Lead! Lead in Toys!

Breaking News: Some toys made in China are being recalled for containing lead paint!

Wait, what? You already knew about that? That's so weird because the New York Times only ran a story on it yesterday.

Oh wait, I knew what I wanted to say. Let me start over.

Breaking News: I'm quoted in an article in the New York Times about toys in China being recalled for lead paint!

Not because I'm an expert--more like because I'm your average dolt who thinks that if you buy toys with a European brand name that they must be made in Europe. Duh.

It's a nice piece about how confused we all are about this stuff, and possibly the first time ever I haven't been misquoted. And savvy blog readers will recognize quotes from fellow online navel-gazers, Danielle of Food Momiac, Beth of Silicon Valley Moms and Tech Mamas, and a photo of the elusive Greg from Daddy Types who knows exactly which toys are made in Europe because he's a big old know-it-all that way. Also AJ of Thingamamababy is in a related piece talking about testing his own lead, dammit.

The craziest thing is that we spent more than an hour in the toy aisles of Target and couldn't find one toy that wasn't made in China. Not a single one. One more reason to shop indie perhaps?

And no, I didn't buy Thalia that pink plastic Barbie guitar she's looking at in the picture. But I did buy her the made-in-China horse. I'm a pushover.

Clooney Watch, Day 3

Yesterday, as I'm told (because I was working, dagnammit), fellow Brooklyn neighbors strolled up and down our street with their dogs or strollers, pretending like this is what they do all day every day, hoping for just a quick glimpse of The Clooney or The Pitt. Oops forgot something at the store. Again. Old ladies stood armed with cameras for hours. Our ordinarily lazy doorman got up from behind his desk several times (a first!) to peek out the door. Casual elevator conversations began with, "So, any sightings?"

Total sightings according to my very scientific survey: 0

Which is amazing considering the sheer effort which people are putting into this celebrity stalking business.

And then, last night in midtown Manhattan, a few miles from our home, guess who Nate just happened to run into as he was leaving work.

Did Nate solicit George for sex for me? No.

Some partner.


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Edited to add: Thalia just ran in telling me what Daddy taught her to say in case she runs into George:

Sign my boobs.

Mom101 Goes All Wanton On You

Everyone in NYC knows what it means when signs like this start appearing along your block.


Already scarce parking replaced by orange cones. Enormous wardrobe trailers blocking the sunlight. Craft service tables taunting you with cookies you can smell but not touch. PAs with unfortunate facial hair acting self-important while you try to maneuver a stroller over a tangle of industrial electrical cords. Maybe there's a decent enough star sighting, like Heather Locklear. Or Ted McGinley. Or, Hey That Guy From That Movie, You Know With That Other Guy About That Thing? (Man, he's in every movie!)

Film shoots around here are about 10% excitement 90% annoyance.

We're a jaded bunch.

But then, every so often, something compels you to actually read the sign and maybe check IMDB for info about the name of the production. In this case, something called "Burn After Reading."

Um, holy shit.

Coen Brothers. George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Frances McDormand. John Turturro. Tilda Swinton.

On my block.

ON MY BLOCK.

And where am I?

Not on my block.

I am working.

George, please, hear me now: I'll be home by 6:30. And I just need one hour with you. Just one. I know you broke your rib this week. So I promise to be gentle. And you have a girlfriend. And she's hot and I'm kind of not these days. And we probably have nothing in common except that I want to have the sex with you and I sense that you like the sex.

So let's just make it a half hour.

Ten minutes?

Maybe I need Bossy to make a video for me.

The Battle of the Bottles. (Or Bottle of the Battles?)

Blogging world: I love you more than Kit Kats I love you more than I loved Nicolas Cage in Valley Girl when I was 14. I love you more than I love Flavor of Love Girls: Charm School Starring Mo'Nique, and that's saying something.

Close to 100 wise moms and new favorite people have chimed in with their supportive tales of bottle woe and bizarre but effective feeding techniques. I'm glad now that I've narrowed down the solutions to either definitely give Sage formula or definitely give her breast milk or a combination of both, possibly with brandy (Thanks Mrs. Q). And I should definitely feed her myself or otherwise someone else should definitely feed her. And it should definitely be done while she's cradled very very close. Or held at arm's length. Or placed in a bouncy chair while I sit behind her with my hands wrapped in blankets. Definitely.

Also, the nature of the issue can be pinpointed to either my breast milk, the temperature, the bottle, the nipple, the feeding technique, her digestive system, her age, the smell of my clothes, or as Phoenix understands, Sage's birth sign.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way.

