Sisterhood of the Shriveling Ovaries

One of the great things about being a parent in New York is that no matter who you are or what your choices, you fit in somewhere. You want to breastfeed until the kid's fourteen and-a-half? Eschew electricity and push the stroller up eight flights of stairs every day? Swaddle the bambino in a bunting that costs more than some people spend on rent? New York welcomes you. Let me buy you an egg cream.

And that goes double for you, so-called "alternative" families.

It's true. We like to think we're soooo open-minded here what with all the diversity. Not only do we have friends who are adoptive parents, gay parents, mixed race parents, unwed parents, or single parents by choice, but we have great fun parading them in front of the out-of-state in-laws at our kids' parties. Look how progressive I am! Look at all my cool, different friends!

But sometimes there are incidences that force us to confront the actual narrowness of our open-mindedness.

This week in my OB’s office, while I was skimming a pregnancy magazine from 2002 or so, a patient reemerged from the examining room with her partner and approached the desk. While from the back she was heftier than the average patient there--are toned triceps a requirement for Upper East Side OBs? I clearly did not receive that memo--she was otherwise not worth a second look. And then she turned around to face me.

Easily, this woman was 50. (That's generous.)

And she was pregnant.

I stared. I couldn’t help myself. My mind raced to try and fill in the blanks. Accident or intentional? Was this her first? Did she know what she was getting into? And how OLD was she anyway, for God’s sake?

I looked around to see if anyone else around me was reacting. I nudged Nate. I stared some more.

And then I felt like a complete jerk.

I am about to have my second child at 38. In most parts of the country, I am ancient myself. Nate, eight years my junior, likes to remind me that while I was getting freaky with my college band boyfriends, he was attending his first Weird Al concert with his mother. He pats my pelvis, and says, "aw, poor old ovaries" and calls me granny when he catches a glimpse of my pathetic iTunes playlist. This passes for sport.

But on the streets of New York with my fellow natives, I dissolve into the sidewalk stroller brigades like anyone else. As I wait for non-stress tests or sonograms at the hospital, the women who surround me are just like me - same crows' feet creeping outward from the eyes, same glitter-free pedicures, same age appropriate maternity clothes that don't sport slogans like MILF in training. Thirty-something is the new twenty-something in urban childbearing, that much is apparent. If anything, it's the fresh-faced recent college grads pushing strollers who find themselves on the receiving end of raised eyebrows from strangers.

But all things being equal, we're probably more comfortable with the notion of 16 year-olds breeding than 50 year-olds breeding. That became abundantly clear when someone born during the Truman administration waddled into an obstetrical waiting room.

Oddly enough, I didn't think at all about her husband/partner who seemed to share her birth decade, not until I started writing this. Why does the sperm always get a free pass? Especially since we now know that older fathers actually up the rate of genetic disorders in their children. Sure, you'll still hear a hackneyed Tony Randall joke still make its way onto the lips of the less discriminating late-night TV hosts. But for the most part, it just doesn't invoke the same visceral reaction.

I hate to say it but: Super-advanced paternal age = quirky. Super-advanced maternal age = creepy.

Of course we can argue that we are aghast with good reason. There are the health risks to both her and her fetus, for starters. If things turns out fine, why, it’s unfair that she can't chase her toddler around with the energy of a woman half her age. She’ll be 70 when he graduates high school. She may never get to meet her own grandchildren, the poor dears. And so on.

But the truth is, there are no guarantees for any parent, no assurances that even the most youthful and active and dedicated fish oil supplement-poppers among us won’t get hit by the M35 tomorrow. There are no promises that we will all live to 147 with the help of positive thinking and live culture yogurt. The most we can hope for is to be the most loving, dedicated, committed parents we can in the time we’re lucky enough to have together.

And so I wish that woman luck, whatever her situation might be, because she will need it. Not just because of her limitations but because of judgmental people like me.

I hope that if I run into her again that I can transform my bewilderment into compassion and muster a genuine smile--that same one we pregnant women always reserve for one another. You know it well. It's that one that says You and me? Kindred spirits in pregnancy hell. Hang in there mama, good luck with the breastfeeding, and don't let the weird pizza guy touch your belly.

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Every Monday, find Mom101: The Column (sounds fancy!) at Time Out NY Kids along with fantastic parenting tips and and listings of tons of stuff to do around town with the kids when you finally manage to tear yourself away from the computer.

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PS Huge congrats to Tammie, my fellow baby showeree who gave birth to a Myles Jeffrey Saturday night after something like 16 years of labor. Go Tammie!

I Just May Have to Change My View On Baby Showers and Their Overall Suckage

Yesterday was not a great day. Actually, the week has been tough overall. I won't bore you with tales of a toddler who's returned to co-not sleeping every night at 11:30 sharp, a back that's all but given out (Is it true Percocet isn't great for the fetus? How about heroin?) and what feels like a black and blue cervix by now. Ah, the magical journey of childbirth.

And then.

And then...!

I come across this: A virtual baby shower. For me and Tammie and Christina.

This is easily the best baby shower in the history of baby showers and I'll tell you why:

1. You can stay in your sweatpants
2. No f*cking diaper cakes
3. No presents required
4. You don't have to sit around for three hours while I open 67 receiving blankets and pretend to be excited about a six-pack of socks from Old Navy
5. No ribbons will be worn on anyone's head
6. Who cares if you don't know anyone there
7. No embarrassing games
8. Get as drunk as you want

The truth is, it's not a virtual baby shower, not really. Because the love isn't virtual, the friends aren't virtual, the advice/assvice I'm getting all over the internets isn't virtual, and the impact of this all is in no way virtual. Just ask Nate who rolled his eyes at me all day yesterday for shedding real, non-virtual tears over it.

