febrile virus

So Nico has a virus. A febrile virus, characterized by a high fever. 103 yesterday. 102 today. Yesterday, he had a little febrile seizure. I was holding him and putting him down for a nap after having picked him up at daycare early b/c of said fever. I had just motrin-ed him b/c we couldn't get into the doctor until 3:30, and as I was putting him in the crib he started shaking a little and his long legs went straight and he started looking from right to left like he'd suddenly been transported to another planet and had no idea what the eff just happened--it was scary.

Well, it was scary after I realized what it was. While he was doing it I was more like, "Dude! I"m right here! Whatcha lookin' at?" Until I realized later that that'd been a fever-induced seizure. Then I stared at him on the video monitor all last night, afraid something bad would happen. Repeat that vigilance today. And right now, at midnight, video monitor next to me on the couch as entire family sleeps but me.

All day he's been kinda weird and crazy, the way we all feel with a high fever. The last time I had a fever like this was in February of 2008. Alexandra was 8 months old. I had a fever so high I couldn't walk myself to the doctor; Adam had to take me. They just told me it was a virus and gave me some mask to wear while breastfeeding. I laid in bed delirious while our nanny kept Alexandra out of our germ-y apartment all day. The worst part was Kat, my downstairs neighbor, had just had her son Luca, and our floors were so thin they might as well have not existed. Luca kept crying that tiny but powerful newborn wail, and each time he'd cry I'd lactate, but I was too feverish to get up and pump, so then I got clogged ducts in both breasts. Awesome.

But I digress.....

When one of the kids gets sick like this I go into panic mode. There's that horrible part of me that's just waiting for them to evaporate out of our lives like little clouds of steam. They both seem so fragile, still, and so dependent on us. And when there's something like this--a virus--and you can't do anything except wait it out I'm in agony. I don't sleep well, I have dreams of the kids dying. I recall every horror story I have heard of someone losing a child. Suddenly, our entire family seems so delicate...I mean, I guess it's delicate all the time, but at times like this I realize it.

I'm even afraid to post this. But if I post it, it's like Murphy's Law, right, and then nothing bad can happen?

Am I the only mother out there who goes bonkers like this?

THIS, world, is why all our mothers are nuts.

Is it possible...

...to get fat in one weekend?

Swear to god.

I have been so stressed between work and my dissertation that I have actually dropped weight this fall even though my unhealthy self has not set foot in the Y on a regular basis since early August. Yes, you read that correctly: EARLY AUGUST.

But, as bad as it is, stress does work some metabolic magic. So, in spite of my lack of aerobic activity, I'd been feeling kinda slim. I am even back in the 130's--closet to my pre-pregnancy #1 weight that I've ever been.

Well, today I felt fat. Like, my-lovehandles-are-buldging-out-of-my-jeans-that-are-my-"fat"-jeans fat. WTF?

Honestly, I ate a bit more than normal on Thanksgiving, but after that I went on a three day writing hibernation at my friend Amy and James's house (I love them so much) during which I mainly drank copious amounts of tea and ate a few too many cookies, but nothing totally crazy in terms of diet. Yes, I sat on my ass for three days straight staring at a computer screen with no bodily movement minus trips to the bathroom and minor dance parties in their kitchen, but today I feel like I haven't hit the gym since August. Just soft...in all the wrong places.

So, I guess I should start the New Year's Resolutions early. I was going to go to the gym tonight, but Nico got a fever and I had to leave work early and......(you see how well this is going to work?).

Meh.

The Next Wes Craven

As you all know from prior blog posts I used to be obsessed with horror movies, but, ever since I had kids, I can't watch them for some reason. I can't even hear someone talking about them or I lay awake at night envisioning the demon from "Paranormal Activity" dragging some guy out by his pajama pants and it being caught on video tape while Adam snoozes next to me. I can literally work myself up into a full-blown anxiety attack over stupid shit like that. I have issues.

So, the other morning as Alexandra followed me from bedroom to bathroom and back again while I was hurriedly getting ready for work, she started telling me this story and I had to pause and look at her with a "WTF?" look on my face.

Alexandra's story:

The little girl was sleeping in her bed and she heard a noise outside. She went outside to see what it was because it sounded like her daddy talking, but it wasn't her daddy, it was a strange man. He was outside; it wasn't her daddy. But then the noise was coming from a bush and it was birds in the bush making the noise. And the girl went back inside and the strange man stayed in the yard because it was the birds making the noise in the bush...it wasn't her daddy.

(You have to understand that Alexandra has dramatic hand gestures when she tells stories that will rival any old Italian grandmother.)

Okay, what the hell is that? Freakin' scary! She's composing mini-children's horror movies in her small head. Terrifying. Freaky. Absurd.

Thankful for Slips

The past two Thanksgivings I have blogged about the small, random things I am thankful for (those posts are here and here). These small things are the items that make life more sane for me. Of course I am thankful for my health, my beautiful family, and my amazing friends. I am honestly thankful for them everyday. But it's the small things that go unnoticed in the daily grind of work, daycare pick up, my dissertation, & life. I don't have the brain power to think of six things this year, so here's the one thing that has rocked my world recently:

SLIPS!

Oh my god, where have slips been all my life? I haven't worn once since my First Communion (and I still have that slip & dress!), but this fall brought out the rebirth of the slip in my life. I ordered this tshirt a-line dress and when I went to put it on there was just too much VPL for my liking (that's Visible Panty Line for those of you not in the know). I mean, I teach high school kids all day long, and they'll notice your panty line and comment on it to their friends loud enough for you to hear--the joys of my job. So, I tried with dress with a thong. Well, you could TELL I was wearing a thong. That's NO better with the 16-18 crowd. I was at a total loss when I found this old half slip that I have had since the beginning of time and slipped it on (haha) and it was m-a-g-i-c! Not only did it disguise the VPL, but it smoothed down some unwanted baby love that has taken up residence on my ass.

I rocked my little half slip and few times and then I upgraded and got a full body slip. OMG. It's pure poetry. It smooths down the belly flab that's hanging out since the birth of our two kids and the advent of this academic year which has prohibited me from setting foot in a gym. I'm sold.

But I warn you: I got a Spanx slip (just getting a little overzealous on the magic a slip might be able to do for me) and it sucked. It rode up and didn't really pull anything in that drastically. And it was too expensive. So, don't go there. Stick with the old school version.

I am currently obsessed with the new HBO show Boardwalk Empire during which many fancy and pretty slips are featured. That has definitely helped fuel my new love. And, isn't "slip" a great word? It just slides off the tongue. So pretty.

Advice to all of all you mamas out there with evidence of your childbearing years lingering in your lovehandles, you belly, your derriere, or your extended derriere I highly recommend a good slip. They're not your grandmother's underwear anymore.

(Above image is a "Freudian slip"--couldn't resist.)

Outta Here

I just wanted for formally announce that I'm outta here. Where? The public school classroom.

I'm just going to up and go into a completely new sector of employment where I have no formal education, training, or experience. Why? Because I'm a pretty damn superstar teacher and I have shown exemplary success in getting kids who are stubborn, defiant, low-leveled, and downright nasty how to write an essay to pass the New York State Regents Exam, how to act and enjoy a play, and how to analyze literature. I know how to differentiate content, process, and product. I know how to work with multiple learning modalities. I am trained in the new National Core Curriculum Standards. I also know how to deal with a kid who calls me a "Fucking White bitch" in class and I know how to gently talk to a student whose grandmother--who raised him after his dad abandoned the family when he was five--is dying of cancer. I know more about the Bloods and Crips than your average White person; I know the neighborhoods of Brooklyn and how gangs and neighborhoods affect the in's and out's of daily school life. Oh yeah, and I have a Masters in English Education and almost a doctorate in Education. I have eleven years of teaching experience in low-performing urban schools with students who are socio-economically struggling. So, why the hell shouldn't I be able to do anything?! Right?

That seems to be the logic of our mayor, Mr. Michael Bloomberg, who has once again demonstrated that he believes educators are unfit to run the education system.

