Mommybloggings

Lest you think BlogHer was one big Sex and the City weekend, albeit without the sex--and come to think of it, not a whole lotta city--there was more to it.

Yes there were deep conversations and amazing connections and women that I feel fairly confident will remain my friends for a good long time. But while I'd like to say that there were hundreds of fists raised towards the sky in womanly solidarity at every turn, in reality there was a little more divisiveness than I would have liked. Not amongst the "mommybloggers," by the way, who were anything but cliquey or exclusionary; but between the "mommybloggers" and the other women.

Having spent the better part of my life as the twenty/thirty-something single gal, I used to write a lot about the alienation I felt from friends who had spawned, and about the toils of being a non-breeder in a breedercentric world. Singledom is a hard habit to break and as such, I still have a knee-jerk response to allign myself with the one gal in the circle not able to contribute an opinion about the Wiggles or a light little anecdote about mucus plugs. And so, I cringed just a little when a representative from conference sponsor Johnson & Johnson got up on stage and addressed the entire 750 person group about the corporation's relationship with mothers, and their new site for mothers, and helping mothers, and what great mothers we all are, mothers mothers mothers.

As a registration volunteer with the high-powered responsibility of handing out schwag bags, I also had a front seat view of the faces of non-mommybloggers when they dug through and found their PBS Kids calendar and Minti bib. Because only a few years ago, I'd have been one of them. I'd be the one thinking, Bibs? Dude, where's my NOW sticker? Where's my This is What a Feminist Looks Like tee? Where's my damn free pair of Jimmy Choos?

And yet, for all my sensitivity, nearly every time I attempted to strike up a conversation with a stranger on line for the bar or the bathroom or the bar or the other bar, I'd introduce myself and be met with, Ohhhhh...so you're a Mommyblogger. We're talking like nine out of ten times. And this doesn't include the lovely Erica who graciously handed me her last drink ticket to stop me from whining about having to pay for a Yahootini. I found myself backpedaling about the subject matter of my blog more than I found myself connecting with people who I might otherwise have found a lot in common with. And that, as they say, sucks my ass.

While the debate on mommyblogger as a term has hit the blogworld several times since I began Mom-101, I have pretty much stayed out of it. Mostly, because there are so many social factors involved, I haven't adequately been able to articulate my position. But the mild undercurrent of animosity towards the mothers this weekend (and I must be clear here, it wasn't intense; I'm just hypersensitive to divisiveness) and the demeaning use of the term--by other women bloggers no less!--forced me to put down the cocktails for three seconds and figure out exactly what's been bothering me so much about it.

Through the figuring and the thinking and the talking, especially with Catherine, the rock star question asker of the entire conference, I believe I have a theory. (Theory formulation! Critical thinking! See, BlogHer was good for more than just the pasties.)

I have never once called myself a Mommyblogger, not without a heavy dose of irony. I admit in fact to cringing when I hear myself described that way. I tend to say instead, "I have a parenting blog."

And yet, I often feel the need to offer a disclaimer. "I have a parenting blog, but..."

But...it's funny.

But...I can also discuss Bush's heinous disregard for the Kyoto treaty and the potential impact for generations to come.

But...hey, do you like Journey? Wait til you hear my new ringtone!

Saying "while I write about my child, I think really what I do is look at social issues, politics, pop culture, and my own feelings about work and the world through the eyes of a new mother" is a wee bit verbose in most contexts. Mommyblogger it is. Blech.

It's not that blogging about our children is such a horrible thing. I mean, Dooce can make washing a bottle more interesting than most women could make a menage-a-trois with George Clooney and Johnny Depp. But in my opinion, the diminutive, mommy, automatically demeans whatever it is the author has to say. That no matter how many degrees she holds, how many times she uses words like ostensibly and onomatopoeia, she's still writing something trivial.

Or worse, she's a trivial writer.

I would no more refer to Anne Lamott as a mommywriter than I would refer to Zora Neil Hurston as chicklit.

Yet it was Mary Tsao who truly opened my eyes to another point of view when she told me not just that she didn't mind the title, but how she actually likes it. It has given her writing focus, provided career opportunities, created friendships. And then Maritt Ingman, the woman I will now redirect my stalking attentions towards, made the brilliant point in the BlogHer mommyblogging panel that there is not feminism but feminisms.

And suddenly it all clicked.

There isn't mommyblogging, there is mommybloggings.

There are two groups as far as I can see. There are writers who came to blogs as another medium in which to hone their craft. The community of kindred spirits found through blogging is a wonderful and rewarding but altogether unexpected side benefit. These are the women - me included - for whom the term is inherently limiting. It tells men, older parents, the childless, this writing is not for you. And there is no writer who wants to alienate a potential reader before he or she has even read word one.

The second group of mommybloggers are women who came to blogs as a way to find a community of like-minded people and develop more meaningful relationships than those found in a chat room or an online message board. The writing itself was perhaps secondary to the friendships--or maybe it became more important as time went on. For these women, mommyblogging is entirely the opposite of limiting. It's downright freeing. It's a portal to wonderful things, opening far more doors than it closes.

I'm not proposing that we further subdivide the community of parenting blogs, nor do I have a suggestion as to how (or whether at all) to reframe the language. I just want us to start understanding one another just a little bit better.

And, boobs and booze aside, in the end, that's what BlogHer was really all about.

The Rule of Thirty-Sevens

Back when I took improv classes (aka Mom-101 totally not being funny, but on stage. In front of people. People not laughing.) we learned the brilliant Rule of Thirty-Sevens.

The idea is that if you say something that's not that funny, say it again. Then again. Then again. At first you'll annoy people, but by the 37th time, they'll be rolling on the floor.

We took this to heart last night as NerdCon turned into NippleCon.

It all started with Catherine's excellent use of the free pasties yesterday.

(Okay, as an aside here - free pasties. For real. If you had to make a joke about what schwag they'd give out at an all women's conference, wouldn't it be feminine hygiene products and pasties?)

Of course the sheep that the rest of us are all like, we want to wear pasties too, Catherine! We want to be just like you! And so, since retarded seventh grade behavior loves company pretty much even more than misery, we all donned our Nippies: Patch of Freedom and headed out to the cocktail party by the pool.

After all, we're moms. How often do we get to go out wearing our good pasties?

Catherine is a fabulous star.

Liz is a delicate butterfly

The pregnant Kristen is pretty in pink pasties. (It's O'Douls, I promise.)

I'm never washing my right boob again.

The Postpartum Spice Girls: Crampy Spice, Leaky Spice, and Epidural Spice

Meet the BlogHers, or The One Where I Drop Many Names

I remember when the Muppet Movie first came out and Kermit was shown riding a bicycle. It was so funny that no one had ever considered what he would look like mobile.

That's how it's felt meeting all these women so far. They have legs! They can walk! Oh my God, Julie from MotherGoosemouse is walking - how cool! Plus they're all three-dimensional. Nothing at all like the little pixilated photos I've seen on their blogs for months. They even talk and smile and bounce their knees under the table and put pretty polish on their toenails.

Just like real people.

And for real? Everyone is seriously younger and prettier than they look on their blogs. I don't know why I thought that Mir was like 50 but she's this adorable petite young thing.

When I hopped the free shuttle to the Hyatt from the San Jose airport, the first person I met was Roo.