I have read every one of your bottle suggestions, taken notes, and even sent my mother off to the dreaded Big Baby Stuff Store while I worked last week to procure "one of each."

So far the oddsmakers in Vegas are giving the Playtex whatsitcalled with the condoms inside, 2:1 odds as the favored bottle. Sage latched right onto the nipple which feels so remarkably breast-like that I'm sure Bill Maher would get off on it, even if he did complain if I whipped one out at Applebees. She only took about a half an ounce but that's a start.

But there may be two dark horses in the race. Thanks to the very progressive VDog and Anniemom and Dee and for recomending the non toxin-leaching adiri nurser. If it's not genius marketing to call it a nurser instead of a bottle, I don't know what is. And then Laura, Blog Antagonist, Crunchy Domestic Goddess and Bub and Pie suggested the Breastbottle. Seriously, have you seen these things? They could get you thrown off a Delta flight for sure. I'm going to try both.

And if all else fails, there's always Jaelithe's fantasy solution:

Male lactation.

It's hard to believe, but I only got one weird lactivist email from an Uber-Boober, oddly presented as "support." And it had lots of CAPITAL LETTERS for emphasis, as in "I delivered at the NUMBER ONE hospital in the nation for breastfeeding."

NUMBER ONE, people!

The gist of her email was that "it's not human nature" for a mother to work a 9-5 job (Ha! If only it were 9-5!) and that I should just try to enjoy this beautiful, beautiful time and not give Sage a bottle or else.

Or else what?

I swear this is what the email said:

-She'll take it out on me when she's 13
-She'll grow up to be a juvenile delinquent with a gun
-Like a kitten separated from its mother too early, she'll pee on my walls.

I wonder how my e-mailer will feel when I make the big "I've weaned, and Sage isn't even 5 years old yet!" announcement.

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Edited to add: I've received a heartfelt apology from my emailer insisting that she was just joking. Apology accepted. Moral of the story: Breastfeeding is hard. Comedy is harder.

Marcel Marceau, RIP

A moment of silence is in order.

If Only My Boobs Were A Little Less Awesome

Here's where I reach out to the blog world. Here's where I confess that I'm drowning in a sea of incompetence and insecurity and exhaustion, the likes of which I haven't seen since...okay, for about two years.

This newborn thing is kicking my ass. The newborn with the toddler with the work with the everything else in my life that needs attention and is suffering thing. So I try to ease up my load by leaving Sage with our nanny/sitter. (Sanny? Nitter?) Which was good idea until Sage decided that nope, not eating from a bottle any more. Used to, but no more. No thanks. Not doing it. No bottles for me and I'll just be holding out for the direct mammary contact, for as long as it takes thankyouverymuch.

I'm trying to see the bright side: My boobs are irresistible.

She's a strong-willed one, this little Taurus. She went 17 hours without eating last week. So what's 8 hours to her while I'm working? What's three hours while mommy goes to a meeting? She could do that with her eyes closed. (Closed and crying as she wails her heartbreaking mommy is neglecting me wail...but you get my drift.)

So once again I'm attached to Sage more often than I believe I am mentally capable of doing. When I'm not stuck to her, I'm horribly guilt-ridden knowing that she's not eating until I get home. When I get home I'm resentful that she will now recommence eating every two hours for the rest of the night and into the morning. (Snotty-ass note to Nate: Sorry, but no, you are not as tired as I am these days.)

I need her on the bottle. I must have her on that bottle.

My sanity is at stake here. So please, please oh brilliant, been there/fed that readers: Give me better solutions for bottle transitions than the scary stuff I've been reading on babycenter, about babies who would only take bottles in the bathtub, or only in the park five miles away, or only from wacky Aunt LouLou with the wandering eye, or who NEVER TOOK BOTTLES EVER UNTIL THE MOTHER WENT BATSHIT CRAZY AND KILLED SOMEONE.

I'm getting to the point where I don't even care what the bottles are made of. If she's not sucking on some damn silicone soon so I can get an occasional break I'm going to lose it.

[help?]

Die Yuppie Scum

Nothing makes you feel quite like a yuppie douchebag so much as opening your fridge for your nanny and realizing you have 28 assorted condiments with names like Pear Rum Butter and Three Citrus Chutney. Also, more than one kind of pesto.

The adjustment to childcare has been hard in this and other unexpected ways.

(As well it should be. If it weren't, we'd all be worried, right?)