Bloomberg's appointment of Cathie Black, Hearst Magazines chairwoman, to become the Chancellor the New York City Public Schools is illustrative of how he feels about educators. The New York City Department of Education has over 100,000 employees--classroom teachers, assistant principals, principals, regional employees, city employees--and out of ALL of these individuals who have classroom experience, formal education IN education, and management experience he could not find a single person to fill Klein's position as Chancellor? Forget the City and look outside the system, too. But the problem isn't that there are not qualified people; the problem is that he didn't look for anyone with experience in education.

Like any shamelessly self-promoting zealot, Bloomberg believes that his business model that has effectively made him ridiculously rich is the only model for education. The students are clients. The teachers are worker bees. The administration is middle management. Honestly, I don't take issue with this business-like hierarchy. What I do find problematic is that the new Queen Bee for our educational hive--the largest public school system in the nation--is not an educator, is not trained in education, nor has ever personally experienced life in any public school as a student or a parent. How is that even possible?

Along those lines, I'm going to go run my husband's well-established and respected architecture firm. Sure, I don't know anything about city codes, the politics of developing urban spaces, building budgets, or even how a building gets built from the ground up without falling over, but I manage about 80 students a day and am responsible for the professional development of my 80 fellow co-workers (as their Master Teacher), so, shoot, I'm qualified enough. Right? The same goes for any profession. Maybe I'll skip over architecture (not really enough money) and run an investment firm, or car manufacturing plant, or decide to perform some surgeries at a hospital...The options are endless when your education and experience in no way determine your employment trajectory.

Education needs to be run by educators. Any chancellor needs to have spent time in a classroom. Even if s/he spent five years in a classroom, then got her/his MBA and ran Citibank for 15 years and then returns to education--that's legitimate. But hiring someone from publishing, for god's sake, who has no education experience is ludicrous. And it's disrespectful to those of us who have spent our lives both working in and studying about education, poverty, immigration, curriculum, policy, race, literacy, and the history of education in order to make ourselves better teachers and leaders in schools.

Cathie Black, a reluctant welcome to the jungle to you. May you all prove of us wrong, but somehow I doubt you will.

Apocalypse Now

Last Monday was an evening of note. Besides the fact that I exercised for the first time since the school year began, we had a CRAZY hail storm. It had been lightening throughout my 45 minute spin class and when I came outside the ground was wet, so I figured the storm had passed. But then, out of nowhere (just like the Brooklyn tornado of 2010 a month ago) it was torrentially raining, thundering like death was upon us, and quarter-sized hail started pouring out of the sky.

Adam and I went to the front window to get a better view of the circumstances against the streetlights and it was pure madness. It looked like a river was running down our street and I worried that it would overflow the curb height and seep into our ground floor apt. The ground was pure white with hail. The rain was sideways. Right as we questioned as to if it was tornado #2 and if we should grab the kids and get into the cellar, Alexandra stumbled into the room, woken by the booming thunder. She quickly became fascinated with the hail and Adam opened the window and grabbed her a few pieces. She cross-referenced the hail storm the next morning in her Eyewitness book on weather. Smart girl.

But the hail storm brought me back to my childhood and the time we had a crazy hail storm in Sterling, Virginia and my religious mother thought it was the beginning of the apocalypse. She was on our mustard yellow phone that matched our kitchen appliances, staring out into the backyard with her free arm waving in the air praising Christ and speaking in tongues, praying with a fellow born-again Christian over the phone lines. Christ didn't appear on a cloud that day to whisk them off to heaven and the end of ages did not start, but the hail storm (it was golfball-sized hail and quite impressive) did dent the aluminum siding on all the houses in our suburban subdivision and everyone got vinyl siding after that. Our house went from green to yellow.

I hadn't thought of that hail storm of my childhood and my mother's constant insistence that the Christ was coming back *NOW* lately. Since I lost my religion around the age of 18 most conversations regarding the apocalypse revolve around how I'm going to endure the seven years of trial and tribulation since I no longer believe in Christ as my personal Lord and savior. My last conversation with my mom on this topic was when I was home several years ago and she told me the combination to the garage and where she stashes her mad money and jewelry. She also mentioned that Jim (my step-dad's) grandfather clock was worth a few thousand dollars in case I had to barter with Satan for my life at any point. She was not kidding.

My mom still lives in that state of constant waiting; she fully believes that Christ will come back and she hopes that it will be in her lifetime. I, on the other hand, just enjoy a good display of extreme weather. But, in case the next hail storm is accompanied by a surprise disappearance of all Christian peoples from the planet Earth, someone give me a ring. I have a stash of cash and diamonds awaiting us in NC, along with a badass grandfather clock that I'm sure Satan has his eye on.

Strange Sadness

I'm up at Teachers College today, desperately trying to work on my dissertation revisions that have been hiding in my closet (no lie) since the school year started. I'm sitting in the library, a place I never visit since having two kids, and pretending that I'm an academic when my brain just keeps traipsing into thoughtful digressions wondering what my kids are doing right now with the babysitter we hired for the day because their daycare is closed.

Caffeinated as usual, a trip to the bathroom just hit me and when I walked into the ladies restroom I got this overwhelming sense of sadness like I do every time I have walked into this bathroom since May of 2006. It was in that bathroom that I noticed the blood that had started the day I turned 12 weeks pregnant with our first pregnancy. As I stared at the reddish/brown on my underwear in the middle bathroom stall (I still remember which one it was) that evening, I tried to convince myself that it was okay, but I knew inside that something was very, very wrong.

For some strange reason, that bathroom still makes me super sad. I now have two healthy, beautiful children after two uncomplicated pregnancies and wonderful births, but there is something about walking through that bathroom door that brings back the emotions of fear, loss, and disappointment that that miscarriage brought into my life. It seems silly to feel that sense of longing and loss still, four years later, especially after having had two babies, but for some reason it's still there. And palpable. I don't know why.

My days at Teachers College are hopefully limited. I was told this morning that I'm using my last semester of personal exemption this Fall and that if I don't defend this Spring then I'll have to start paying the ongoing fee to be matriculated but not graduated. That's not going to happen. My days revisiting this bathroom that remind me of my miscarriage are limited, then, too. In some ways it's a sacred space to me, but it's one I'll be happy never to visit again.

Our Big Fat Gay Wedding

We attended our first gay wedding this weekend. This was Alexandra's second wedding this summer, and she looked forward to both Jen & Mary's and Sam & Maddy's with great anticipation. She was excited to wear a dress, to dance, to eat cake, and to go on "vacation" with us and have adventures. All week leading up to the wedding she kept asking, "Are we going to the wedding today?" and making statements like "Jen & Mary are going to be so so so pretty in their dresses!" Never once did it even occur to her that Jen & Mary's desire to marry each other was anything to bat an eyelash about.

There is something so amazing about that innocence and her lack of understanding that many folks do not think that Jen & Mary should have the rights and benefits that come with the legalization of their union. To Alexandra, the fact that our neighbors and friends were in love and wanted to get married was no different than mommy or daddy getting married or from the wedding she attended in August. She just wanted details on the car we were renting to get there, what type of cake there would be, and the color of Jen's dress and Mary's suit (after I explained to her that I had never seen Mary in a dress and that some girls didn't like/want to wear dresses, she easily accepted that Mary would wear a suit). The fact that Jen & Mary are both girls? No big deal.

The wedding was beautiful and, no surprise here, just like every union of two wonderful people that we have ever attended. I cried during their vows, got chills during their super cute choreographed first dance, and saw so many parts of their wedding that I wish we had done (great idea: a big picture frame hung between trees as a "photo booth" for all the guests to go pose in as wedding documentation--brilliant!). We danced until Alexandra started to fade (Nico had passed out in the Ergo despite my booty shaking), and we slowly traipsed back to our hotel room looking at the stars that elude us here in Brooklyn.

We didn't bring any books in from the car, so I told Alexandra a story as she fell asleep. I told her that one day, she'd have a wedding and we would all come. That we would eat cake and dance all night and be happy with all her friends and our friends. I told her that she could marry whomever she wanted and we would support her choices and love her (I decided to save the "as long as s/he isn't a total douche" addendum for later), and that she'd always be our baby girl. As she looked at me with her dark chocolate eyes, I don't think she realized the layers of meaning in my story of her future, but it would be just lovely if some of it would sink in and, in her mind, she would never feel the need to question the validity of Jen & Mary's wedding versus anyone else's.