Pretty, pretty Roo, one of the first bloggers I ever discovered. And now she's here! Talking to me, every bit as eloquent and thoughtful as her writing; being nice enough to keep me company after the desk clerk informs us that, um, yeah, we're like four hours early for check-in.

We grabbed a table outside, while I looked for Catherine like a complete loser fan overeagerly stalking a rock star. The delightful Mary Tsao joined, and since pretty much everyone in the whole blogging world seems to know her, the table just sort of grew from there. It was like the student union in college, only without the turf wars with the rich Euro kids at the adjacent tables. Julie showed up (how much do I love Julie?) and it was instantly comfortable, like meeting a long-lost friend.

In fact, the whole weekend so far has seemed rather like attending a highschool reunion with amnesia. You know the people--you just aren't quite sure you could identify them without the nametags

Without further ado I announce the BlogHer (Night 1) Class of 2006:

(NB: This is by no means a comprehensive list of all the awesome people I've met so far. It's just the ones for whom I was able to put my wine glass down long enough to take a picture.)

Mary Tsao, Most Popular.

Catherine, Class Brain, In the requisite dorky "hey, let's take a picture of each other taking a picture" picture.

Asha, Most Likely to Succeed (and to be found giggling in the back with Mom101 through the lectures)

Karen Rani, Class Cleavage

Me, Class Drunken Shinyface
and Julie, Most Likely To Facilitate Drunkeness

Tracey, Class Rebel

Alice, Most Likely to Make me Starstruck and Incapable of Putting Words Together in a Sentence That's Not Quite English

Mir, Most Prolific
Stephania, Class Fashionplate

Izzy, Class Beauty (I mean holy cow, she's GORGEOUS!)

Dawn, Class Clown

Amy, Queen of the World (And not just because she agreed to wear a Mom-1o1 button, although it did help)

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PS: For those bloggers not at blogHer, Shannon at PhatMommy is doing a very cool virtual BlogHer thingie. Check it out! It's just like San Jose but the hangovers are optional and your beds are probably a little more comfortable.

Update

More

Drinks

Than

Food

Ahhhhhhhh...

[pictures to come. of people. and their drinks. more drinks than food.]

B Minus 1 and Counting

I guess it's time to start this Blogging of BlogHer business. I'm going to take a cue from one of my idols, Sweetney, and update whenever the mood strikes. I think it's going to be that kind of weekend. I also assume that to facilitate this, there will be ethernet connections around the dining tables and in the pool and the potted plants, this being a blogging convention and all.

Or, as Nate calls it, NerdCon '06.

This weekend will be full of inside blog references and links and all kinds of stuff that my non-blogging readers will not give a hoot about. Fair warning. I'll try to compensate with many pretty pictures. Maybe even some pictures of boobs. Boobs we will name, just for you, MetroDad.

You can call mine Lucy and Ethel until we think of something better.

Okay, to bed. Lucy and Ethel have to get up at 4:30am for a flight to San Jose.

If you want to find me at BlogHer, look for these glasses which are on my head 24/7. The visually impared can feel around for the bulldog teeth imprints down the arms.

One is Silver and the Other's Gold--or sometimes a Rusty Tarnished Brass that a Dog Peed On

The universe works in mysterious ways.

Or, as you learned if you could get through even a single chapter of the Celestine Prophesy without your eyes bleeding from the horror of James Redfield's writing: There are no coincidences.

Here I am, so excited to go to BlogHer Thursday. I'm thinking about all the great new connections I'm about to make, finally meeting women who have pushed me professionally, comforted me personally, cracked my sometimes self-pitying self daily for the past six months. I'm feeling good about myself, and my new camera which only takes picture of people's asses. (Kidding! Geez.)

And then, an email comes addressed to Mom101.

The sender asks who I am and whether I actually went to the sleepaway camp I once mentioned here. This is the the place where I was able to survive eight consecutive weeks of twelve year-old mean girls and their twelve year-old mean girl shit. Where one particular girl who I've always remembered in great detail--I'll call her Marni--took charge of the alpha tweens and made me the object of their annual summer game, Let's See How Fast We Can Get the New Girl to Go Home.

If I'm not mistaken, there was money on the line.

Yes, I did go there. I remember the camp owners, Tashmoo versus Mohawk color war teams, and mean girls from the South Shore of Long Island. Who are you?

She is Marni's sister.

It was as if all the memories came back and attacked me at once, like so many ninjas in bad action films. Shaving cream in the hair. Cruel songs with my name in it. Rumors spread at the boys' camp across the lake. A chocolate cake shared with everyone but me until finally, at a counselor's insistence, my slice was licked straight up the center by the birthday girl, handed back towards me, and oops, dropped on the cement mess hall floor. Denying a non-Jello dessert to a hungry camper was like denying oxygen to a lung transplant candidate.

I would have been very happy remaining at the gymnastics camp I had attended for four summers. It was my father's dream to send me to a girl's camp where I could learn the finer points of waterskiing and horseback riding and campfire songs about loving each other and staying friends friends friends forever la la la la la.

But I wasn't like my bunkmates. I wasn't rich, I didn't get manicures, I didn't own a pair of Esprit socks in every color. I didn't even like Esprit, the nerve. I prefered to spend time with the few campers from France than the ones from Long Island. I gravitated to arts and crafts and dance, instead of tennis. I still remember the girls were shocked, shocked that I had never wielded a racket before. After all, some of them had grown up with courts in their backyards.

No doubt I projected an outsider vibe--I was only months away from discovering black lipstick. But still, I didn't invite the torment that continues to haunt me, just a little, to this day.

After my brief and pleasant email exchange last night with the sister (who I had always recalled as a lovely girl and funny to boot--two traits I like in a gal), three scenarios occurred to me:

1)Marni would send word through her sister that yes, she remembers me, and no, we weren't the best of friends, while secretly thinking, ugh, that freak? With the frizzy hair? Good lord, she has a blog? I should have suspected as much.
2)Marni would tell her sister horrible things about me which the sister would report back, and all the feelings of twelve-year old inadequacy would fill me again.
3)Marni would send word through her sister that she's felt terrible for more than two decades and would love to apologize. We'd eventually meet for a drink, confess the sins of our youth, laugh about the past, talk about our kids and promise to stay in touch which we never do.

What never occurred to me was 4)

Hi Liz. Ok so Marni says she remembers your name but nothing else.

Nothing else.

Kristen and I discussed the incident and she summed it up in such a funny, astute way, as readers of hers won't be surprised to hear. She said: If I was a bully I'd repress everything else too. Otherwise my guilt would drive me to drink.

While I moved on years ago, for some reason my chest feels just a little lighter today. And it's not that my boobs are smaller either.

Eat it, Sears

Instructions for doing the Mom-1o1 Happy Dance:

1) Jump up and down.

2) Spin around in a circle.

3) Do a lame shoulder wiggly thing, circa Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo

4) Sing, "I got my rooooom back, I got my rooooom back..."

5) Lower your singing to a whisper, "I got my rooooom back, I got my rooooom back..." because the baby? Yeah, she's uh...whatsitcalled, um... SHE'S SLEEEEEEPIIIIIIING!

Dr. Weissbluth, I am your new best friend. I am constructing an altar to you in our bedroom, right now, right at the very spot on the floor where the baby fell out of bed six times.

