, tell him I was on the pill, and get myself knocked up. That or a sperm bank. Not that I didn't want a partner with whom to share this crazy ride, but if he hadn't made himself available I was going to do this with or without him. I'm dead serious.

Last night, as I nursed Nico in bed around 1am, I realized that this dream is now complete.

That realization was somewhat shocking. It made me happy, but it also made me a bit sad. This is what I have wanted my whole life, and now I have it. How lucky am I? But also, that experience of growing life inside me and having it emerge as a person is behind me. I am not sure there is anything else I have ever wanted for so long or so badly, and now it's complete and I'm not sure how to process that...

I better get that IUD put in right away b/c you can see where this is leading...

smell association

I have a superb sense of smell. I like to think this big nose has some benefit, and perhaps that is my bloodhound ability to pick up random smells constantly. I still remember being on the bus going to a track meet in 10th grade, when all of a sudden I noted, "It smells like lettuce!" Amid a packed bus of teen girls, replete with the smells of hairspray, perfume, deodorant, and body odor, I managed to sniff out Jenny Andros's peanut butter and lettuce sandwich that she was eating a whole bus behind me. That's talent.

Today on the train (Nico's first subway ride to Target!), I was standing next to a woman who had soaked herself in Elizabeth Arden's Sunflowers perfume and was immediately transported back to my sophomore year at UNC's roommate Hilary, who would heavily spray on that perfume before class each day, waking me up to its fragrance. Then I started thinking of scents and people and how certain scents will always remind me of certain people. Being a list-lover, I made a mental list:

Beautiful by Estee Lauder: my mom's signature scent as I was growing up

English Leather/Old Spice: my dad had these on his dresser and rarely used them, but they remind me of his smell when he'd dress up for something. and i remember the big wooden top to the English Leather bottle.

Farenheit colonge: my high school boyfriend, Trey, wore this and can you believe it's still worn by a lot of men today? I mean a lot. I must smell it once weekly. Each time I smell it on the train, I think of tall, skinny teen Trey and laugh a little at him putting it on in an attempt to impress me and the world at large. Giggle giggle.

CK One: my signature smell most of undergrad. I thought sexual ambiguity was so hot.

Irish Spring/Pert Plus: the smells of my college boyfriend, Chris. I still love a person who smells clearly of soap and cleanliness. I think soap is the most attractive scent ever. I also still don't get combo shampoo/conditioners. Icky.

Eternity by Calvin Klein: my friend Erin wore this for a while in high school and early college and the clean smell of it always reminds me of her as well as of white sheets. Advertisements work. Those Calvin Klein print ads from the early 90s (the black & white photos) were beautiful.

Right Guard deodorant: I love the smell of my husband's armpits and often snuggle into them. I know it's mostly his pheromones (because I like them a little stinky), but I think this deodorant helps. The mixture of his smell and deodorant = Yum.

Burt's Bees Baby Bee: this peachy sweet smell now reminds me of my baby girl. Just like Mustella baby products remind of of Kat's baby boy, Luca.

Lavender: my friend Lisa always smells like lavender. I have tried to emulate this (b/c I love lavender), but I don't think I have succeeded. I like to think Lisa's ability to hold a lavender smell stem from her hippie days of following Phish. At least she doesn't smell like patchouli. I am not a big fan of that smell.

I'll spare you the food smell associations with various travel countries and seasons and cities, but my list could go on and on and on....I wonder if anyone associates a smell with me? I hope it's a decent one.

Nico's Name

A lot of folks keep asking about Nico's name, so let me explain how it came to be:

Nicholas won out because we liked it's meaning--victory of the people--because we're total socialists (haha). But seriously, we do like the meaning, and it couples well with Alexandra (defender of the people). And yes, we do know that Alexandra and Nicholas were the last great Czars of Russia. I had to muddle through if I thought this was incestuous, but I decided that (1) nobody really knows who the last Czars of Russia were and (2) Alexandra was gettin' freaky with Rasputin (the Russian philosopher) most of the time so it's not like her and Nicholas were really into each other. Yes, I overthought this.

I also liked the name Nico and I like names with nickname options, as Lori is truly lacking in them. That was a prerequisite for all my kids' names--professional option, nickname option. I often wish I was Lora and Lori was my nickname. Sometimes Lori is a bit too perky (albeit I am a very perky gal) for academic/professional circles.

But the overthinking really played into the middle name.