Nico is One

My baby boy turned one on September 22nd.

The births of my children punctuate the school year. Alexandra's birthday falls on one of my last days of work before summer break; Nico's birthday is nestled into the first three weeks of back to school/work insanity. I guess I could have planned that better, knowing that both of those times are professional moments when I'm pretty stressed out, but the one thing having kids has taught me is that while I am forming the most beautiful and best-laid plans in my head (and often, even in illustrated spreadsheets on paper) their little bodies have plans of their own that will, inevitably, overthrow my plans in a skinny minute. But that's not always a bad thing.

Nothing speaks more loudly to this than my accidental/surprise pregnancy that produced Nico. When I peed on the stick that told me I was pregnant, I wept. I was NOT happy. When I found out we were having a boy, I was NOT happy. For about half of my pregnancy with him I was feeling nothing in terms of bonding with the baby. Actually, that was probably more than half of my pregnancy. Even when I was in labor, I was wishing Nico would come out as a girl. And while I, of course, took exquisite care of myself and Nico internally while pregnant, I could not help but constantly think about how this child had derailed my plans for my doctorate work, my job, our finances, etc.

And then he came out, and none of that mattered.

As corny as it sounds, the minute I met Nico all those feelings instantly evaporated. I was so happy he was a boy, and I continue to feel that way every minute of every day. I love having a son; it's different than having a daughter in ways I can't even explain that are so beautiful and intense and powerful. Nico's radiant personality and easy going self and infectious smile have made our small hill of debt because of double daycare more than worthwhile. He has brought such a richness and balance to our family that he'd be worth any unforeseen challenge or change we'd have to make b/c of life with 2 kids 2 years apart. I look at him and just think of how lucky we are to have him in our lives.

I still have moments of maternal guilt over the lack of enthusiasm I had for his creation and gestation; I'm not sure I'll ever fully forgive myself for those feelings. But Nico is the best unplanned event in my life, and, in a lot of ways, his arrival showed me that planning isn't always the best way to go.

Brooklyn Tornado

In addition to the total stress of returning to work at a school with a new principal and a new job title for myself, there was a freakin' tornado the first week of work. Yes, you read that correctly--a TORNADO here in Brooklyn. Yep.

It was Thursday, September 9th. I decided to pick the kids up early b/c I had finished at work and was missing them big time. I walked to Alexandra's daycare, got her, and we noticed that the sky was getting stormy looking, but just gray, moving clouds and a breeze. We walked the 12 blocks to Nico's daycare, got a snack along the way, picked up Nico, and headed up our street. We stopped and chatted with Miss Gertrude, the old lady who lives on our block who loves Alexandra and Nico. After catching up for a bit, it started to thunder and lighting right on top of us. Thunder, then lightening, one after the other really fast. I said to Alexandra, "Let's run home so we don't get wet!" and we ran up the street. Me wearing Nico and my backpack, Alexandra and her backpack.

We made it into our apartment just as the rain started. I took Nico out of the Ergo carrier, got our shoes off and we were in the apartment when it really started looking strange out. Thing is, our windows were closed b/c our landlords were having work done on their deck and there had been a lot of dirt/dust blowing into our apt, so I couldn't hear the raging storm outside. But when I looked out the kitchen window upon entering our apartment from the hallway it was pitch black. I said to Alexandra, "Wow, it's really dark out there, let's go see!" (I love a good thunderstorm and so does she) and I picked Nico back up, we ran to her window which faces our backyard, she climbed her radiator to see outside better, and I stood there in shock by what I saw.

Outside was now a pea green color. I couldn't see the apartment building behind us (it's only 60 feet away). Everything was going SIDEWAYS and there were branches, leaves, and dirt just twisting around so fast you couldn't tell what was what. After looking at it transfixed for about half a second, my brain registered a huge "What the f*ck is that?!" and I grabbed Alexandra off the radiator, told her to go to the hallway, grabbed our transistor radio, and shut us out of our apartment into our windowless hallway. Alexandra said, "Mommy, I'm a little scary...."

I tuned the radio to 1010 Wins (the local news radio)--nothing. I tuned to NPR--nothing. WTH? I was pretty sure there was a tornado raging outside my window but nobody was saying anything. I felt like a crazy person. I kept waiting for someone to say something--nothing. After about 5 minutes the doors to the hallway stopped rattling and we ventured back into the apartment. Only then did the radio announce a tornado warning for Brooklyn and Queens. Duh. Thanks for the heads up.

I called my next door neighbor and coworker Jess and she confirmed that she thought it was a tornado. It wasn't until a day later that official weather folks declared, based on their data, that there had been two separate tornados--one in Brooklyn, one in Queens. Brooklyn winds around 95 mph, Queens around 115.

We went for a walk after dinner to see the destroyed neighborhood. Huge beautiful trees (why I love Park Slope) laid all over like corpses. Branches had been ripped off and thrown 30 feet from the tree. Cars smashed. Store windows blown out. One block from our house a Saab was left in the middle of the road after a tree fell both behind it and in front of it--abandoned by the terrified driver. It was like a movie set here.

But the strange thing is that the tornado didn't really touch the ground. Heavy pots still stood on stoops, our yard toys got pushed around by the wind but weren't hanging from the trees. The tornado seemed to dance over the rooftops and treetops, ripping trees and roofs off, but thankfully leaving the ground fairly unscathed all things considered.

While I have a more than shaky relationship with my belief in God, I'm so thankful that for some unknown reason I decided to grab my kids early that day. We walked in the door less than 5 minutes before the tornado hit. Stuff like that just gets you thinking...

First Day. Dammit.

Back to work this week. Got up on Tuesday and Alexandra was particularly peeved with my sense of purpose to the morning, especially that I didn't have time read to her or put her baby's diaper on, or dance with her to Michael Jackson. The world knows I am not, nor have I EVER been, a morning person. My mom says that I used to sleep so late as a baby that she'd come in to make sure I was still breathing (why neither of my children inherited that gene is plain sad). Therefore, when I have to wake early, I am not to be bothered. I am cranky, focused, and my mind is already in the classroom.

So, this week was hard for her As much as I tried to pull myself out of my myopic "Must get to work on time" mode, it wasn't enough for her. And the fact that I leave between 7:15-7:30 (they leave right before 8) got her all upset. Each day I left to her crying for me. As all mothers know--NOT the best way to start a day.

I have been trying to spend more time with her in the evenings to compensate. Nico just stopped his morning nap and only takes an afternoon nap, therefore he's exhausted and in bed by 7, leaving Alexandra to me & daddy for an hour. That's good for her. She's not happy with our new schedule in the morning, as evidenced by this conversation:

Setting: me tucking her into bed.

Alexandra: I missed you this morning, Mommy.
Me: I missed you, too, honey. But Mommy has to go to work now. School started and mommy's a teacher, so I have to go teach.

Pause.

Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: What?
Alexandra: Dammit.
Me: You mean, slam it?
Alexandra: No, I said "dammit" and I mean "dammit."
Me: Goodnight, honey.

Dammit pretty much summarizes how I feel about the summer being over, too, but sheesh. I guess a mommy with a salty mouth = a baby girl with one, too. Crazy thing is, I don't really say "dammit." Go figure.

My Hour of Bliss

This summer has been both lovely and hell. I am so excited to return to work to simply get away from this freakin' computer that I have been glued to all day, every day. I am tired of sitting in a chair all day and look forward to running around rabid at school. This is why teachers need summers, folks.

Of course, not going to work is wonderful in so many ways. I can work out in the morning instead of at night, I can poop in my own bathroom, I can grab small amounts of groceries easily, I can fold laundry without Alexandra around to destroy my piles...They are small things, but they really do improve my quality of life.

But my favorite part of the whole summer has been this routine Adam and I have going. The kids have been waking at 5:50/6am, so I'll get up, get Nico's bottle, chat with Alexandra and then, when Adam gets up at 6:15 I hand the kids over, go back into our air conditioned room, turn on the white noise machine, and sleep for one hour.

I don't know why, but that one hour is sleep is pure bliss. It's deep, I dream crazy dreams, and often I have a hard time waking from it. I have been wondering why I sleep so soundly for that hour when I sleep lightly and fitfully most of the night. Is it because I know the kids are up with Adam? Is it pure exhaustion that knocks me out? Who knows....but it's heavenly.