At the center of said altar will be your book, Happy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child (Just $9.72 and qualifies for free super-saver shipping at Amazon.com). Surrounding your tome will be photos of my smiling, delightful, well-rested baby; a tube of Chanel undereye concealer that I no longer need; the label from the bottle of wine that got me through three (just three!) nights of crying; and a small container of personal lubricant in honor of the Tempurpedic's return to its rightful role as a place where naughty things happen during the night. Naughty things that, in case you couldn't guess, don't include being kicked in the head by a horizontally sleeping baby.

Plus, a running list of the due dates of every pregnant woman I know so I can send her a copy of your book. And some rose petals. Just because that seems kind of like an altary thing.

I don't think sleep training is for everyone. It wasn't even for us for a whole year. So I'm not going to judge those who make other choices--despite some of the less than supportive ways (ahem) that some of them felt free to judge me. And I'm not going to push people into parenting choices they don't feel comfortable with. I've always been of the Do What You Gotta Do school of parenting.

But let me just say this for those people considering letting their sleepless, overtired baby cry for few nights with the hopes of teaching him that he does in fact possess the ability to sleep.

As previous posts of mine have indicated, I'm the last mother who would have thought it possible. I thought Thalia was some magic special child who could see fairies and unicorns and elves, and who just didn't need as much sleep as the other kids. Five or six hours a night, interrupted? That's cool. No naps? No problem. I mean, she smiles a lot so she must be doing fine.

But now? Thalia still smiles non-stop, but it's now a bright, focused smile; not the manic smile of a crazed, sleep-deprived little monkey. She's even. She's rested. She's not traumatized, I'm not traumatized. She's even napping twice a day (which is one to two more times than previously), and not in the car, on a swing, or on her daddy.

Go figure, those fancypants sleep experts actually do possess some level of expertise in the matter.

Oh, and?

SHE'S SLEEEEEEEPIIIIIIIING!

A Brodie Home Companion

Yesterday the nephew was returned to his rightful owners. For three weeks I fed him, I watered him, I did not kill him. I even learned a whole lot in the process about eight-year old boys and how absolutely delightful, frustrating, wonderful, infuriating and charming they can be.

I will miss a great many things about our summer together. Here are just a few.

The Borscht Belt Brodie

What do you call a seesaw with glasses? A seesaw! Get it? Oh wait, I messed it up. Hold on a sec...what do you call...no wait, hold on...

The Existential Brodie:

I want the new Nintendo DS so badly that it's all I can see. See that tree? It's a Nintendo DS. See that fire hydrant? It's a Nintendo DS. See that guy over there? That's Mario.

The Optimistic Brodie:

(pointing to a Rubik's Cube in the toy store)
Ooh, this is the one I want! Although...maybe not. I'll probably solve it in like five minutes and then I'll be bored.

The Analytical Brodie:

Ew, oatmeal bread?

It's not oatmeal bread, sweetie. It's made with oats. That's a whole grain.

I don't like whole grains.

You like Honey Nut Cheerios, what do you think is in that? Whole grains.

Um, I don't think that's true.

The Very 8 Year-Old Brodie:

(to the tune of Row Row Row Your Boat)
Squeeze squeeze squeeze your fart, gently out your butt...

The Inadvertently Hilarious Brodie:

(Pointing to a golf display)
These balls reminds me of my friend Ben.

The "Wait, You Didn't Find Our Bong, Right?" Brodie:

Hey, what if the whole world were made of peanut butter. Would you eat the cat?

The Brilliant Brodie

So Brodie, tell Grandma what you learned while you were here.

George Bush is the worst President ever.

BlogHer? I Hardly Know Her!

For days there's been a big pink elephant in the room and I've sort of ignored it on these here pages.

Its name is BlogHer.

I've avoided posting much about the conference because I'm sensitive to the fact that 90% of you are not going--either you're not really bloggers, you're caught up with other more important obligations like jobs and kids and So You Think You Can Dance, or maybe you're just like thankyouverymuchSOnotinterested. Geek.

But my last post sort of opened the floodgates. So now I feel like for me not to mention all the things on my mind about BlogHer would sort of be disingenuous. I mean, I pretty much say anything else that's on my mind here. I don't worry about whether 90% of you are interested in reading about evangelical ice cream truck drivers or lame LA celebrity sightings or significant others who fart on cue, and I write about that, right?

But still, I don't want anyone feeling bad. I'm soft that way.

So for those of you not going - IT WILL SUCK! BORING! SEMINARS ON HTML PROGRAMMING AND SEARCH ENGINE OPTIMIZATION! RUBBER CHICKEN FOR DINNER! MATTRESSES STUFFED WITH SAWDUST! WATERED-DOWN DRINKS! AN OUTBREAK OF IMPETIGO! SURPRISE ENTERTAINMENT: CARROT TOP!

I give you all permission to check out of here right now, click on one of the brilliantly written blogs at right instead, shop at Cool Mom Picks, hug your kids, do your thing.

But for those of you going:

(please stay)

(please)

(because I've been dying to say)

Wheeeee! So fun! I'm going to meet you all and wheeeeeee! Whooo!!! I'm seriously, ridiculously, disproportionately excited. I swear, everyone I run into it's like the first thing out of my mouth. My neighbors, my neighbors' kids, the Greek waiter in the corner diner, the Korean deli guy who speaks like no English--they all know where I'll be next weekend.

And, I think, they're happy I'm going. So they won't have to hear me mention it for four whole days.

As for Nate, well he thinks I'm one ticket to Vegas away from being the keynote speaker at a Trekkie convention.

Anyhow, in no particular order, here are some of the things that have been floating around the old grey matter about the conference. Because you people, you lovely BlogHer-going friends, I think you want to talk about the same thing too (unlike Caesar in the diner, who just wants me to shut up and eat my grilled cheese). Fair warning: It's entirely rambly, and there are definitely typos.

If brevity is the soul of wit then...well, I'm shit out of luck.

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Writers are, by nature, misfits. As my mom always says, there aren't too many white, midwestern, Protestant, upscale, happy men who become famous novelists. Unless they're secretly gay. In other words, we are all uncool in some way almost by definition. Let's face it, the cool kids are not writers. They're certainly not online writers. They will not be at a blogging conference in San Jose next weekend, but thousands of miles east of there, sipping appletinis in the Hamptons with Steven Spielberg.

Of course you're cool. I mean those other people.

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Stop stressing about what to wear, gals, you're not going to dinner at Graydon Carter's house. You're going to the Hyatt San Jose, where you will spend hours in meeting rooms named the San Jose Room or the Haiawatha Sweet Northwest, surrounded by a bunch of postpartum women with flabby bellies--some 16 years postpartum, granted, but postpartum just the same.

Besides? There will be nametags. You just can't be cool in a nametag, no matter how un-mom your jeans are.

(Okay, that's the party line. But seriously? What are you wearing? I'm a skirt and tee gal myself.)

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Having been through the match.com years (another hiLARious post for another day) I've learned that people are not always in real life the same as they are in writing. There are no awkwards ums and ers in writing. There are far more adverbs. And there is no one who can catch you picking your nose or speaking with your mouth full. Which means I'm a little worried about disappointing people.