I'm still learning how to get in the habit of cleaning up for her at night so there's no mad rush to do dishes and wipe down counters at 7 am. I'm coming to terms with the idea that there's a new relationship in Thalia's life, and that there's someone new who can say things like "one more bite of your sandwich" and she obeys. I'm acutely aware now of Thalia's routines and our rules for her, since we're now forced to articulate them instead of just parenting on instinct.

And of course there's the ultimate challenge of not seeing Thalia for four straight days--especially after two years of more or less working from home. Clearly Thalia's adjusting to this change too: Saturday she had enough pent-up frustration about her new routine that instead of throwing her arms around me when I arrived to pick her up at my mother's house, she said, "No kiss mommy. Throw away."

"Throw away what, sweetie?"

"Throw away mommy."

Ouch.

I'm trying not to stress about it too much. This too shall pass, as the wise people say.

The one challenge, however, that I never expected with regards to having a nanny is simply saying I have a nanny. I mean is there one phrase that begins with "My nanny..." that doesn't make you want to punch someone in the teeth?

I'm hyper-sensitive to how it might make me appear, for some reason. (And in fact, I'm really glad that no one made any snotty comments on my first nanny post a few weeks ago, as my old buddy Gray-Matter pointed out. I suppose you just never know when you're going to be lynched online for some innocuous comment like oh I have a nanny, or oh my Prada shoes are killing me, or oh if I have to spend one more dinner at Soho House listening to Brad vent about Angelina's sudden weight loss, I'll simply diiiiiiiiiie. Or maybe just too much time spent on barbarous message boards has made me skittish.)

But still, saying "I have a nanny" (ugh) or "My nanny said..." (eek) or "So when Thalia's nanny called..." (ack! ack! ack!) makes me squirm a bit. Okay, a lot. It makes me feel like One Of Those Moms. And I'm so not, I swear,

I swear!

Remember, I'm the mom who doesn't wash the pacifiers?

But I can see what a slippery slope it is once you have help.

Eventually I'll stop feeling guilty about having childcare. Then I actually start enjoying it - on the slow work days I head out for a little pedicure, maybe catch a movie or hit the latest exhibit at the Whitney. Or hey, as long as I have my mornings free before LA work hours kick in, I'll start going to the gym. What the heck right? The next thing you know, I'm losing weight, my abs are flattening, my triceps are toned and I can almost pass for a post-postpartum human again. Which can only mean one thing: Shopping spree at Barney's. A haircut to match. Some overpriced newfangled hair straightening technique. Did I mention tanning...?

Suddenly--holy crap--I'm that skinny mom in the nice clothes who spends her mornings at the gym and her afternoons shopping while the nanny takes the kids to the pediatrician. God help me.

Maybe I should just stick to worrying about the Pear Rum Butter.

Inhale Deeply and Behold That New Website Smell

Interesting things happened while you all slept last night. Or, I should say, while the new moms among us napped in short 2 hour spurts between feedings.

Cool Mom Picks looks different. Prettier.

Bluer.



What started early last year as a grassroots way for Kristen and me to promote a lot of the indie mom-run shops and cool handmade kids' clothes we were finding around the web has grown into (gulp) a business of sorts. And we thought it was time to give it a little kick in the CSS.

(Ha! That's tech nerd humor for you. I don't even know what it means so don't ask me. I'm hoping it has something to do with the colors of the blog.)

Click over and see the stunning beautiousness courtesy of unfairly brilliant designer Laurie Smithwick, who's also the clever voice of Upside Up and one of the sk*rt ringleaders. The woman does not sleep. I now know this for a fact.

While you're there, enter one of our daily giveaways. Today it's a rockin' handmade tee shirt. Tomorrow it's some killer jewelry. Tuesday it's an entire hand knit merino layette that, seriously? I'm almost crying that I can't keep it myself. Also, if you post a yummy (So yummy, so yummy.) back to school shopping guide button for your website, and we'll enter you to win a $200 gift certificate to The Silly Wagon. Details are here.

Okay so I'm done gushing. And promoting. And gushing. Now go win something, will ya?

Mom101 Reader Appreciation Day

And this is why bloggers are cool:

You talk me down when I'm having a cruel day.
(Post script: I'm sensing that perhaps the freak-out, dire emergency, oh my God you must get home now now NOW call was more a factor of Nate's anxiety at being left alone with Sage than any real misery on Sage's part. She is fine. Nate might have to be hurt though.)

You flood me with kind birthday wishes and say way nice things about my Grandma.