I'll miss that hour when I go back to work next Tuesday. In fact, tomorrow will be my last hour of bliss of the summer b/c our weekends have a different schedule to them. Next week, when I wake at 6am with the kids I'll hop in the shower, have a new aura of stress around me, and will have teaching on my mind.

Goodbye summer and your tiny, beautiful surprises.

Done

Since March of 2006, I have either been pregnant or nursing with a three month break between pregnancy #1 (miscarriage) and Alexandra's pregnancy and a three month break between weaning Alexandra and getting pregnant with Nico.

As of this week, two major things have happened:

1. Nico is fully weaned (although my boobs are still readjusting)
2. Adam had a vasectomy yesterday (although he's still going to be shooting swimmers for about 20 more shots, according to the doctor)

These are monumental steps in my life. Not only am I physically done with childbearing and nursing, but we have also taken a serious step to ensure that we won't have any more kids. There is a teeny, tiny part of me that mourns this. Yesterday I was super emotional about it all. Although the logical me knows the million and one reasons we are stopping at two kids, the emotional side of me is feeling sad, a sick maternal longing for another baby in my belly, the flutters of first feeling it move, the massive kicks that make your skin undulate, the power of giving birth, those first precious moments of meeting your baby, the sweet sucking sounds a newborn makes on your breast....the list goes on.

But we are done. And, once the emotional side of me calms down (I'm also PMS-ing which is no help. God, having your period again SUCKS after being menstruation-free for 20 months), I'm sure I'll find immeasurable relief in knowing that we no longer have to worry about another* surprise pregnancy.

(* Two of our three pregnancies were surprises. We are not model condom users, that's for sure)

(Photo of my last day of pumping breastmilk in the gross teacher's lounge bathroom. I WON'T miss that.)

Spanking

I was spanked. Even writing that seems like an understatement. I was spanked A LOT. As the child of a born again Christian who firmly believed in "spare the rod, spoil the child" and as a willful, smart-mouthed little girl (whom karma has paid me back with an identical one), I got spanked a lot. Also, I had a lying snitch of a sister who framed me for everything. No joke. I got spanked so many times for her lies that it's no wonder we're not really friends today, even just based on years 3-10 of my life. But...

...here I am with children, and I don't spank. I don't believe in it. I feel that hitting a child is a reckless use of power. I'm the adult. I should have control. It's a philosophy that I carry into teaching, too. Sure, call me a "F*cking white b*tch, blah blah blah" but I'm not going to curse at you because I'm the adult.

Right? Great in theory, harder in practice.

I hit Alexandra last week.

She had hit Nico in the face. I was carrying her to timeout in her bedroom, holding her by the arms with her face facing my chest. She was screaming like a banshee and then she lunged at my chest (braless, as it was 7:30 am) and chomped down and bit my left breast. Hard. I was stunned, let go of her, and wollopped her on the right arm. Then I threw her into timeout, shut her door, and ignored her screaming.

Not my best parenting moment.

Yes, it hurt. It hurt a lot as last week I weaned Nico off his morning nursing and my boobs were adjusting back to their normal milkless selves and were particularly tender. But I still should not have hit her. Literally, there was not a second between action and reaction. I felt bad.

When I went into her room after her 3 minutes of timeout, I immediately apologized for hitting her. I said I was sorry, that when she bit me it hurt so bad that I hit her without thinking, but that hitting was not right, which is why she was in timeout in the first place (for hitting Nico). Believe me, the irony of the whole situation was not lost on me.

A friend Denise Galang, who is an amazing poet and teacher, wrote this sonnet about hitting on her blog. I love it.

Friday, May 7, 2010
Striking Sonnet 1

To hit or not to; is there a question?
When she scratches her baby brother’s skull
with her sharpest nail while I breastfeed him?
Spits in my face when I give her a time-out?
Smacks my cheek in the backseat of the car?
Bites my arm at the end of music class?
Throws a magnet at me when I say “Please,
be gentle. Pulling his arm is not nice.”
Don’t know how else to bear this insolence.
A lightning pulse commands my arms to strike:
I drag her off the baby to her room.
I smack her in the face and say, “Don’t hit.”
Then my quake dies down. In the aftermath,
wails, quivering words: “No! You no hitting.”

R.I.P. Miriam Perez

While I loathe all the teaching metaphors that relate to war (the trenches, the battleground, educational ground zero, the troops, etc.), there is something about teaching together that makes people close. The emotional job of teaching is exhausting. We literally raise these students while trying to get them to learn to read, write, and become life long learners; we encourage them to say please/thank you, not to scream "F*ck you" whenever they feel like it, and to have positive and respectful relationships with one another. Anyone who is a parent knows how difficult these goals are with your own children. Now multiply that by 150, subtract the fact that you do have some parental power & unconditional love with your own children, and that equals teaching.

With this in mind, teaching brings people together. I have cried, laughed, listened, talked, whined, worried, and gotten pissed (as in mad and drunk!)with my coworkers. We laugh when our principal says we're family, but we are. I have worked there for NINE years. My coworkers have guided me through engagement, marriage, miscarriage, masters work, doctorate work, the pregnancies and births of my two children, the death of a very close friend, marital conflicts, family issues, and many an existential crisis. I love them dearly--they truly are my family on so many levels.


(my coworkers: (L to R) Causha Vann-Innis, Miriam Perez, Mr. Cuthbert our principal, Akua Henderson-Brown--all these ladies are kick ass English teachers at Cobble Hill)

Which is why I couldn't catch my breath when Thai (whom I have worked with since she was a wee student teacher at our school) called me yesterday afternoon to tell me of the passing of Miriam Perez. Literally. My heart was racing--it was as if my brain could not process the information. I stood in front of Nico's daycare stunned.

Miriam and I have worked together for a long time; I can't remember my life at school without her. She had a dazzling smile, a love for poetry and poetry slams, documentary films (and made awesome Brooklyn tshirts!) and a hearty laugh that could warm a room. Over the years we had gotten closer and my gregarious self began to understand Miriam's more reserved personality. We began to laugh together, share stories of kids and our students, and be friends. I'll miss her presence in 212, our Humanities Teacher's Lounge. I can picture her there so clearly: at the end of the table, eating her healthy lunch and wearing her copper hoop earrings, maybe with her ipod on, trying to catch a moment of peace before teaching again.

I'll never forget the first time I saw Miriam outside of school--eight years ago?--at Prospect Park with a beautiful little girl at her side. Being me, I ran up to them and introduced myself and met her daughter, Afiya. She must have been 8 or 9 years old. She was lanky, had big, curious eyes, and a shy smile. Afiya has come to school many days with Miriam, and we have all be lucky to watch her grow into an amazing, grounded, confident, and intelligent similar-but-of-course-unique version of Miriam. I know Miriam's greatest love and focus in life was Afiya. I can't stop thinking of her and aching for her.

One of the things that has been touching about Miriam's passing is the response from her old students on Facebook. Teaching is such a thankless job; you never really know how the students feel about you until maybe--years later--you get a random email or friend request from a student who tells you how much you changed their lives. Those moments are rare and beautiful. Reading the students' comments about Miriam this morning demonstrated the love they had for her and the importance of her role as their teacher. Some have changed their profile pictures to her face. They are spreading the word and they, too, are shocked, sad, and aching.

Miriam--we all loved you at Cobble Hill, students and teachers alike. Thank you for staying at the school, year after year, amid many upheavals of teachers and administration; thank you for being so constant and consistent in your demeanor amid the craziness of our building; and thank you for being our friend and part of our family. We will all miss you deeply.

(my lovely coworkers at another coworker's wedding: (L to R) my Assistant Principal; Causha Vann-Innis, the bride; Miriam Perez; Katika Moore (we're still waiting for you to come back, Tika!); Thai Sanders; Akua Henderson-Brown. I was 2 weeks post-partum from Alexandra and not sadly there, but I got many texts from all of them during it!)

Happy?

I love both the simplicity and the message of this poster.
Food for thought today!

Sam & Maddy

I have got to post about our vacation before my mind decomposes into all dissertation and work talk.