I have done my best to be honest here. I really do talk too much with a glass of wine in me, and have pathetic taste in music-- if Journey comes on during cocktails, I'll have a chance to prove it to you with my interpretive dance moves to Don't Stop Believin'. Perhaps it's all charming here but tedious in person? You'll have to be the judge of that.
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Using first names in the recaps: Tacky? Ginga (that's GingaJOY to you) mentioned it in my comments yesterday which, funny enough, has been on my mind. I can't help calling Kristen Kristen; or Her Bad Mother, Catherine; or Mother Goosemouse, Julie. It's just how I know them. But I do remember reading blogs for the first time and seeing all these first names and feeling totally left out for not knowing that Dooce wasn't really named Dooce.

It reminds me of how you'll overhear some Hollywood blowhard in LA be all, "yeah, so Angie and I were lunching last week at Ago--that's Angie Jolie--and discussing Phil's star turn in Capote, and how he really could be the next Dick Burton."

I don't want to be that guy. Tell me I'm not that guy.

Then again, if I were that guy I'd have a way shorter plane ride next week and would definitely pay for everyone's drinks.

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I have a great visual memory. Not so much with the names though. Which means by far my biggest fear is that someone's going to come up to me and be like,

"Hey Liz, I'm Jen!"

(smile, blank stare)

"Jen R?"

(smile, eyebrows raised - not ringing a bell)

"My blog is called "Mom's Manic Madness?"

(I'm starting to sweat. Sweating a lot. Should have worked out my triceps maybe once over the last four years so I could be wearing sleeveless.)

"You know...Manic Madness? It's got the huge pink banner on top with the purple stripes, and a picture of my kid riding the elephant on the side? My tag line is a quote from Mallrats written in 20 point helvetica?"

"Oh JENNNNNNN! I love you! I've read every thing you've ever written! How's your uncle doing, by the way? Still touring with Dokken? "

I am totally freaked about offending someone by not "knowing" her right away from her name and/or face.

Therefore I propose that we all print out our headers and wrap them around our foreheads, indian princess style, to stave off any uncomfortable introduction moments. It won't be nearly as obvious as staring down at the right boob to check out the name tag. The geeky, horrible name tag.

(Helpful hint of the day: Wear your nametag on your right boob. It's instinctive to attach it to the left side with your right hand, but if you do it on the right side, the eye then naturally follows the line from the handshake...to the right side of the chest. That's what I paid $80,000 to learn at BU by the way. Worth every penny.)

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I'm thinking about doing a nametag that says, "Hi, I'm Heather Armstrong. Buy me a drink?"

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What is the etiquette about blogging people you meet and the things they do? I mean, you know someone is going to end up being That Girl Who Drank Too Much, or That Mom Who Sat in the Font Row and asked 477 questions.

Also, how about pictures? Do we need some kind of pinky swear the first night about this kind of thing? Do we need a BlogHer code of loyalty?

What happens at BlogHer stays at BlogHer.

Or maybe we just need legal wavers, like they sign at the end of Taxicab Confessions. Someone want to get to work on those? Any lawyers in the house?

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What else is on your mind? Let me know. Ask me anything. Tell me anything. This is the people's blog now, comrades.

Remind Me To Add "Dork" to My Resume.

Imagine for a moment that you are a fly on the wall of a small conference room in a boutique hotel in midtown Manhattan. You are watching a small panel of big blogger muckety mucks who have gathered to discuss moms and the internets.

If you were that fly, you would have seen very funny things and laughed very loudly. Does a fly even laugh? Are you on crack?

Okay, just go with me on this.

First, you'd see Mom-1o1 making a bee line to meet Greg of DaddyTypes, all gushy and starstruck (me, not him). You are the first blog I ever read! You're so funny! You're such a good writer! You know MetroDad in person? You're so cool! No way, you use the word "the?" I use the word "the!" Let's be best friends!

Then you'd see me babbling to Shannon of Phat Mommy, ohmigod I've read you! So cool! I've sent real-life friends to your site!

Then you'd see a table full of crazy accomplished alpha-female bloggers introducing themselves to the group:

"Hi, I'm Danielle of Celebrity Baby Blog. We get 60,000 hits a day and are on every blogroll ever. If we aren't, we have so much power, we can just hack into your blogroll and add ourselves.

"Hello, I'm Samantha Ettus. I'm published many times over, know many famous people and have just started blogging at Modern Mom. I also have the nicest arms you've ever seen in the history of female arms."

"Hi everyone, I'm Liz Thompson. I blog for a zillion sites including BlogHer and This Full House, and fourteen webzines, plus I have four gorgeous kids, and still found the time to get this fabulous haircut."

"Hey there, I'm Victoria of SavvyMommy. You may recognize me from my insanely popular website, my upcoming magazine, my many tv appearances, and the fact that I look like a supermodel. Even after kids. Two of them. Also? We give away like free Lexuses on our website. Just so you know."

Then there's me.

"Hi...I (mumble mumble) it's called Mom-101 and um...I started it because I was on message boards a lot and...arpfoleoshpol eols polspoeththh ooh pee booboo caca...hey wait, do you guys know Kristen? From Motherhood Uncensored? She's kind of famous. Because anyway we have this website Cool Mom Picks and it's kind of cool...um...Yeah. Forget it."

Dorkimus Maximus.

So despite me dialing up my internal nerdometer to 11, I might have made a couple of friends. Which is really nice considering the fact that I felt like I had no business being with this group in the first place. But don't worry, I overcompensated for that by making sure to ramble a lot about the internets and chat rooms and blogs and I have no idea what else.

And I wasn't even drunk.

When my mouth was not spewing gobbledeegook, it was inhaling Pepperidge Farm cookies. Hello, an entire plate of Pepperidge Farm cookies--dude, free Pepperidge Farm cookies--and the only ones partaking were Greg and me.

Women.

BlogHer isn't going to be like this, right? I mean, you people do eat, don't you?

Okay, so what have I learned from this lesson (I ask you, the hypothetical fly on the wall)? I think that I should stay the hell away from cookies at BlogHer, maybe roundtable discussions, and most definitely Alice. But I think I will go for the free cocktails. At least then I'll have an excuse if I slip on any of the above.

Taking a limo to a meeting is okay mama, but it's no Flexible Flyer trike, I'll tell ya that much.

Ms Steinem Called--She Said Lose Her Number

This morning, Nate got the baby dressed. For the first six months of Thalia's life, telling Nate to get the baby dressed was like saying, "get out the Redskins onesie." But now that she's outgrown it and the weather's too hot for the nylon Clinton Portis jersey, it's anyone's guess what she'll emerge in.

He selected very adorable royal blue printed tee we had just received as a gift and a yellow pair of terry shorts. Separately, each item is fantastic. But together? When he held her up for approval, I gritted my teeth and sucked air through them, whispering, "she looks like a boy."

It was the same tone I might have used to say "yeah, maybe letting her eat pennies isn't a good idea," or "I'm not so sure about letting our 12 year-old stoner neighbor babysit tomorrow night." And yet all I was talking about were her clothes.

It was visceral. It just slipped out.

"So? She's a girl."

"Yeah but..."

I had no good response.

"Okay, well you're not a girl," I said. "Does that mean you wore dresses?"

"Yep," says Nate, always one with the contrarian answer. "I did wear a dress."

"Not counting Halloween, smartass."

"I did once! Because,well Kurt Kobain did...so I thought it was cool...and..."

His sentence trailed off into a giggle because even for the master of arguments, this argument was absurd. But then, so was my own point. What was my own point? I didn't want anyone to see her wearing blue and yellow? Who, the doormen of our building? It wasn't like we were going anywhere in this heat.

