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 :)