Our vacation! It was lovely! I was in shock that we did it, made it, and enjoyed it after our first attempt at a vacation in early July, but it worked and restored my faith that we CAN do things with two kids and actually have a good time. In fact, while the idea of vacation has totally changed, in some ways it was even more wonderful to experience all these things with Alexandra, who remembers so much and has a constant running dialogue about all we do. I'm going to start at the end of our vacation and move backwards:

Our last leg of vacation was in New Paltz, New York. I had never been there, but it was gorgeous. Soft mountains, green lush surroundings, the smells....yum. We had an epic 11 hour car ride from Cape Cod to New Paltz which was a challenge, and we arrived in New Paltz in the dark, me driving like a grandma on the windy mountain roads to our rented cabin, but we made it. We walked into the red cabin, got the kids in bed, and I immediately passed out. It was chilly! You can't imagine how wonderful it felt to be a little cold at night.

We were in New Paltz for Sam & Maddy's wedding celebration. Well, they didn't officially get married, but it was a joining of the souls in ways that I found touching, genuine, and simply beautiful in its intentions. They had transformed a retreat center into a wedding venue; it was nestled in the mountainous terrain, fields and woods around it. So beautiful. I never realize how much I am practically starving for nature due to our urban existence until I am plopped in the middle of it.

They officiated their own ceremony with help from their families. The love they had for each other and that their families demonstrated for them was moving. The evening was full of group gatherings--the ceremony, a blessing before dinner, eating, dancing--all orchestrated by Sam & Maddy to bring together everyone they loved. Unlike any wedding I had ever attended, but perfect.

My favorite parts of the night were when Maddy's cousins toasted them and explained how Maddy was the type of person who constantly encouraged you to have a "critical pedagogy." So perfectly on spot! And Maddy's sister then did an interpretative dance/performance toast which was hilarious and heart-warming. I want to marry into Maddy's family!

Alexandra asked about a dozen times, "When are we going to dance?" We have been practicing our dancing each night after dinner for the two weddings we're attending this year. When the band came on she went BONKERS. Too cute. And she loved watching the old hippies (the parent generation) get down in the dance floor. Sometimes she'd stop dancing and just stare. I don't think she'd ever seen adults dance or seen men and women dance closely...You could see her mind taking it all in.

We stayed in colorful little cabins with some friends and the kids ran around wild, eating cherry tomatoes, visiting the two llamas the cabin owners used to mow the grass, and hiking on woodsy trails. Had me wishing we lived in a cabin commune where the kids could just run free and the parents could pop over to each others' houses at will.

We snuck back into the city before the Sunday traffic hit. It was great to get home, mainly for all the baby accoutrements that we enjoy in our apartment, but for about a week I found myself thinking Brooklyn was gross and craving a quieter, greener environment. But now I'm back into my city grind and happy. Although my mind is curious about life outside of New York...Maybe one day.

Congrats and love to you, Sam & Maddy. We look forward to sharing all the next phases of partnership with you both! Bring on those babies (wink, wink)!

(ps: Adam wore an ironic moustache to the wedding in cahoots with Brian. That's why, if you click on the kissing both photo, he looks like a child molester.)

Teenage Dream

My high school boyfriend, Trey, used to make fun of my propensity to determine a successful pop song. Give me any newly released album and I'll inevitably be drawn to the most unoriginal, peppy song that will be loved by the masses. It was true then, and I still love me a good pop song.

Which was why I wasn't surprised but still kinda embarassed when I caught Katy Perry's new song "Teenage Dream" and the video while watching VH1 on the elliptical machine yesterday morning. I watched the video longingly, like it was my past life (Ha--I wish!), but there is something about it that draws me back to my younger years that I tend to over-romanticize in my head.

Maybe it's just me trying to ignore the fact that I have spent another summer mostly staring at my computer (3rd in a row), writing a dissertation, wearing my underwear inside out half the time, and am currently wearing two different flip flops b/c I am too lazy to find the mate to either one. Wishful dreaming of a mythical youth long past...Don't know. But I felt justified when New York Magazine's Approval Matrix (I freakin' love the Approval Matrix) referenced the Katy Perry video as "nostalgic, oddly moving." See! I'm not alone here.

Can't embed the video, so click here to watch it.

Experience Necessary

Blah blah blah money blah blah blah.

I feel like that's been my life lately.

But last Sunday, in our cute little cabin in New Paltz, we listened to a NPR show about how money can make you happy, but it depends on WHAT and HOW you spend it as to how much happiness you experience. Fascinating story, and the same woman from the NPR show is featured in this article in the Times that my friend Julia posted on Facebook last night.

The main point I took away from this article is that you should spend you money on planned experiences and things that bolster human relationships rather than material items (a new couch, for example) because those things foster long term happiness mainly through memories. Such simple words, but so true. Some things you can't put a price on.

For example: The undergraduate debt that I am so close to paying off (I think I have about $3000 left) is mainly from my year abroad in France. That year cost triple or more than a regular year at UNC, but it formed me into the person I am today on so many levels I can and cannot measure. It birthed my love for travel, alone and with others and my love for cities, which led me to NYC and my life today. The friends and memories I have from that year pretty much define my adult life. I'd probably pay $200/month the rest of my life if I had to to have had that experience.

See also Kat & Eric's wedding in Mexico, my solo trip to India post-miscarriage, my summer in West Africa, and even last week's vacation--all of which I/we couldn't really afford to take but did anyways.

For some reason that article provided me with a moment of peace about our life. I'd rather live in an 800 square foot 1 bedroom apartment and have these city experiences and mini-vacations than live in a huge house with a gigantic mortgage and two name-brand cars, even if that means we have no solid long term investments. I hope to look back on my life and see a richness of people and places; I feel we're doing a good job at that right now.

(Photo of fishing net in cochi, india--where I was four years ago this month. How awesome is that?)

Manscaping

We're back from vacay and I'll post about it throughout this week, but I wanted to sneak in a quick post today about manscaping which was bought up hilariously on last week's "Entourage" in a conversation between Vince, Johnny Drama, and Turtle.

FYI: Manscaping is the act of keeping male body hair under control. It could mean a back wax or it could mean trimming/waxing/shaving/maintaining the hair down there. There are various degrees of manscaping, from those who get the BBB wax (balls/back/butt) to those who just go for a trimmy-trim to the various regions of male hair growth. Regardless, as Johnny Drama said, "It's 2010--you've got to manscape."

There are so many male:female double standards in this world, but I stand firm on the belief that men need to manscape. Why must I subject myself to getting my nether-regions waxed by my monosyllabic Russian lady when my partner can grow a chia pet? Why is an errant hair growing out of my armpit disgusting when he can have three inches of armpit hair caked with deodorant clumps? Seriously, world. I may still make 80 something cents to every dollar my husband makes (and that's pretty much true as we compared Social Security statements last night), but if I'm going to groom so is he.

And my opinions were justified by the brief but illuminating discussion on "Entourage" (August 8th episode). I have never really had a fondness for the LA area and its obsession with celebrity, cars, and plastic surgery, but if LA is where it's at for the manscaping movement, then LA, I love you.

Vacation?

In July we went to Black Point, the beach on the Long Island Sound that Adam grew up going to, with Adam's parents. It was a far cry from a vacation.

Alexandra threw about three tantrums a day. The beach was way too hot to go down to during any regular human being hours, there was NO shade, and it was 100 degrees even at the water. The beach house had no AC. Nico would wake at 5am and we couldn't let him cry until 6am b/c it would have woken up the whole house, so we were up at 5am. We had to eat out every night b/c it was too hot to cook, and, for any of you with a tantrum-y toddler and a 10 month old with ninja arms, you know that eating out isn't really much fun. As much as my in-laws were overly gracious, it just was not a good time.

We were thrown. Was THAT a vacation? We called our daycare to see if the kids could come back early, drove home during the night to sleep in our ACed apt, and eagerly tossed them in daycare the next morning. Then we went to brunch, came home and napped, and looked at each other with that, "What the eff have we done to our lives?!" look of parental desperation. Never again, we vowed.

And then our dear friends Brian and Susannah invited us to join them at the Cape this coming week. We honestly thought we'd just say no and staycation: keep the kids in daycare, hit some museums, nap, make out, drink beer with lunch, etc. But then we got sucked back into the idea of leaving town, a geographical shift from the melting city streets, and next thing you know we're going.