You forgive me for not having reciprocated for the past week while I've been stuck with no internet connection and no time to read blogs, what with the job and the kid and the travel and the job and the other kid and the job.

You send me emails that make me make me think, make me smile, make me feel I'm not alone, make me laugh--especially the one I got from Jenny from mamadrama (edited to add: also The Bloggess) this week:

The whole time I was at blogher I kept thinking "God, she looks
like some famous movie star but I just can't place who. Who does she look like?!" Then finally on the flight home it came to me...you look just like Isabella Soprano, the adult film actress... I swear to God this is a compliment. Don't hate me.

And then she sent me this:

Jenny, I don't hate you. I love you. I've never been so pleased to be called a whore. In fact, I want to perform fellatio on you right now and film it.

Reader appreciation day indeed.

That's What Happens.

This morning I woke up exactly as the clock turned to 5 am. The alarm wasn't set to go off until 6. That's what happens.

I skulked around in the dark looking for my lost sunglasses (never found), pumped a final bottle of milk (hate that), grabbed my suitcase and my laptop, then tearily kissed my children goodbye at 7:15 am sharp. My first night away from Sage.

I headed to the airport feeling that brutal, familiar combination of guilt about leaving, anxiety about the meeting, and happiness at having one solid night to myself. One solid night to have a steak dinner with coworkers, many cocktails, then maybe some mindless TV watching (A movie? A whole movie? Quite possibly!) in my room before falling into what would hopefully be my first uninterrupted night of sleep in close to a year. I could see the sleep. I could taste the sleep.

And then I felt so happy about it that I felt guilt about the happiness.

That's what happens.

My plane landed, I trudged through the Florida humidity to a cab, I checked into my hotel, flopped down for a full five minutes on the bed, and then rushed out for The Big Meeting.

In the cab, I got the call.

"Sage isn't eating."

"What do you mean she's not eating?"

"She hasn't eaten since you left this morning."

I did the math in my head - 8 hours. 8 hours and the baby who nurses every two hours hadn't eaten anything. She hadn't slept either.

During The Big Meeting I got the IM.

"She's eating! Yay!"

A half hour later I got the IM.

"She's not eating."

And so back to the hotel I went, grabbed the yet unpacked suitcase off the yet unslept on bed, glanced at the unturned on television and the unplundered minibar and headed straight back to the airport. Feeling like the bad mother who left her baby who won't eat or sleep. Feeling like the bad employee who can't stay for dinner. Feeling generally...what's that expression? Oh yeah, like shit.

That's what happens.

There is an internet connection now at least, in the terminal otherwise devoid of amenities like food (guess it's Ritz Bits for dinner tonight) and cocktails (argh). Also, the carpet reeks of dog urine. So here I sit.

And I wait. (And I try not to cry.) And I wait. (And I try not to breathe in through my nose.) And I wait. (And these Ritz Bits taste like absolute crap so I'm going to switch to the Twix.)

And I wait for the last flight home.

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This is What 39 Looks Like

Today is my birthday. 39.

Real 39 though, not that "39" that people say when they're really 40.

Overall I have no problem being 39, except maybe when Nate, who's eight years younger and thinks he's 16 (see also: Guitar Hero) says things like "um...maybe you shouldn't be wearing that skirt that's one inch above your knees."

Like I'm 70.

Like I'm dead.

So far I must say that 39 is not so bad, you young'ns out there who fear the bigger numbers. I'm liking it so much, I might just try it again next year. We'll see.

As you can imagine, this is a tough birthday to have, especially in New York City. I elaborated on this last year and I don't want to rehash it too much again. But for the last six years, it's been hard to celebrate unabashedly when your birthday is at best a silver lining. I don't want my birthday to be the silver lining. I want it to be the big fluffy white cloud with the rainbow behind it and the unicorn prancing overhead. Okay, so maybe I stole that image off a satin pillow I owned in 7th grade. Better that than the glittery t-shirt I owned at the same time that said tender sweet young thing. I don't care for my birthday to be about tender sweet young thing, unless it's describing a rack of lamb that I am eating over herbed risotto, with a bottomless bottle of Montrachet.

While there's a lot of stuff to mourn today, in ways it helps to shed light on a lot of stuff I have to be grateful for as I round out my fourth decade on this planet.

High on the list:

This is what 39 looks like, with one arm wrapped around what 89 1/2 looks like.

I'll take it.

Catching up In Spite of the Maroon and Gold

No internet for four days is enough to kill a gal. It's a building-wide issue, or I'd have happily commandeered a neighbor's apartment, deeming it a matter of national emergency.