I wanted to name him after my dad, but I was pained b/c after deciding on Nicholas I didn't like my dad's two names (Douglas Frank) with Nicholas. My sister had already used Douglas, and the meaning of Douglas (dark water) I found ominous. Frank I liked as a name, but it wasn't working with Nicholas for me. No flow. I was in knots over this, and then, en route to our anniversary dinner date, Adam suggested that I find a name that's more symbolic of something my dad loved or something that reminds me of my dad that makes me happy.

And here's where it all clicked. As much as I loved my dad, we didn't have a close relationship, something that haunts me constantly. Using his literal name conjured this up a bit too much. When I think of my dad and happy stuff, a lot comes to mind. People watching, his wry humor, and Japanese Maples, which he loved and taught me to spot a mile away. I pause at every Japanese Maple I see, noting the leaf delicacy, the color, if it's tall or short and sprawling. When he died we planted three Japanese maples for him and put his ashes under them. The Japanese maple isn't my favorite tree (it's the Weeping Willow), but it's a close second because of my dad.

After this conversation I got online and looked up Japanese Maple. The genus name for maple is "acer"--the Japanese maple is acer palmatum. I liked "acer," emailed it to Adam, and he writes back that his little sister called him "Ace" when he was growing up. Perfect.

I think my dad would be tickled by the fact that his love for Japanese maples left such an impression on me that I named my son after a tree that reminds me of him. I hope so.

(photo of Alexandra kissing a Japanese maple at the beach this summer)

Our Block Sux

I am sitting here nursing my 5 day old son to the booming bass of the 7th Street block party. Let me tell you, those folks on 7th Street know how to get down. Their block party makes Park Slope actually look like a cool place to live--it's intergenerational, multicultural, and fully hosted by a DJ in a Coney Island Cyclones tshirt with a Brooklyn accent that rivals Marty Markowitz's (the Brooklyn Borough President).

I have not had the privilege of seeing the 7th Street block party this year, as the birth fatigue hit me hard today and I napped/nursed with Nico while Adam took Alexandra over to see what was poppin'. He caught a water balloon toss using those grenade balloons that are hard to pop. Then the DJ calls for only kids 13 and over--put in a dollar and winner takes all. Gambling water balloon toss. Love it.

The street is strewn with Christmas lights and strobe lights, and you can hear the folks on their block screaming along with music ranging from all genres. We are envisioning our 2 year old raving in her crib right now, as her room her room is in the backyard backing to 7th Street.

Let me put this in contrast to our block party: moonwalk with cranky teen managing it, cotton candy machine you had to beg another cranky teen to use and make you some cotton candy, yuppies with bad jazz on and pink wine out of a box sitting in their lawn chairs, a 6 foot sub with no condiments on it, and a showing of "Ratatouille" at 8pm. But that's not even the lame part of the equation. The super lame part is that we have lived in this block SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS and there are these douchebags who are like, "Do you live here?" Seriously?

But the highlight of our block party was the 50 year old lady who demanded her ball back from Alexandra, who had found it in the gutter. Classy.

Next year we are staging a block party coup. I am gathering forces. We are taking back the block and you are all invited.

Nicholas (Nico) Acer Watson's Birth Story

When they say the first baby paves the way for the second, they ain't kidding. At least they weren't for my girl parts. Birthing Nicholas was not an orgasmic experience, but it was certainly the best birth I could have envisioned for myself and him. I am still on a birth high from days ago. I am thankful and feeling blessed and pensive and joyful and happy and all sorts of warm fuzzy feelings about being a woman and having a uterus and all that. Go women, go.

Here's the birth story for those wondering how it all went down:

As noted in last post, my due date came and I was enormously 40 weeks pregnant. I am not exaggerating for pity--I was very large. It looked like I had a basketball and a half under my dress. I was very tired of being pregnant, and I went into my midwife that afternoon and she did a "stretch and sweep" of my cervix. Not too comfy, but not the agony I remember from baby #1. Guess even that stuff was already stretched out a bit. She said I was at 3-4 cm already, go home, if that didn't trigger labor come back in tomorrow and she'd do it again. She told me not to go to work Tuesday, to which I replied, "But I have a really cool lesson on gangs b/c we're starting The Outsiders!" She looked at me like I was crazy.