Our whirlwind vacation starts in CT, onto Cape Cod, and finishes with a wedding in New Paltz. Wish us luck. I must admit, my expectations aren't too high. If I can have a drink with Susla each night and shoot the sh*t for an hour before we all pass out at 10 (b/c Nico will inevitably wake at 5am, esp w/o his darkening shades) I'm going to call it a good trip.

Back August 15th. I'm sure I'll have much to write about.
(Photo of Alexandra & I at the Cape, 2008)

Mama's Speedball

I'll admit, that I have never done heavy drugs. Some light dabbling in college and in my twenties, but that's about the extent of my drug use. Goody goody two shoes for the most part.

Lately Alexandra has started offering me beer. No, I'm not like Betty Draper on Mad Men with my 3 year old daughter running to the fridge, grabbing a brewski and our pink parrot beer opener (a mother's day present from my friend/coworker/neighbor Jess who must have known of my need for a bottle opener that would be attractive to children), and handing me a cold one as I lounge on our crappy barf-stained couch eating bonbons. Unfortunately we're not at that literal level of play yet.

But whenever she's making pretend drinks at the beach, in the tub, in her kitchen, or with Nico she always runs over to me and either offers me a pretend coffee or a pretend beer. Obviously, that's all she thinks I drink.

And, you know, besides one cup of juice with breakfast and copious amounts of water, that is pretty much all a drink. It's mama's speedball. I get my high off my cup of coffee in the morning and another around 3pm and come down with a beer at night (usually only on weekends and I can barely finish one for those of you about to send me a link to AA). Some folks opt for the original speedball (cocaine then heroin), but I am fully addicted to the mama interpretation of one.

I'm sure I'm not alone in this one.

Alexandra has also said, "When I'm a grown up, I can drink coffee and beer!" Yeah, sweetie--you can. But until then, mama's speedball is only for mama.

Pushing Art

The lovely old school Brooklyn Jewish lady who was our principal's secretary informed me that when you push a baby out of your vag that your husband then has to get you a pushing present. She showed me every piece of jewelry on her hands/wrists/neck and said, "This was baby #1, this was baby #2, this was baby #3" and so on. I wasn't too sure about that, but then I pushed out Alexandra and her 10lbs of huge baby body out and said, "Hell, yeah. Get me a pushing present."

For Alexandra I got pearls (stud earrings and single strand necklace). You can't imagine the jokes that Adam made for weeks about giving me a pearl necklace (get it?), but he finally got over his hilarity and got the goods. I hope to pass the pearls down to Alexandra one day. But with Nico, I have been at a loss. And then I decided: I want a piece of art that Nico can have one day.

After racking my brain, I cyber-stalked an old college friend Casey Burns who made the most amazing rock concert posters for the Cat's Cradle (Chapel Hill's musical epicenter, for those not in the know), and I was thrown to find him still making posters and fully employed by his work. Amazing! He beyond talented, and his stuff is beautiful but kinda macho, too. It reminds me of loud music, and sweaty packed concerts, and hot bass players, and beer breath, and all that testosterone-y stuff that I like about men and loved about undergrad concert going.

And, if I can get a print/poster for my sweet Nico, maybe one day he will grow up and be a rock star or a bad ass artist (or both!) all b/c a Casey Burns print hung over his crib. That'd be pretty cool.

(Spoon poster of of Casey's off his website. Gorgeous, no?)

Goodbye Medela

I just pumped breastmilk for the last time.

I decided it would be the last time b/c nothing came out. Each Medela bottle has some milk spattered inside it, but neither bottle has any real accumulation on the bottom.

And I feel sad. I don't know why, but when I looked at the empty bottles I got this terrible urge to cry. Eyes welled up, the whole deal. Out of nowhere.

Big sigh.

Weaning Woes

I am weaning my sweet Nico. He is 10 1/2 months old now and, according to our pediatrician, can have cow's milk. I just wanted to avoid the whole formula thing b/c I think formula smells gross (there's something about the smell of it that makes me gag), and each time I gave Nico formula his poop turned black and he was super constipated. But the time has come.

Let me say that I am ready to wean. One, I am NOT going to pump breastmilk in the disgusting bathroom of our teacher's lounge ever again. I had to do it for six months with each kid, and it was gross. Two, I am very ready to have my body fully back. I have been pregnant or breastfeeding since February 2006 (this includes my miscarriage) with only two 3 month breaks; I am ready to be done. Lastly, Nico won't really nurse during the day anymore. As much as breasts are much easier to tote around than milk and bottles, he is simply not getting any milk from me during the day b/c he's too interested to everyone else and moving. Did I mention he finally started crawling last week? Yep. The boy is inchworming at lightening speed.

I am gradually stopping pumping. Last week I stopped the 11pm pump. This week I stopped one daytime pump. Next week I'm going to try not to pump during the day. This is all pretty painful. My breasts get full (which is just ironic b/c I was barely producing any milk--why do they feel so full?), it feels like I can't breathe, if Alexandra or Nico bump one of my breasts I want to cry, and I'm depressed. Yep, depressed.

I'm not depressed b/c I'm weaning or that Nico is growing up. I love that baby boy so much and I will miss the intimacy of nursing, but he is such a hugger that I think he'll always cuddle with me. Also, I'm so excited to see him develop into a toddler, then a boy. But I am literally physiologically depressed. My hormones are going bonkers, my thicker, curly hair is all falling out (Cathleen--it's like you said!), and I feel crampy and period-y (Haven't had my period in 19 months--glorious). I'm melancholy for no reason. I'm whiny. I'm bitchy. I'm just fun in female form.

Thank god for the internet to justify my insanity. This is from kellymom.com, the best breastfeeding website in the world:

It's not unusual to feel tearful, sad or mildly depressed after weaning; some moms also experience mood swings. These feelings are usually short-term and should go away in a few weeks. This is caused, in part, by hormonal changes. One of the changes that occurs with weaning is a drop in prolactin levels. Prolactin, the hormone that stimulates milk production, also brings with it a feeling of well-being, calmness and relaxation. The faster the weaning process the more abrupt the shift in hormone levels, and the more likely that you will experience adverse effects.

So please excuse any crazy, blue, or nasty blog posts--it's my hormones. I'm having weaning woes.

(Photo of Alexandra nursing tiny baby right when Nico came home. I wonder if she'll continue to nurse her babies when I'm done?)

No (more) Exit

When I was pregnant with Nico, Alexandra thrilled at pulling me out of bed in the morning. She would approach the side of the bed, inform me that it was time to get up,and I'd moan "Oh, I need help, can you pull me out of bed?" and she'd giggle and grab my hand, helping (?) me hoist my enormousness out of bed. It was supercute.

She still comes in to wake me, and today I asked her to pull me out of bed. I said, "Remember when Nico was in my belly and you would pull me up out of bed?" to which she replied, "Nico was in your belly, but he came out. I was in your belly, too, and I came out. Now EVERYONE (emphasis here) is out of mommy's belly!"

As much as her statement makes my belly sound like a clown car, how true she is. Adam's scheduled for vasectomy on August 31st. Nobody else is exiting this body. Everyone is out of my belly.

An Open Letter...

...to everyone who tells me that I wouldn't be so broke if I didn't live in NYC.

Hi Guys,
Let me preface this by saying that I realize I have been very whiny lately about our finances (or lack thereof). Both Adam and I are continuously appalled that we have such a ridiculous amount of education, are both firmly established in our respective professions, make decent salaries compared to the rest of the nation/world (although they seem somewhat paltry compared to our peers here in the City), and we are broke broke broke. And I'm not talking broke like, "Man, think we're going to have to skip the Opera this year." I'm talking broke like need to budget to buy Adam a new pair of Camper shoes. Yep. But, our biggest monthly expense is daycare, so we take solace in the fact that this financial crisis is finite. Bring on the public schools, baby.

But I am here to clarify the fallibility of everyone's asinine idea that if we left our glorious City we would suddenly have a surplus of money. Let me explain why you are wrong, so you can all stop suggesting that we relocate to NC, CT, Philly, etc.

