1.31.2006

New Mom Haiku

My boobs are so huge/Like a hot LA porn star/Alas, I'm just fat

So much useless crap/She will never ever need/Damn you, marketers.

Tell me how on earth/Can I be someone's mom now?/Hell, I did acid!


But enough about me...what do you think of my blog?

Some introductions are in order:

In September 2002, Mom101 was Single Thirty-Something Girl505. The Carrie Bradshaw comparisons not withstanding, I was a freelance copywriter in the big city with a wallet full of Barneys receipts and a spate of hiLARious match.com stories. I was on a much-needed hiatus from my Prada-mandatory advertising job, writing allergy medicine ads to pay the bills, co-authoring a book, and dabbling in improv comedy at UCB theater.

Nate was the cute geeky guy in my Level 3 class--grandpa eyeglasses, spiky hair bleached at the tips, faded tribal armband that he swears he had a full year before it became the tattoo of choice of frat boys everywhere. He overlooked my many failed attempts to be funny on cue, and I overlooked the fact that he was slumming it on Avenue C with three roommates and no health insurance. Also, he was 8 years younger. Also, he stared at my boobs a lot. Nate walked me to a cab one night after a few rounds of after-class mojitos. He watched us pull away up Essex Street when the driver, like a character out of a bad romantic comedy, said with great authority, “he is the one.”

“But he didn’t even kiss me!”

“That,” the driver responded, “is how I know he is the one.”

By February we got a dog. By June we were living in Brooklyn.

On October 10, 2004, a determined sperm collided with a surprisingly fertile egg. Both parents, I am pleased to report, were surprised and delighted. I spent the next nine months morphing from Relatively Cute Skinny Girl to “Dear God, What is That Thing?” (With apologies to William Goldman.) The doctor-ordered bedrest was almost entirely to blame, but I must give a little credit to the batallion of empty navy blue boxes in my trashcan, each dusted with that telltale neon orange powder. And to some degree I think it was a bit of karmic irony: easy conception, tough pregnancy. Pay me now or pay me later.

Mild depression coupled with the standard hormonal dementia managed to transform my pregnancy into a creative black hole. It’s amazing how a former go-getter can spend the better part of nine months doing nothing but researching crib bumpers, comparing diaper rash creams, and trading snark with anonymous strangers on mommy message boards. I’ve got the permanent PowerBook crease in my thighs to prove it.

It was a long, long, 41.5 weeks. But emerging from the haze I realized I was no longer Single Thirty-Something Girl505. I knew the difference between Weissbluth and Ferber! I had credentials!

Nate wanted to name her Gibson, for Joe, the coach of the Washington Redskins. We agreed on Thalia, for the Greek Muse of comedy.

She was born on July 6, six perfect pounds, eleven perfect ounces. I’m in love. But I would like her to sleep a little more.


1.30.2006

Mom-101

As my mother always said every time I yelled, I hate you or some variation thereof: Well this is your first time being a daughter and this is my first time being a mother. So we'll both just have to feel our way through this together.

I will do my very best to avoid treacly descriptions of the follicle patterns on my daughter's head, or the contents of her diaper at any given moment. Although fair warning, sometimes I might slip up. Remember, I'm new at this.

Good night new friends. May your children be beautiful and your au pairs...not so much.


1.29.2006

The Backstory

My name is Liz. (That’s just enough anonymity to allow me to write freely, but not quite so much that a resourceful googler couldn’t out me in about thirteen seconds.)I’m a writer hailing from the justly maligned world of advertising. I've created some of the commercials you love, and some that I will go to the grave denying any part in. I’ve also written a book. And some short films (sort of). And a painfully bad pregnancy journal with entries like, I just love you already my little girl, and your daddy loves you too and you will be the most-loved girl ever in the world. Because we love you.

I am one of those beyatches who managed to get pregnant on the very first try at 36, when my ovaries had no business being so cooperative. I am grateful, if still a bit shocked.

My partner in clumsy but devoted parenting is Nate, a lapsed Mormon, a lapsed but resurgent comedy writer, a fellow raging-ranting liberal, and the best stay-at-home dad one income can buy. You can read more about us here. We bicker a lot. And we’re totally fun. Hire us for your next party.

When we had Thalia in July of 2005—what can I say—turns out we got the best one. Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m sure your child is just wonderful too. Hey, even second best is still in the 99th percentile.

Now if only I knew what I was doing.

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Updated: Cut to August 2008, Thalia is 3 going on can I borrow the car keys, her sister Sage is 15 months. Oh yes indeed, why I did spawn again! I'm a partner in this here very fine website and contributed to a most excellent book about parenting and have written a whole bunch of parenting columns and essays (and am particularly proud of this one) and continue to hold on tight and muddle through one day at a time.

So does this mean I know what I'm doing now?

Nope. Not really. Not really at all.