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.