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!

I'm 36--A Photo Essay

This Thursday, July 8th, I turned 36. Birthdays always give me pause in many ways. This year I felt this crazy sense of accomplishment in that I feel I'm done having kids. I look at my life and am more than often astonished that I have created a family. When the kids go to sleep, I sit around and stare at pictures of them on the fridge and am shocked that in the next room are two living, breathing little babes who came out of my body, were made from Adam and myself, and who are our children. I wonder if I'll be in awe of this my entire life.

I am also aware that I am getting older. The second kid really took a toll on my pre-baby body in many ways. One crazy way is that my hair is totally different. It's a different color (very brown with an increasing amount of gray) and it has gotten wavy, frizzy, kinda curly. Look that this photo I snapped on my birthday of a hair I pulled out of my head! Me--the girl who had pin straight hair her whole life. Crazy.

But I try to embrace aging. As said in the most recent Margaret Atwood book (one of my fave authors)--if you're not aging, you're dead. Amen sista. Bring on the wrinkles, and let me live to be a healthy, spry, sassy Betty White.

Here are a few pics of the kids. They were unbearably horrid that evening (both crying inconsolably all through daycare pickup) until Alexandra put on Michael Jackson's Greatest Hits album and her and Nico both starting dancing (Nico in the high chair) and we all got happy, ate cake, and put them promptly to bed.


Is he not the cutest thing? Kills me.



Alexandra sang to me. Tried to sing, "Are you 1? Are you 2?" but I had her skip and start at 30 instead. Or else we'd still be singing.



Lovely lemon cake. Ate half of it the next day during a dissertation anxiety attack. It was only a 4" cake, but still...

Pretty

It takes a lot to make me feel pretty lately. With boobs that still leak (even though Nico is almost 10 months old), baby food smeared on my legs or my shoulder, a complete lack of time to maintain my eyebrows or shave, there are some days I glance in the mirror after the kids go to bed and am more than slightly appalled at my looks. Then I shrug it off, try not to get depressed about it, and fold laundry while listening to NPR. That's the glamorous life I lead.

But every so often one little thing can make me feel pretty, and this summer the prize for this goes to my Saltwater Sandals. As always, I am a summer or two too late to be wearing these sandals when they were all the rage (my fingers are no longer even close to the pulse of fashion...if they ever were), but I have finally nabbed a pair of these sandals and I am loving them. I got a pair in bright red and they make me feel cute. Red surprisingly goes with a lot of colors, and when I put them on I feel like I have an outfit--even if the rest of my attire is randomly selected, wornI , and covered in baby drool.

Another good thing is these sandals are cheap ($35) and waterproof! Great for daycare pickup in afternoon thunderstorms. I got Alexandra a silver pair and they are sooo cute.

If you have any one thing that makes you feel pretty, clue me in. I'm all about the quick fixes lately.

What is Mister Softee?!

I don't know how, but Alexandra loves ice cream from the ice cream truck. We pass a lovely little local ice cream store/chain (Uncle Louie G's) on our route home from daycare, but she wants ice cream from the truck. Maybe she prefers soft serve--not sure--but each Friday (which is ice cream day) she insists that her ice cream be from the Mister Softee truck that parks right next to the playground. Mister Softee knows how to sell his goods.

I had never eaten ice cream off a Mister Softee truck in my life until I started sharing with her. Mister Softee was not the ice cream truck of my youth. Ours was a Good Humor truck and it sold pre-packaged ice cream delights such as ice cream sandwiches, push-ups, rocket pops, snow cones, etc. But here in New York Mister Softee has those treats as well as soft serve in chocolate and vanilla.

What goes into Mr. Softee? As someone who buys organic fruits/veggies, free range meat, organic milk and eggs, etc, I wondered, but then I decided ignorance is bliss. I mean, I can't control everything that my kids put in their bodies. Some things you have to let go, right? I thought I was so zen about it...until tonight.

Alexandra got her cone this afternoon and we came home to pack for our week in CT at the beach with Adam's family. Alexandra wanted her cone put into a bowl, got distracted and didn't finish it, and when I went to wash the bowl HOURS later that "ice cream" had not melted. It was a tad watery, but for the most part it retained its full form = a soft-serve serving. Then I put the bowl in the sink, with water in it, and it STILL DID NOT MELT/DISSOLVE. What the f*ck is it? Chemical? Alien?

I was grossed out, horrified, and seriously disturbed. It took raging hot water at full forge and a couple of prods of my fingers to make it dissolve. Goodbye Mr. Softee. Not sure how I'll break it to my daughter that our brief friendship is over, but man...What the heck are you?

Go Go Ghana!

In 1998 I traveled to West Africa with a group of middle school/high school students. I went along as their photography and writing teacher; I coached them to take photographs and do subsequent writing on the photos once we got back to North Carolina. The kids were there for two weeks, but I stayed for two additional months and poked around Ghana, Cote d'Ivoire, and Burkina Faso by myself. As you can imagine, I learned a lot about myself, about Africa, and about travel during that summer. But the one thing I was really schooled on was the World Cup.

In these small African countries, soccer and the World Cup were the sun and the people revolved around the games. Small black and white TVs were dragged into public spaces using extension cords that could reach a city block, and dozens of folks would gather around these televisions to watch the games. People held babies up to see, they were deathly silent during crucial moments, they cheered rabidly when any African team scored a goal, they welcomed me into their soccer fanaticism as I watched my first World Cup games. The World Cup is the only sporting event that I get excited about. Yes, the sexy factor of the players does help, but I mainly think back to my time in West Africa and their passion for the sport.

Immediately after 9/11, there was a piece on NPR by a guy who had been traveling in the Middle East and Egypt the summer of 2001 with his two elementary-aged kids. They were back state-side when the events of September 11th transpired, but he had an interesting perspective on it: Having had visited these Middle Eastern countries weeks before 9/11, WITH their kids, they had made many real life connections with people and didn't have that gut-reaction "THOSE people are horrible" sentiment that many Americans had. He emphasized that their connections while traveling were exclusively because they had their children with them and, also important, that their children played soccer. He explained how soccer was a universal, global language and that wherever they went his kids could go play soccer with other local kids, opening the door to friendly conversation and exchanges between him & his wife with other adults. His kids and their soccer skills were their gateway into a culture very different from their own.

My own travels and this story have resonated in me for years. You can bet that Alexandra and Nico will both play soccer (it's also helpful that Adam was a big soccer player as was his sister) and we will travel internationally with them.

But until we have some cash flow to do that (and they can carry their own bags!), I'll continue to pull for the African teams in the World Cup. Go Ghana!

Really?

Nothing says white trash to me more than diapers made to look like Daisy Dukes. But, according to Marketplace on NPR last night, these diapers are flying off the shelf, regardless of the fact that they cost much more than a normal pack of diapers.

The world is full of STRANGE people.