What happened to me, I wondered. I was supposed to be this post-feminist progressive mommy who buys her daughter trains to ride on and books about cars. She was going to grow up and play sports. And dig for worms. And disdain boy bands. And yet here I am, whining about "boy colors" on my little girl.

I pulled a pair of pink gingham shorts from the dresser and waved them gingerly in Nate's direction, but he swatted them away. Yellow it was.

Even the pink shorts are on the perifery of Thalia's wardrobe. I have shied away from ruffles and bows and and certainly those "future supermodel" tees, because the way I see it, if you're going that route you might as well skip Music Together and sign her up for the Future Bulimics playgroup. Readers of Cool Mom Picks will not be surprised to learn that pastels and baby pinks are not our thing. Her best-worn shirt this winter was a brick-red dragon tattoo print thermal (well that, and President Poopyhead) that was often paired with a pair of bleached out jeans, so it's not as if we're grooming a little pageant girl here. But there's something about seeing her dressed like a girl girl that makes me happy inside. Floral sundresses. Flouncy skirts. Peasant shirts and mini crocheted espadrilles.

Perhaps I'm overcompensating for her lack of hair. Maybe it bothers me more than it should when strangers ask how old my little boy is. Or maybe I'm just more beholden to culturally-imposed gender roles than I would have thought, considering my grade-school Ms Magazine reading habit.

Or maybe it's a control issue. If she's anything like her mommy, Thalia will refuse to wear anything remotely feminine starting in about four years. "But if I wear dresses, I can't play with the boys," I told my mother in kindergarten, beginning a near decade of tomboy fashion. If Thalia follows suit, I have a very short window in which I can deck her out in the sweet little dresses I wish I could get away with myself. After that, her drawers will be stuffed with overalls and team shirts and denim jackets with soccer balls on them. Her closet will be lined with sneakers and her "dress shoes" will be the ones without the oil stains on the suede uppers. A skirt will never graze her hips, let alone (gasp) a dress.

At least until she hits puberty. By then, a genetic predisposition to childbearin' hips will point her towards the skirt section with due haste.

Look ma, no pink!

When My AARP Membership Kicks In, I'll Totally Sneak You Guys Into the Theater With Me

When Thalia graduates high school, it will be 2023. With any luck, there will be peace in the Middle East, Keith Richards will still be hobbling onstage with a Camel Light hanging out of his tracheotomy hole for one last farewell tour, and I will be fifty-five.

Fifty-five.

Eek.

One of the great things about New York City is that anything goes. We're outstanding at normalizing the abnormal.You want to live a polygamous S & M lifestyle in your Avenue C walk-up? The neighbors won't even notice. You want to stand naked in a cowboy hat and play guitar in Times Square? Get a new schtick, someone's already done it. And if you want to start cranking out the kids around 35, 40, well you've come to the right place.

I walk into my Upper East Side OB's office and I feel downright youthful. A whole spate of women just like me stream through the green front door. They're women with careers first; ungodly amounts of disposable income first; one-night stands and summer shares in the Hamptons and therapy-induced self-actualization first--families now. There are no regrets. It is how it is.

But here, in the blog world, the reality strikes. Over the past few months I've become keenly aware of the decade-plus headstart that most mothers in the world have over me.

It's a snap to justify: I wasn't ready at 26. I wasn't qualified at 26. Hell, I wasn't even dating anyone at 26 who might have been a worthy condender. Certainly not the narcissistic chain-smoking B-actor; not the radio sportscaster who confessed that his life's goal was to be "the next Rush Limbaugh." (Yes, that was our last date.) In fact if you look at the string of emotional cripples I dated in my twenties, my daughter--or whoever my child might have been--is very fortunate that the condom never broke.

And yes, today I'm older, wiser, blah blah blah blahbedee blahhhhhhhh. I don't need reassurance or pats on the back. Honestly. But I can't help but ponder the truth of my situation. When I crouch over to help Thalia take a few shaky steps across the living room floor, I can't wait to stand up and stretch. The Bjorn is a distant second choice to the stroller on long walks. My body ain't what it used to be, and I don't just mean my boobs. (Oh, my boobs! The poor deflated postpartum boobs--how proud you once stood, how confident, how dignified. Now, you're just a droopy, freeform shadow of your former selves. Ah well, we'll always have Paris. And Wacoal.)

I don't mean to paint myself as some farty old lady in a JC Penny twin set and a Life Alert medical alarm, with Danke Schön playing on the hi-fi. But I am, by most standards, an Older Mom.

I don't allow myself too many morbid thoughts, too many fast-forwards through life with my daughter. But once in a while they creep in and I have to shoo them away. This is the reality of the Older Mom.

And now there is more reality to come in and mess with my sometimes messy reality: The second child decision.

Having my nephew here for the past few weeks and seeing how beautifully he and Thalia interact has solidified my desire to put the old birth canal to use again. It brings back such strong memories of growing up close to my own brother--teaching him the PG lyrics to Jingle Bells, having tea parties underwater in the swimming pool at my grandmother's condo, laughing so hard at the crazy French food names in the frozen food section of Fauchon that we had to be escorted out. Even now, we're so connected to one another that we've been forbidden from pairing up on family game nights. I suppose it's unfair to the rest of the crew that I can guess the charades directive on his Cranium card answer before he's even started acting out Mash. It's just something in his smile that no one can see but me.

I would love nothing more than for Thalia to have the same experience. But my lack of crows feet and grey hairs, the fact that the local bars still ocassionally card me, all betray the real-life age of my ovaries. Now is not a good time for any number of reasons--let's just say "the usual." But is there ever a good time? And if there is a good time, will it be a good time for my women parts?

How far will I go to have another child? What are my limits? Are there limits? Do I even have to think about this stuff? I mean Thalia just sort of...happened. No temperature taking, no injections, no "come on honey, it's that time of the month." It was as if we simply wished her here and she appered.

I want to be fatalistic: If it's meant to be, it's meant to be. But in this case, I believe you make your choices, and you go after what you want before you can start talking about divine intervention. Which means it's my move.

And this is one of the very very very few times in my life where I'm not quite sure what my move is.

Scarred for Life By Mom-101

The 8 year old nephew: So my friend has this game he told me about.

Me: Oh yeah? What's that?

Nephew: It's called Spank the Monkey.

(Blink. Blink.)

Me: Spank the Monkey? Was he joking with you?

Nephew: No, he told me it's really fun.

Me: Um...did he ask you to play it with him? What did he tell you about it?

Nephew: He said you can get like a million points if you get to the bonus round.

(Blink. Blink.)

Nephew: It's on the computer.

Me: (Wiping sweat from every pore) Okay then. Okay. Well, you should know that Spank the Monkey is a slang term that's not very nice. So be careful when you say it.

Nephew: What does it mean?

Me: Well...it means masturbate.

(Blink. Blink.)

Me: Do you know what that means?

Nephew: No.

Me: It's when a boy plays with his penis.

(Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink.)

Nephew: So can I go and play GameBoy?

Me: Yeah, why don't you do that. That's a great idea.

Too Young For Chutes and Ladders, Too Old To Just Sit There While You Drink

Those Babycenter weekly emails have gone from mildly helpful to flat-out inbox pollution. They ran out of things to say about my child's development around week 32, and now I'm getting emails that are like, Today your baby is doing some stuff. Actually, he may or not be doing that stuff because all babies develop at different rates, but while we've got your attention, please click on this link to our store and buy something.