With a possible four more days of this hell on earth, I gave up on the hourly jaunts to Starbucks for wifi, grabbed the kids last night, and headed into Manhattan, holing up in a secret undisclosed location with internet signal a-plenty. Meaning now I only have like 172 or so emails to catch up on, 600 million blogs to read, and 90 posts rattling around in my head--including a Plastics for Dummies (Like Me) Resource Guide based on last week's post about potential baby bottle hazards and all your stellar recommendations. Keep the links coming and I'll include them fo sho.

This all wouldn't be quite so bad if it weren't mid-September.

In other words, as of yesterday, I am a football widow.

You might think I'm immune to the syndrome, me with my fancy NYC address and my expensive shoes and my ability to properly pronounce croissant. But nope, that doesn't stop my sigOth from heading out to "the Redskins bar" (one of several) every Sunday, and coming home either a happy drunk or a grumpy, pass-out-on-the-couch drunk, depending on how well one guy in tight pants threw a little ball to another guy in tight pants.

Oh Sage, if only you knew how close you were to being named Clinton Portis.

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be Cowboys fans.

The Plastic Bubble Has Burst, or Why 7 is the New 666

Okay, I admit it. Plastics are officially freaking me out now.

In many ways I am the laid-back mom, the one who's like, eh, Thalia sticking her fingers in her mouth after riding on the subway will only make her immune system stronger. Besides - hey, maybe there's something healthy on that pole there! Maybe a leftover bit of wheatgrass splattered by an early morning commuter-slash-vegan? A mother can only hope.

I don't give my kids baths daily, I don't freak about letting Thalia eat a few of my Cheetos, and I only blinked three times before speaking when my mother-in-law informed me she took Thalia to McDonald's. But only because there are like 18 better places to get your transfats in our neighborhood.

But all this stuff about plastics? It has me worried.

When I first heard nervous twittering from environmental types (thanks, J. Lisa!) I blew it off. I didn't want to know. Better not to know. Know what? What are you even talking about? I have no idea. How 'bout them Yankees?

But then another friend emailed me a pdf from the California study on plastics in baby bottles and I forced myself to sit down, act like a parent, get over my shit and read the damn thing. You can too: It's here. It's easy to get through, in nice clean type, and doesn't feel at all like homework. Except for maybe a graph or two.

Here's the one paragraph summary as I understand it, without getting all science-y on you: Chemicals linked to heinously heinous diseases and conditions are getting into our bodies through certain plastics, and especially the ones with a little 7 in the recycling triangle stamped on the bottom. Heating these plastics, or repeated washing of them, makes it worse because the plastic starts breaking down.

So what plastics are often heated and washed repeatedly, then go into our kids' mouths?

No.

Yes.

Hello.

(I would mention pacifiers but since we rarely wash ours, I can breathe easier. Phew.)

Five brands of baby bottles were tested to see which were "leaching" toxins, and the highest offenders are Avent and Evenflo, with my fancy schmancy Dr. Brown's falling in the middle along with Gerber, and then Playtex - not as bad.

Now considering Thalia spent the better part of 2 years with a Dr. Brown's bottle between her lips and Sage is about to do the same, I wasn't too happy about this. I didn't race right out for blood tests just yet, but I wasn't happy.

So first step: I stopped washing bottles and plastic sippy cups in the dishwasher driving Nate bonkers. He's still in the fingers in the ear LALALALALA phase of this whole thing. Then I stopped microwaving anything in plastic containers. Then I bought some Sigg bottles which maybe I'll even use one of these days. Good intentions, good intentions.

But then, today.

Today!

Today I go and read the Baby Bargains Book Blog (thanks to Greg at Daddy Types) - and any of you who have ever read that book knows the authors are awesome and conscientious and credible consumer advocates. Well it turns out that the JPMA, that so-called safety group that tells you which cribs could decapitate a limb or what not, is essentially not all as "We love you mommies! We want to protect your kids!" as they say they are. In fact, they're kind of the opposite. Another freaking lobbyist who's out there opposing the proposed ban of those chemicals in baby bottles because eh...could hurt sales.

Who do we trust any more? Who's out there looking out for us? I mean Jesus Christ on a Stoned Wheat Thin (regular sodium), I always assumed the government more or less had our best interests at heart. I really did. But between this and the toy recalls I'm on the verge of turning into one of those conspiracy theorists who think the White House actually has a plan to make us all sick intentionally to help the folks at pharmaceutical companies with their profit margins.