Went home, went to library with Alexandra and Adam to get her new books, ate dinner, bathed baby girl and got her to bed, did some light Facebooking....had mild contractions the whole time. Sat down to watch an episode of "The Wire" (we are rewatching the whole series--we are crazy but it's so good) and surprisingly, the contractions kept coming. I have been having contractions for THREE WEEKS but every time I sat down they'd go away. Not this time--they were picking up. Adam started noting. They were 5 min apart, 1 min long, for over an hour. Called our midwife Stacey, she said drink a glass of wine, take a warm shower, and try to get some rest in case this was it.

Adam starts running around like the stereotypical husband whose wife is in labor. At one point he was standing frozen in the living room, pants unbuttoned, hat on...Hilarious.

We get everything as put together as possible. Adam passes out. No resting for me because the contractions coming more frequently and were more painful, but I was still able to breathe through them. We were not really timing b/c Adam had passed out. I hit him a few times, but not working. I swear to you, this guy will sleep through anything. But then I had a contraction and this gush of something comes out that didn't feel like the "stuff" (bloody show) from before, so I thought it was my water breaking. Stacey had said if water breaks call her from the car to the hospital b/c with baby #2 things can progress quickly post-water break. We called our neighbor Jessica to stay with Alexandra, we called my dear friend Kat our doula, we called a car service and we were off.

Thankfully my contractions stayed civil while riding into Manhattan and checking in. They got harder once in the room (all back labor, again...), and the "vocalization" began (I think that term is so funny; it sounds like singing but I was actually moaning like a slain wilderbeast). Stacey got me in a good position on my left side, grasping onto the hospital bed bars (my arms/back are still sore from me practically breaking off the bars) and she would jack my right leg up on her shoulder for each contraction. Barri, the other midwife who visited later in the hospital, called this some crazy cowboy or side pony position. How I didn't catapult sweet thin Stacey across the room is beyond me b/c with each contraction my leg on her shoulder would push against her. Midwives are some tough ass women.

Started pushing with contractions, water broke and it sounded and felt like a cork flew out of my poo-cat, huge gush of water, and then I started feeling the uncontrollable need to push. Stuff/smootz started coming out. Weird period here, where in between contractions there were these long pauses in which I literally was falling asleep. This kinda freaked me out, b/c I thought my labor was stalling or something bad was happening (like baby not descending), but Stacey said that was normal so I relaxed into it and literally napped between agonizing contractions and pushing. Also, I was always able to talk between contractions, ask questions, etc. Never really lost my social self completely this time, which was also different from first birth where I went into that primal, eyes-closed space for hours.

And then, in what felt like a lightening moment, I was pushing, felt his head descending, felt like my back was splitting in two, and I started screaming "Help!" b/c I thought I was going to shoot this kid across the room and tear like nobody's business. I saw them reeling the cart of birth stuff in, but before I knew it his head was out. Adam told me Stacey was suctioning him (he had lots of meconium on him--the poop the babes make in utero that's really sticky and dangerous if they have breathed in a lot of it into their lungs) and then I pushed two more times and he slid out like a slippery fox. Instant relief. Pain gone. I had pushed for over THREE HOURS with Alexandra, but not this time. I kept saying, "That was so fast!" Crazy. I was in shock that that was it. It seemed too easy in comparison to Alexandra's birth. Got those freaky afterbirth shakes.

They had to whisk him out of the room b/c the poor babe was covered with poo and they had to check his lungs, Adam went with him, and Stacey worked on getting my placenta out. She pushed, prodded, and pulled and I birthed the placenta and it was amazing. Felt so squishy and smooth after birthing something with BONES and I got to see it and the umbilical cord and the tree of life and all that. W-O-W. Beautiful. After that, she cleaned me up (no tears therefore no stitches), they brought Nico in, and he latched immediately onto the breast and has been a fierce nurser ever since. My milk came in super fast (I guess b/c I just finished nursing Alexandra 13 months ago?), and he's a happy guy.

There is something so deeply human about birthing a person. I can't explain it, but I have been in such awe of my body, of women, and of midwives the past two days. I feel so lucky to have had to unmedicated, uncomplicated (for the most part) births which is what I had wanted since I did research on midwives and midwifery in undergrad for an anthropology class. I feel so thankful to have had two healthy kids after two healthy pregnancies. I am so blissed out it's ridiculous.

Massive love to Stacey, my uber midwife of Clementine Midwifery, to Kat the best non-doula doula around who has the most effective massage hands for labor, and my husband who never doubted that I could birth another 9+ lb baby.

Happy!