It's hard to believe that their writers can't think of one thing to say about a one year-old besides "you'll love seeing your child's growing sociability." Oh really? I'll love it? Thanks for the tip, because before you mentioned it, I was sort of expecting to keep her locked in the boiler room with only waterbugs for friends.

I get especially annoyed by the emails suggesting games you can play with your child. (Peekaboo? Genius!) They are rarely based on any sort of reality, at least as far as I can tell. Or maybe my daughter is the only one who's not interested in "crawling over sofa bolsters" for fun.

You want to know what games your one year-old really likes to play? You've come to the right place.


Kick the Head
Players: 2-3
Rules: Lie in bed and kick mommy or daddy in the head.


Put Things In Your Mouth You Can Choke On
Players: 2
Game Pieces: Dice, pennies, ticket stubs, dog biscuits, cat litter, game pieces, paper clips.
Rules: Mommy goes and does something like wash dishes or read blogs. While her back is turned, you put something in your mouth from the dirty floor. She has to find out what it is before time runs out.


Poke the Dog
Players: 1 human, 1 skittish canine
Rules: When the dog goes to her "leave me alone" place, crawl right under there with her and poke her in the face. If you can get your whole fist in her ear before she turns into a quivering, wimpering mess, you win.

Oh no...not another game of Poke the Dog.
I bet Mrs. Kennedy's bulldog never has to play this.

The Water Game
Players: 2
Game Pieces: Cup of water
Rule: Point towards a cup of water. Take a big sip. Then spit it at the adult who gave it to you. Repeat.


Shrieking
Players: The more the merrier
Rules: Go with your parents to a restaurant, preferably a small quiet one. Just as the food arrives, shriek as loud as you can. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.


I Like To Put My Fingers in My Poo
Players: 2
Rules: While your diaper is being changed, reach down and stick your fingers in your own excrement. Then, make sure to touch everything around you as fast as you can.


PlayStation 2
Players: 1
Rules: When daddy leaves the Playstation controler on the floor, try and fit as much of it in your mouth as possible. Extra points if your excessive drool jams the controls for good.


What are the games you've played with your one year-old? Let's have 'em. I smell a six-figure publishing deal with your name in the acknowledgments...

Interactive Birthday Recap. Fun For The Kids!

Thalia's first birthday party was absolutely [adjective]. Despite the fact that adjective Nate forgot to [verb] any of the [plural noun] to serve our guests until midnight the night before which made me totally [verb] out.

[Exclamation]!

Relatives came as far as [place] and [place] and we were honored that they made the [adjective] journey. Especially [female name]. As for [male name], eh. We just invited him because he gives [adjective] gifts. Although the best gift definitely came from [name], hands down. I mean, wouldn't you want a [adjective] [noun] if you were one year old?

If I've learned one thing from the celebration, it's that no child's birthday [noun] should be without copious amounts of [color] and [color] sangria. It certainly makes the guests more [adjective]! It also explains why our childless friends were having a [adjective] time, and not leaving [adverb] right after eating the cake.

Oh, the cake. The [adjective], [adjective] cake. My [adjective] father undertook the task as if it were a dying [noun]'s last request. [Number] recipes and [number] trips to the special baking store downtown resulted in an extremely [adjective] homemade birthday cake with [adjective] chocolate frosting that Thalia [verb+ed] enough to provide us with the requisite First Cake on The Face Photos. In fact, we were delighted Thalia had room for it, after having eaten the tips off of nearly [number] birthday hats beforehand.

Which brings me to one more thing I learned from the [adjective] celebration: [verb+ing] a baby full of [number] pounds of sugar moments before her naptime isn't always a [adjective] idea.

So do me a favor? [Adjective] please?

Remind me next year.

Yeah, but we got the photo! Isn't that what counts?

New York, New Eyes

It's a fallacy that New Yorkers are rude.

Rushed, yes. Brusque, sure. If you had sixteen people ask you for directions, beg for change, or shove flyers in your face for ShowWorld's Nude! Nude! Nude! Review over the course of a three block walk, you'd start tuning out the world too. It's not poor manners; it's survival.

The fact is, if you're standing on the sidewalk holding an upside down map, and ask a native how to get to Greenwich Village (that's gren-itch, not green-witch, thank you very much) you'll not only be pointed toward three possible walking paths, and a subway route, you'll get a few restaurant recos thrown in for good measure. The only exception is when you're standing on the corner of Christopher and Bleecker, asking how to get to Greenwich Village. Then we laugh at you. Just a little. But we'll still tell you that while you're in the neighborhood, Snack Taverna on Bedford has the best stuffed grape leaves you've ever had and Shopsin's is aces for pancakes but they charge three times extra for the silver dollars because Kenny hates making them.

It all comes down to one simple truth: New Yorkers love to show you how just much we know about New York.

So of course I was crushed that while some of my favorite bloggers have made the trek to the Baked Apple this summer, none of them have bothered to contact me for my unapologetically opinionated opinion on where to take the kids for dinner downtown (Cowgirl Hall of Fame); whether to do the Circle Line (only the semi-circle cruise that skips that boring third hour up around the Bronx); who makes the best burger (Corner Bistro, no contest); and whether it's okay to wear jeans to Gramercy Tavern. Answer: Please, in the name of all that is holy and good, put the jeans away. Unless you're Plum Sykes and are able to accessorize them with an upper-crusty British accent, a size zero booty and a $600 haircut.

See? Opinionated. It's my birthright.

So instead of helping my fellow bloggers with my dearth of knowledge about my hometown, I've had to settle for impressing my 8 year old nephew.

"Canal Street?"

"Yes, that's where Chinatown is. All the signs are in Chinese. Isn't that cool?"

"What are those different parts of New York called again?

"Boroughs, sweetie. There are five of them."

"Hey, what's wrong with that man?"

"He's just a little crazy. Let's walk on this side of the street, okay?"

It's a joy to see the city through the eyes of a refreshingly non-jaded child. For local kids, subway rides are the metropolitan equivalent of buckling up a car seat. They hop on, then bury their faces in their bags of Veggie Booty and hardly even look up when a busker enters the car playing Sweet Caroline on steel drums. Brodie, in contrast, is smitten with every aspect of the journey.

He surfs the A the train, extending his arms for balance. He squeals as he lays a crumpled dollar into the empty case of the sax player. He shimmies up and down the poles, swinging around them with such glee, you'd think he'd bought a ticket to do so. And every time the train screeches to a halt, he jumps as high in the air as he can, which in his mind assures his maintenance of a vertical position.

"I want to live in New York City!" Brodie shouted. "It would be sooooo cool to take the subway to school every day."

It's no minivan carpool, but I suppose it has a certain je ne sais quoi.

Another bit of misinformation about New York is that it's big. Not so. New York is the smallest of all small worlds, made only smaller by the fact that we get stuck, like lab rats, going back and forth between the points A and apartment B every day.

Brodie's visit has forced us to open the map beyond the tiny fold of our own neighborhood, to be tourists in our own hometown. There's something liberating about this. You don't feel self-conscious about the camera dangling from your neck. You don't assume that checking the subway map makes you a target for pickpockets. You don't even think about pickpockets--it's just second nature to wear your bag over your chest with your forearm extended over the zipper. And yes, that's bag, not purse, Grandma.