1. We would have to buy TWO CARS and then insure TWO CARS. We have no car payments now, no car insurance. Yes, renting is a killer when we have to do it, but it's nothing compared to car payments/insurance. Nothing. And multiply that by two. That would be CRAZY.

2. Our rent is wicked cheap here. Believe it or not, our rent is at least $500 less than most of our friends. We live in an awesome neighborhood, our apt is small but the layout is good and it works for now, and if we were to go elsewhere there is NO WAY we'd have rent and/or a mortgage this cheap. So nix that idea.

3. Yes, childcare might be cheaper. I'll give you that. Right now we pay $2600/month for full-time (40 hours/week) childcare for both kids, Nico's childcare includes his food/milk for the day and music class once a week. Alexandra's childcare does not include food, but she gets yoga class, music class, and Spanish and Italian classes very week. Some say if we moved near family they could watch the kids. Nah. Neither family would take on full-time daycare of our kids, and I can't blame them--it's beyond exhausting. I can barely do it, why would I expect someone twice my age to?

And, adding this later here, do y'all know how much teachers make in the Southern states? JACKSH*T. So if I were to move South and teach, my salary would be less than half of what it is now. With no union. No thank you. Don't even mention academic jobs. There aren't any!

4. Our college loan payments, a nice chunk of our income each month, would not disappear if we left New York. Those suckers will follow us forever until 2017. Again, a finite expense--only 7 more years to go!

So all of you who keep hinting or demanding that our financial struggles are because we live in NYC, you are wrong. They are due to childcare costs and college loans, two variables we can't change right now. Believe me. Adam and I have examined this closely. Multiple times. We appreciate your concern, but your solution is not a solution. And, honestly, why would we chose to be broke anywhere else but in the greatest city in our country?

Love, Lori

(ps: I imagine this dollar sign is saying, "See you--a bit--in two years when Alexandra goes to kindergarten, and then a bit more in two more years when Nico goes to kindergarten, and then in full in 2017 when you've paid off those graduate degrees!")

Mini Me

I have been getting lots of comments lately that Nico looks like me. I can't explain how happy that makes me. After having Alexandra, who is a mini-Adam, it is strangely justifying to have a child who resembles me. A validation of sorts.

But while Nico is my doppelganger in male form, Alexandra is me in spirit. My mom tells anyone that'll listen the story of me exerting my independence right before kindergarten started. My mom had arranged for a car pool, and when she told me about it I told her, "No, I'm going to walk to school with the big kids. I am going to meet them and walk." And, sure enough, I did. I have never taken a car pool to school in my life. I always walked and arranged my own transportation.

Alexandra is currently obsessed with crossing the street without holding our hands. Of course, there's no way in Hades that is happening anytime soon, but she is obsessed with it. It comes up daily. Right now she's riding her new scooter (thanks grandma and grandpa!) to daycare daily. When we cross the street on the walk home, I use one hand to push Nico's stroller, one hand to hold one handle of the scooter, and she holds the other scooter handle (the scooter in between us). She thinks she is all grown doing this and beams at me while we inch across the crosswalk.

Last Friday, as we shared a mango Italian ice, she said:

"If I eat all this icee, I'll grow up and be big and I can cross the street all by myself. And I'll walk to daycare all by myself. And then, I'll go home from daycare all by myself and I'll pick up Nico and bring him home."

I just had to look at her and smile. Miss Independent already.

And, oh how I wish she could just stroll home from daycare AND grab Nico on the way!

NYC sometimes sucks

There are some things in this city that just plain suck. Example A: the NYC Office of Vital Records.

There were TWO mistakes on Nico's birth certificate. They listed my birth city as Washington, CA (instead of Washington, DC) and they made Adam's birth year 1974 when it's 1975 (yep, he's a year younger than me. meow!). Not big things, but I figured they needed to be corrected. We sent in the corrections forms in October. They came back b/c Adam had not signed the photocopy of his driver's license. Ugh. Sent them back in January. Still NO birth certificate.

So, I decided to get on it this summer. Called July 1st. Said they'd call back after looking into it. Of course, that didn't happen. Called yesterday. Estimated wait time was 48 minutes. Eff that. Called this morning. Estimated wait time 11 minutes. Got a woman on the line, she put me on hold for about 4 minutes after I told her my situation, and then she hung up on me! Dammit! Just called back. Estimated wait time is now 60 minutes. Mother effers.

Nico has not had a birth certificate since he was born. We have a xeroxed copy of his original, but that a cup of coffee won't get you anything. Guess I'll have to go down there and stand in line. Cheese is Christ.

Found this link appropriate today. I'm going to be sure to take a photo of the Dept of Vital Records with my long middle finger in front of it when my sorry self spends a day in line there.

And seriously, cabbies, could you NOT go to BP at this particular moment in history, please?

Bummed

Just found out that the playground that we go to about 5 times a week both to play and for our Farmer's Market (JJ Byrne Playground on 5th Ave) will be under construction from September 2010 until Spring 2012. That. Totally. Blows.

Add that to the public library that's across the street from us that closed in Fall of 2009 and will be closed for two years.

I know both these places need to be renovated, but for the love of my sanity do you have to close both at the same freakin' time? And can't you wait until my kids are no longer so small and go to daycare right en route to the playground? Seriously, once JJ Byrne will reopen exactly when Nico no longer goes to daycare on 5th Ave. Perfect.

Sooooooooooooooooo bummed. If our rent wasn't so ridiculously reasonable I'd seriously consider moving. Ugh.

The Boxing Ring of Motherhood

Motherhood is like boxing, and the mom is the one always getting beat up on. Now I'm not talking about the metaphorical boxing that pregnancy and nursing have on one's body, like the sagging boobs, broken vaginas, and abs that simply refuse to resume their original form. I am talking LITERAL blood and stitches and broken bones, etc.

This first occurred to me at the end of Alexandra's nursing, when she was almost one year old, when one morning while nursing her in bed she stood up and then fell over like a giant tree, her skull coming into direct contact with the bridge of my nose. For those who know me, my nose was broken when I was six-ish by my dad when he threw a softball and my uncoordinated self (or was it is lack of athleticism?) caught it with my nose. Hence the huge a** hump on my already sizable schnoz. Never fixed. So when Alexandra came falling down on me, after the stars cleared and the throbbing in my head slightly subsided, I fantasized of my long overdue nose job but I'm too chicken. I had two lightly blackened eyes after her fall and had to ice my nose all day at work.

Today, again, she struck. I took her to the playground to frolic in the fountain and she was so happy. The mist was blowing off the fountain, she ran over to hug me, I leaned down to kiss her and BAM! She jumped up. My entire lip split open, my eyes welled over with tears, I grabbed my mouth fearing it was going to gush blood (it didn't gush, but did bleed quite a bit) and a super nice dad behind me offered me his frozen water bottle saying, "That sucks...." OUCH. Now I have a half-inch split on the inside of my lip where my teeth cut it in half and my outer lip is pretty swollen on the left size, making me look like a lip plumping gone bad. But it's healing fast. Like strange vampire fast. Go figure.

Motherhood is not for wimps, I tell ya.

(Took a pix of my lip but it was too gross to post)

Miracle

Wowza. I think Alexandra was in time out about five times tonight between the hours of 5 and 7pm. New record? Probably not, but it was exhausting for both of us. She just has no control of herself lately. I was commenting on this to our wonderful daycare teacher as I desperately asked her if four years old was better than three, and she kindly told me that at four they regress back to being babyish. But I thought that was what she was doing now! I guess there is just no way out of this. When folks say they don't know how I teach high school, nah...I don't know how ANYONE teaches early childhood or early elementary. No way, Jose.

I was thinking of the one last great photos of regression--Alexandra demanding to be swaddled what was then Nico's Miracle Blanket. Today, while she was thrashing around having a tantrum I thought a toddler-sized Miracle Blanket might be handy. Too bad that would pretty much be a straight jacket.

But as much as Alexandra is giving me more gray hair by the millisecond, when I look at this photo of her in the Miracle Blanket from the summer of 2007, I get all mushy inside and so full of love that my heart might burst and I mostly forget that she has been acting like a rabid squirrel lately. These children are certainly bewitching; she's still my little miracle.