So what do we do about it? How do we get moms like me (you know, the ones--like me--who are like, Eh...plastics. Whatever. Everything is bad for you these days if you read enough, right?) to take their heads out of the very comfy, cozy sand and read the research and stop buying these products? How do we keep our kids relatively safe--not cuckoo bird safe, but just regular old safe.

And no jokes about keeping your kids in plastic bubbles. Because that's probably now bad for them too.

We are a force to be reckoned with, parents who blog! Can we put our Wondertwin rings together and activate?

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Kind, wonderful, informed readers: I appreciate all the URLs you're leaving but sadly my template doesn't. If you could kindly hotlink the url if it's longer than like 4 letters, that would be great - or if you don't know how, email me and I'll post it for you.

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Update 12/23/08 It seems the FDA has finally come around ohhhh... a mere 15 months later. Read: FDA to Reconsider Plastic Bottle Risk in the NY Times

Or Maybe It Was The Time My Boobs Leaked Before a Business Meeting

Nate describes the moment with such detail it makes me squirm.

He took Thalia to a local family resort the weekend I was at the BlogHer conference. There was an enormous water slide which he encouraged her to try (you know...dads), but once they reached the top and he looked down, it was suddenly higher than it had seemed from the ground. As in ginormous. A hundred stories at least. Or maybe three.

"One at a time, sorry" the attendant said up top. No matter how much Nate pleaded (Aw, she's just two...I can't go down with her?) they wouldn't bend the rules. One at a time. So Nate went down the long, twisty slide first, then waited for our skinny, scrawny little wisp of a two year-old at the bottom.

As he watched from the pool, he caught quick glimpses of her when she hit visible bends - she was coming down feet first. Then head first. Then feet first on her belly. Then sideways. She careened back and forth along the slide, right to left, as the fast stream of water propelled her like a little projectile toddler missile. Nate was horribly anxious, envisioning her flying over the side, down to the pavement three stories below. (Or was it five stories? The number does increase a bit with each telling of the story). He couldn't catch a look at her face long enough to know if she was terrified or delighted.

He imagined her crying the whole way down. He imagined her traumatized. Or hurt. Or worse.

"That's when I knew I was a parent," he says.

After Thalia plunged beneath the water of the pool into her dad's outstretched arms, she emerged sputtering and spitting, furiously blinking the chlorine out of her eyes as she struggled to regain her breath.

Her only word: "M-m-m-MOOOOOOORE?"

My daughter the daredevil.

Now after my initial WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING? reaction to the story, I considered the transformation Nate had experienced in that single moment, as he felt the brutal combination of fear, guilt, and overwhelming responsibility for another being. Alone, they were each challenging emotions. But together: "That's when I knew I was a parent."

So where's mine?

Where's my realization?

What's my moment?

I don't know if I have one.

A few possibilities spring to mind: Calling the pediatrician for an appointment and saying hi, this is Thalia's mom. Or calling the pediatrician and saying hi, this is Thalia's mom and she's 2 weeks old and just rolled off our bed.

Maybe it was something more recent, like last week when I let Thalia try on an expensive necklace of mine because even if it broke for some reason, the joy it gave her for thirty seconds would have far more value to me.

Hey wait, I've got it! The first time Thalia called me mama!

If only I had any recollection of it.

Grrr.

Nope, I can't think of that one "that's when I knew..." moment. It just can't be distilled into a single event, a riveting cocktail party story, or a last line for my memoir. Although I wish it could.

Maybe this coming to terms with parenting thing for me has just been a gradual process--a slow burn instead of a quick thwack to the head. (Or maybe there was one of those moments and I was just too tired to remember it, which seems entirely possible these days.) It's just such a bizarre realization, as someone who has always commemorated details of my life with a jotted note, a journal entry, and yes, a blog post.

Wah, I want my moment.

Do you have one? Is this something all parents have? Am I just weird?

I Hope The Battle of the Sexes Will Be Fought With Vacuum Cleaners

Why is it that, when I have one free afternoon, I want to organize the bookshelves, take boxes down to our storage room, do some laundry, clean up the toy box, fold the pile of 8 billion tees crammed into Thalia's dresser drawer, bring that dress to the dry cleaners, wash my bras, exchange some baby gifts, address birth announcements (oops), donate a few bags to Goodwill, toss the expired yogurt, dump the decaying eucalyptus branches, maybe play a little Guitar Hero.

When Nate has one free afternoon, he wants to play Guitar Hero.

I'm sorry Gloria Steinem, I'm failing you again, aren't I.