The whirlwind tour of the Bronx Zoo, Central Park, the Museum of Natural History, various playgrounds, and a little more of the subway system than we had intended (thanks to Aunt Liz who got on the E train by accident--again) has been not only good for Brodie and Thalia, it's been good for me. His visit plus some time off from work and unseasonably comfortable weather have conspired to reconnect me to the city I love, something I hadn't been feeling quite so much since I moved from to Brooklyn two years ago. The adventures of the past week have reminded me of all the things I take for granted here--the diversity, the color, the smells, the culture.

Perhaps I had it wrong. Perhaps it is I who owe Brodie's mother a debt of gratitude for his visit with us.

Come to think of it, I may owe her a little more after today. Let's just say that a day out with Uncle Nate is a day to remember.

I mean, why just walk through Central Park when you can walk through Central Park with a fart machine in your back pocket and a remote control hidden in your palm? Yesterday, dozens of tourists and a very grossed-out group of teenage girls went home complaining about the disgusting, flatulent man near Bethesda Fountain.

On the way out of the park, I explain to Brodie those apartments on 5th Avenue with the big balconies are about $20 million each.

"You know a LOT about stuff here," Brodie says. "How do you know so much?"

I don't even answer. I'm smiling too hard.

So many links, so little time

There's that old adage about those who can, do; and those who can't, teach. Which sucks. I hate that adage. It makes me mad. But that's not my point. It's just a wordy, roundabout (surprising for me, I know) way of saying that those who can, blog; and those who are planning a little family gathering-turned-oh shit everyone I know is coming birthday party on Saturday...link.

*If you do not read Sam at Problem Child Bride, this post alone should convert you. I'm only worried that once you go there, my blog will seem very, very unfunny. Then again, that's what Nate says every day and he has never read Sam, so who knows.

*This amazing post at 8 Hours takes about 60 seconds to devour, but stays with you for hours. Sort of like reverse Chinese food.

*Kevin met a bear. I hope I didn't just give away the ending.

*Dutch at Sweet Juniper has put together the most unbelievably comprehensive list of toddler-appropriate material available on youtube as an alternative to the boobtube. I wish he'd get it into its own website so we could plug it on Cool Mom Picks.

*A very nice lady who does cool stuff like adopt children also takes the time to acknowledge a blogger she likes every week. And I'm not just saying so because she picked me this time. I got to do a little interview and everything. So official with her fancy logo!

May the force be with you.

(I'm thinking of bringing that back. What do you think? That or nanu-nanu.)

Born Smiling

Thalia,

I may be a writer but I'm not a poet, not nearly.

I have neither the eloquence nor the skill to convey what is in my heart today and for this I hope you'll forgive me. I want you to understand that my failure here is neither from lack of inclination nor lack of trying. It's simply that it's so hard to think when all you can do is feel.

I've started this letter and erased it a dozen times at least. I want to tell the entire story of your life; every moment of the 365 days since you first lay on my chest and I shakily whispered, "I'm your mommy. Nice to meet you."


I want to lay out all my wishes for you. All my hopes and blessings. I want to tell you how much you've changed me, how much you've taught me in a year. Perhaps I've learned more in this year than in my entire lifetime. I could fill a book with it.

But it would be nothing you'd want to read. It would be just one more reason for you to roll your eyes in later years and go ma-aaaaaaa And from what I hear, we don't need more of those things, do we.

The task is too great, my feelings too overpowering today, this day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Another day, the words might come. But today, I can only tell you what I can tell you and that will have to be enough.


One year and roughly nine months ago, I entered a world I never thought I'd have access to. Phrases like Barney's sale and margarita with salt were erased from my vocabulary and replaced with expressions like cervical incompetence and mucus plug. My body spread and stretched, my organs nudged one another over to make room for the new life. An amazing anatomical dance just for you.



Thirty-two weeks into my pregnancy, a masseuse laid her palms against my swollen belly and smiled. "Sometimes I get a feeling about a child," she said, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing gently into my flesh. "If I may...this one has a wonderful sense of humor."

I knew she was right. I knew it when we named you for the Greek Muse of comedy. I knew it even before you chose to be born on the President's birthday, the one day we begged you--begged you--not to come. But you just laughed at us and stepped out from behind the curtains onto the stage that is the world.

You are your father's daughter.


The first time I laid eyes on you, I'd like to say that my first thought was "I love you." But I'd be lying.

I loved the idea of you, but the actual you, well you were a stranger. For 41.5 weeks you had grown inside me, pressed your limbs against my belly, hiccupped daily, kicked my ribs, made me pee sixteen times an hour. You were all I thought about, every night, every day. I wrote to you. I sang to you as best I could. I read to you. I made brilliant, grandiose plans for you, I dreamed of you, I awoke thinking of you and nothing but you. I assumed all of those things add up to knowing a person.

But when I looked at you, I knew I had been mistaken.

And so my first thought that early July morning was, "who is this?

I don't know these eyes, I don't know this nose, I don't know these ears, I don't know this cry. Who is this little girl lying on my chest, trying to make sense of the world, the fluorescent lights, the women in scrubs, the tearful grandparents, the beaming father who can only put down the camera long enough to scoop you up and kiss your forehead? Who is she and who is she going to be? Who is she going to be to me?"

My second thought was, "I really want a peanut butter sandwich."



The second night in the hospital, we were alone together. I was terrified. Excited. Panicked. Happy. And then in the hours that I stared at you (it was just impossible to take my eyes off you, even for a minute) it struck me--you weren't a stranger at all. It was another time, another place; a relationship I can't quite put my finger on. But it was real and some piece of me was struck with the recognition.

That's when I realized, the face may be unfamiliar but the relationship is not new at all. Teacher and student, together again.

The student being me.



Here I want to convey this remarkable spirit, this unrelenting joy you radiate and how it has defined you for the last twelve months. But again the language is just out of reach.

I close my eyes, trying so hard to see the combination of letters and commas, periods and spaces that will bring your personality to life, but everything just seems fuzzy and off. A cloudy alphabet soup.

I see images instead: You waving at a waitress. You laughing at a tree. You smiling at a hurried businessman on the street, making him forget the cell phone at his ear and the attitude he wears like armor--just long enough for him to stop talking mid-sentence and smile back. A brief moment of Thalia's attention is enough to change someone's entire heart.

Oh how I want you to stay this person. This person who isn't afraid to clap for a mailbox or laugh at a dog. But I know I can't make you. I can only allow you to be who you are at that moment.




I press my eyelids closed again because I want to see who you are at one, lock it into my memory. Even if I have no words in my head, I do have the pictures.

I see your six teeth and the hair that's just starting to be long enough to curl in random places when you come out of the bath. I see your perfect pale skin and the smooth soles of your feet. I see your bright, curious eyes behind eyelashes I envy.

I see you grabbing my nose in the morning, poking my face or pulling my hair until I agree to start the day.

I see your face covered with yogurt. Or sweet potatoes. Or wet, soggy specks of Cheerios goo.

I see you chasing the dog under her chair, crawling nearly as fast as she can run. I see you shrieking DAT! at the cat, grabbing at her as she passes, then slowly opening a moist palm to discover a handful of fine black fur.