The Little Things

I am on a mission to get in shape--tired of the "baby fat" lingering when the baby is now 10 months old (!!!!!). So today I went to spin class. There was this skinny, uber hot girl in front of me. She was tan, had on a cute workout outfit that matched well, had cute jewelry on, hair in a pretty bun and I was set to stare at her perfectness for a 45 minute class. I was betting her butt wouldn't even jiggle a tad during sprints.

But then she lifted up her tank top to tuck it into her sportbra (of course, to show off her gorgeous muscular lower back that didn't have an ounce of backfat on it) and her lower back had a HUGE patch of hair on it! HAIR! BLACK HAIR! It looked like it had been waxed and was growing out, but it was gross. And hairy. And suddenly she looked a bit like a transvestite.

Now there's something to be thankful for. I might have a muffin top at present, but it is a naturally hairless one. Praise the Lord and pass that girl some Nair. Nobody's perfect.

Mom of the Year

As I have lamented, Alexandra got the memo that three equals being an emotional roller-coaster of a child. She went through a phase like this around Christmas, too, when she was simply intolerable. It lasted about 4 weeks, and just when I was about to ship her off to live with the gypsies (she actually does have gypsy blood in her, so I figured it would make a small bit of sense) she settled. Right now I am waiting for that settling.

But it is hard. The only solace I get is that my other friends of three year olds are miserable, too. All of them. Misery does love company. It makes me feel like maybe I'm not that bad of a parent after all. I mean, if everyone's kid is freaking out, then it can't be something that I have done, right?

Parenting is one constant question of performance. Some days I am an awesome mom--full of patience, compassion, and the right thing to say. Some days I am not. The other night when Alexandra threw two tantrums at 3am and 4am I was not. Well, I was good then bad then good during tantrum #1, but during tantrum #2 (when she woke Nico up) I was ready to throw her into the backyard until dawn. Thankfully Adam took over, as I had to go nurse Nico.

During tantrum #1 when I was getting her back in bed she said her ear hurt. This was after she said she had to go pee pee (didn't go), that she was hungry (we don't let her eat in the middle of the night), and that she was scared (maybe?). I told her if it still hurt in the morning we'd go to Dr. Gold, our peditrican whom Alexandra adores. I figured she just wanted a lollipop. But the next morning she mentioned going to see Dr. Gold again. And again. So, I figured to appease her I'd take her. I mean, that's what we have health insurance for, right? $15 for lollipops and 1/2 hour playing with the cool toys in the office were a small price for my sanity.

Well, turns out she has a double ear infection. Not one that warrants antibiotics, but two mildly infected ears that would especially cause pain upon laying down. Nothing that motrin can't help (generic, of course, due to the recall), but as Dr. Gold said when she looked over Alexandra's head, her ear ache was "R-E-A-L."

Go, Lori. Although we poo-poo-ed her tantrums the night before as 3-year-old insanity, we at least took her to the doctor. Motrin-ed her up last night and all was peaceful.

(Photo of me "watching" the kids around 6:30am after getting up at 5am. Not too criminal, except that it was on Alexandra's birthday...busted.)

Get Over It

I love my nabe, but every so often the folks here just drive me bonkers with their "Oh, I'm so liberal and loving and that's just wrong!" (gasp, sob, snot) and then they go treat the checkout person at Barnes and Noble like they're chopped liver. I swear, the hypcrocy is out. of. control.

Example 1: A month or so ago a woman posted on Park Slope Parents that their new nanny, who had been employed for four weeks, had been found sleeping on the job five times. When confronted as to why she was sleeping the nanny replied, "I'm bored." The woman posted that she didn't know what to do. I replied to her (and the listserv) to fire that nanny and get one who doesn't sleep/find watching a child a bore. You would have think I told her to sew the nanny's eyelids open--the responses were enraged and accusatory. "I am appalled at your callousness! I find my own children boring! I'm tired." Whatever. Maybe I am callous, but in any other job if you were caught sleeping five times in one month and told your employer you were asleep b/c you were bored, you would be fired. Period. Grow and pair and fire that nanny.

Example 2: The oil spill. I am still in such shock that the oil spill/eruption in the Gulf has provided the world with a platform for whining about the environment without doing anything real about it. The cost of gas has not gone up, SUVs still dominate the road,and nothing has changed. All I have to say to those sitting around whining about the birds and the wetlands is shut the f*ck up if you're whining and you have an SUV which you drive around a city that has excellent public transportation. Seriously. I saw a LandRover the size of a tank in my 'hood yesterday with one person in it. Just plain wrong. Go jump in the Gulf and cover yourself with tarballs. I'm sick of you.

Example 3 (and what sparked this tirade): The geese in Prospect Park. There's been lots of moaning over the mass euthanization of 400 geese in Prospect Park last week. The neighborhood is up in arms over it. But I bet if you compared the folks in Park Slope to say the folks in Brownsville (or any less affluent neighborhood) that people here fly about 100x more (the geese were killed to avoid goose/plane collisions like the plane that landed in the Husdon). I don't want the senseless killing of animals any more than the next guy, but I also don't want my plane to crash b/c of some geese. You can't have it all--nature, an urban environment, and two of the largest airports in the country. Suck it up.

Man, I am pissy today. And I haven't even had my coffee! Guess those two tantrums Alexandra threw at 3am and 4am have already gotten to me. ROAR!

Pro Soccer Players & Three-Year Olds

I decided today, while watching the World Cup final game, that professional soccer players are pretty much the emotional equivalent of a three year old. Alexandra has completely changed since she turned three. I know she has only been three for three weeks and there was some build up to this change, but honestly--on her birthday--she morphed into an emotional, whiny, baby-ish child who is completely intolerable at times because her responses to situations make. no. sense. She is just like a World Cup Soccer Player. Let me illustrate:

1. FALLING & WHINING/CRYING LIKE A BABY: When she was two, Alexandra could take a fall like a professional stuntman. Seriously, she'd have trips and spills that would make the bottom of my feet tingle with fear and she's buck up, brush it off, and walk/run away. But not now. The smallest bump, tumble, or tap elicits a full-blown freak out of tears, snot, and screams. I must kiss the boo-boo and often band-aid it. It's ridiculous.

These soccer players are big ol' babies. I know they're acting to get a foul called on the opposing team, but Jesus Christo guys, you've got shin guards on. If someone kicks your shin, don't lay on the ground moaning like he just ripped your man parts from your body. It is so annoying to watch. Seriously. I fully understand why folks think soccer is a game for punks. They look like three year old crybabies out there.

2. LOOKING TO MOMMY/DADDY/REFEREE TO SEE IF THEY'LL GET IN TROUBLE: As soon as Alexandra does something she's not supposed to do--like rip a toy out of Nico's hands or directly defying me--she'll look over at me to see my response to gauge how she should respond. If I give her the teacher eye of "You're gonna get it" = immediate tears, throwing herself limp onto the ground, and full Oscar-winning hysterics. If I ignore her, she usually does it again later. Yes, it's just another day in paradise around here.

And yet not much has changed when you look at the soccer field. These players do insanely dirty things, and then they look at the ref to see if he saw it, and if he did then they throw a mantrum (man-tantrum) with their arms flailing, teammates holding back their testosterone-y player, and furrowed brows and yelling mouths. If they get away with dirty soccer, they just continue to play dirty soccer.

3. IMMEASURABLE ATTEMPTS TO GET AWAY WITH PLAYING DIRTY: And this leads me to my last point. Alexandra would put Nico in a headlock "hug," cover the couch with wet washcloths, and use yogurt as fingerpaint on the table all day long every day if she could. And she tries and tries again. That girl has the persistence of a worker ant when it comes to pushing the boundaries of what is legal/allowed in the house under the definition of good behavior.

And those soccer players, too. They are relentless when it comes to getting in that shove, kick, head-butt--you name it--on the other team. They are quite sneaky. And mean. It's pretty crazy once you start looking for it because it is always there. It is like they have no impulse control; they just have to be bad if they can.

In conclusion, professional soccer players are pretty much three year olds in the bodies of grown (very sexy) men (with unbelievable quad muscles and who look amazing all sweaty...). As annoying as they are, the World Cup is still my favorite spectator sporting event. Looking forward to those mantrums and dirty playing again in 2014--when I'm 40--holy sh*t!