I see you laughing at the recessed lighting in the kitchen ceiling, an inside joke between you and the 40 watt bulbs.

I see you jumping. Jumping when Grandma walks in the door or Daddy plays your Belle and Sebastian song for you. Jumping like it's the single best thing in the whole entire world and you can do it higher and longer and with far more passion than anyone anywhere ever.

I see you laying your head on my chest when the fatigue is just too much to fight, even for you, the amazing non-sleeping baby. I see myself lowering my nose to your head and inhaling, wanting so badly to remember the warmth, the smell, the feeling.

And always I see you smiling.


In the journal I kept for you while I was pregnant, I signed every post a different way. Love, your ever-expanding mommy. Love, your very nauseous mommy. Love, your excited but totally freaking out mommy.

I have to admit, I like the idea of just signing this letter

Love,
Your Mommy

I'm realizing that sometimes that's enough. Sometimes that's everything.

And so are you.

Happy birthday Bungo.

-----

He Said/They Said

Watching fireworks behind an 8 year-old seeing fireworks for the first time:

"Cool!"

"Awesome!"

"Wow, what if this were a video game!"

"Hey, what if they landed in your hand and exploded on you!"




Watching fireworks behind a 30 year-old comedy writer and his writing partner:

"Cool!"

"Awesome!"

"I bet this is what they make the Al Qaeda guys watch so that they're like, Aw, America? Not so bad after all."

"Hello, Alberto Gonzalez? Wanna get rid of all those Guantanamo lawsuits? Have we got an idea for you..."



Watching fireworks behind a 30 (ahem) year-old bleeding heart blogger:

"You know, when I was in Bosnia I asked whether they had some kind of parade to celebrate their Independence Day and my friend responded, 'No, of course not. This country doesn't have any money to pay for a parade. If we had that money we'd feed people instead.' We're really lucky. Let's not forget it."

"Also? That one that looked like jellyfish? That was awesome."


-----


Hope you all had a great Fourth, whatever your perspective.

No, You Can't Have Another Cookie. (How was that? Did I do that right?)

"Not Honeycomb, Nate."

"What?" he says. "Why not? It's the same as Honey Nut Cheerios."

"It totally is not!" I insist. If there were a prize for being the biggest cereal know-it-all on the planet, I would not win, but I'd certainly sound like a contender. "Honeycomb is totally a sugar cereal. It's like how they changed Sugar Smacks to be called Honey Smacks just so people would think it's more healthy. "

He snatches the box off the shelf and scans the nutritional panel, prepared to prove me wrong and rub it in with a victory dance down aisle 12 of CVS. Did I ever mention that we can manage to debate pretty much anything?

"26 grams of sugar," he reads.

"That's a lot!"

"Oh yeah? Well let's see what Honey Nut Cheerios has..."

I wait.

"Well?"

"Thirty-six."

"What?!" I shriek. "No way. Let me see."

"Oh fine," Nate says, sliding the Honeycomb box back with resignation. "It's nine. We'll get the Cheerios."

So why are we adding a debate about the sugar content of overpriced ready-to-eat cereals to our repetoire? It's certainly not for our own health, as you'd know looking at our decidedly carb and sugar-heavy pantry contents. And while I may still be new at this parenting gig, I assure you Thalia is eating a tad better than either of these options.

For the next three weeks Nate and I are the surrogate parents to an eight-year old boy.

Nate's nephew, Brodie, arrived on Friday. He is a sweet, sensitive, delightful kid who likes Captain Underpants and fart jokes and apple butter on his pb. He's the type who answers, oh okayyyyyy to pretty much any unwanted request, while other kids would whine in protest. His easy disposition is a testament to a loving upbringing by Nate's sister, a very young single mother, and the essential help of many devoted aunts and a grandmother.

Not too many men in that mix, however.

And so, Uncle Nate has stepped up and offered his services in a sort of reverse Fresh Air Fund. Take a kid out of the suburbs, expose him to the hot city for three weeks, and in the process, teach him how to how to throw a baseball, how to take a subway, what to do besides playing GameBoy sixteen hours a day, and why Chicken McNuggets are not something we eat every day.

"Oh my God," one yet childless friend exclaimed. "You're a saint for doing this."

"No I'm not," I said. "He's family. This is what family does." I meant it.

But meanwhile, here I am struggling with a baby, and all of a sudden I'm making the leap to a third-grader. Terrifying! I may seem cool on the outside but inside I'm taking comfort in the fact that hell, he's almost nine. It's not like I can ruin him that much. Still, if his grandmother had packed an instruction manual in his luggage I would have definitely remembered that at Christmas this year.

In my heart I know the yesses (yes, you can pet that dog) and the nos (no, you may not have Sour Patch kids at 10 am) but good instinct is no substitute for the experience I sorely lack.

This afternoon I tried to find something on TV for him to watch.

"Hey, Bob the Builder is on!" I said, happy to click over to a kids show that I actually had heard of.

"Oh nooooo," Brodie says dramatically, "it's the lamest show EEEEEEVER. Oh look...it's been on one second and already it's lame."

"Oops," I say. "Too young?

"Yeah, kinda."

So there's that.

Over the past three days, I've tried to straddle the line between cool aunt, positive influence, fair disciplinarian, and supportive sister-in-law. I feel like I'm standing on that one spot out west where you could conceivably be standing in four different states at once, never quite sure which direction I want to go.

Like when he tells me that he eats lunch at McDonald's most days. Is this true or a bit of manipulation on his part? I'm not sure. But if this is in fact his life, I can't just come out and say, "That crap? Who lets you eat that? Do you know what that stuff does to you? Let me get my copy of Fast Food Nation out and read you a few passages..." Insteaed what I tell him is that it's a special occasion food and besides, NYC is the restaurant capital of the world. If you want a burger, we'll get a damn good burger somewhere else. I mean darn. Darn good burger.

Another thing I have to work on.

This is all good practice for me. Four nights in a row I've said "bedtime!" and I'm actually getting good at it. "Lights out in ten minutes" is another one I can muster with a bit of authority, and if you ask Brodie, I bet he'd say he has no idea I'm faking it.

I'm learning how to hold someone's hand when crossing the street. To say, "don't run up the slide when that little kid is coming down it." To add a handful of carrots to the sandwich at lunch. I'm learning to live with cookie crumbs in the white chair, 3-D dinosaur puzzle pieces under the sofa, and teeny specs of Play-Doh ground into the rug. My rug! Oh, the rug. The poor, poor, beautiful rug.

Okay, so I still need some practice with the rug.

Best of all, in just three short days, Brodie's presence has been fantastic for Thalia. It's even lent itself to her first Play-Doh eating experience. And as I understand it, this is one rite of passage that no American child should go without.

In case you're wondering, it was blue. And yes, she enjoyed it very much.

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An update for those who are so kind as to actually show--or feign--interest in the sleep habits of the baby of a complete stranger on the internet: There has been much improvement! Get out the party hats! I just might become a Weissbluth evangelist after all. The crying is getting shorter, the sleeping is getting longer, and once again I'm remembering what it's like to slumber alongside someone who doesn't kick me in the head all night, although lord knows there are some nights I'm sure he'd like to.

Tonight was a bit more touch-and-go, but I've still got wine left. Plus the absurd amount of goodwill from all of you which will fuel me through a week of this, if not longer. I am grateful. Good karma--as much as I'm empowered to send--right back to you all.