Also? The prizes are totally not virtual. This is a sponsored baby shower. Just like Star Jones would have, only without the gay husband.

All weekend long you can win serious goodies from some of my favorite online shops and baby gear designers, and even one of two $100 gift certificates donated by Queen of Spain (WTF???) towards any of the merchants featured on Cool Mom Picks, right in time for Mother's Day.

So if it's okay by the unbelievable hostesses--Kristen, Julie, Catherine and Nancy--and it's not too gauche, I'd like to invite you to stop by any time this weekend. Even if you're just a reader/lurker (that's you, Levin/Jaffe/Cohen/Letts/McDow/Gerloff family) and and not a blogger, guess the new baby's weight or whatever and win some stuff.

Me and old whats-her-name, we'd be honored.

Placenta Brain: It Affects Those Who Spend Time With Pregnant Women Too

I generally do not snark on weird baby gear that I come across. And boy, are there opportunities out there. But after working on Cool Mom Picks for the past year, I realize that that behind each one of those products, misguided though they may be, is someone--often a mom--who has poured her heart and soul into it. And so I forgo the priceless comedy fodder, even when maybe I could really really use it.

But we just received a solicitation from a company that I have to mention (but not by name).

They make a maternity accessory that's not a bad idea, really. Helps keep your pants up, that sort of thing. Except that a large fits size 8.

One more time:

Large. Fits. Size. 8.

I want to write a response telling them that they're alienating a good deal of their potential target. (To say nothing of the the two editors of CMP, neither of whom are a size 8 on a good day, let alone when pregnant.) I want to tell them they're out of touch with the needs of real pregnant women. I want to tell them that the last thing they want to do is make pregnant women feel like they're too fat to wear some stupid, overpriced accessory even in their first trimester.

But it wouldn't matter. Not while they can tell you what celebrities wear their product and how many hot stores carry it.

So I'll just go back to whining about my aching back and eating cinnamon Pop Tarts, watching my belly grow ever larger over the waistband of my not size 8s.

You can snark for me.

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Speaking of Cool Mom Picks (how smooth was that segue?) I have been remiss in pimping our Mother's Day Gift Guide here. We spent a lot of time digging up creative ideas at all kinds of price points for all kinds of moms, including your own. May I suggest leaving the page open accidentally on your computer so that the fam gets a few ideas beyond serving you runny eggs and mediocre coffee in bed on the 13th?

Plus, there's a contest! Oh yes. If you post the gift guide button on your blog and email us about it [info@coolmompicks.com] we'll enter you in a drawing to win 2 gorgeous limited edition Jen Corace prints and cutest photo album ev-ah from Mahar Dry Goods, as well as a $250 (hello!) gift certificate from Zutano.

Speaking of contests (again, smoooooth) if you sign up for our monthly newsletter by the end of the month you could win so much stuff it's ridiculous. We've got an awesome leather-trimmed diaper bag from Kathleen Baby filled with goodies worth 600 bucks. Details are on the home page.

Which you already know. Because you go there like, every day, right?

Habla 38.5 weeks?

Poor Nate needs an English-Pregnancy dictionary to understand me these days.

Oof! could mean the baby is squirming incessantly. Or that I'm trying to get up from the couch on my own. Or that it's just hot in the apartment and I feel like whining.

Ow! is a toss-up between "baby in the rib cage" and "time for a Pepcid."

Ow fuck, hold on means "major braxton-hicks contraction happening," but I'm sure in his semi-anxious state it sounds an awful lot like, "my water broke!"

And if I dare just close my eyes and squint, trying to breathe through one of the frequent cervix pummelings I've been getting, the poor guy is ready to make that essential peanut butter sandwich (the last item on on my must-do before hitting the road list), drop it in my hospital bag, and get me the hell out of here.

It's actually becoming sort of fun, gaging his reactions to my audible eeks and ooches and owies. For a guy who's just not a gushy, romantic dad-to-be, a guy who hates if I "make him" (his words) touch my squirmy belly, who's hard-pressed to even have the name discussion--I must say it's enjoyable seeing him spring to attention when I so much as exhale deeply.

Almost makes it worth the 24/7 discomfort.

Almost.

Mommygangs of New York

She was pushing her one-year old daughter on the swing next to ours when we started to chat. She looked...perfect. Especially next to me, with my 8 month pregnant belly peeking over the top of cream cheese-streaked Target sweatpants. She had the right shoes. The right sunglasses. The right diaper bag. And a genuinely inviting smile that made all the rest of it unimportant.

We got the standard name/age/oh isn't she cute where did you get her shoes pleasantries out of the way, and then she jumped right to the question it seemed she was eager to ask all along:

"So what playgroup are you in?"

The way she phrased the question was oddly...presumptive. Or maybe this playgroup GDI just didn't understand how it all worked.

Are these groups so organized that they have names now? Are they...mommygangs?

My mind conjures a large pack of surly, scowling--but exceedingly well-dressed--mothers in battle formation, thrusting their Bugaboos and Stokkes over the cobblestones of Dumbo. They toss hand signals at one another and mouth secret passwords (Dwell Crib Bedding! Organic Produce!) while innocent passers-by duck for cover behind the nearest converted artist's loft. Their weapon of choice: Sippy cups filled with acidic, retinal-scalding orange juice. God help the Upper East Side mommygang that ventures onto their turf for brunch at Bubby's and a walk back over the Brooklyn Bridge. There could be quite a few Petunia Picklebottom casualties by the end of it all.

"No," I answered. "No playgroup. I'm not in one."

Her reaction was first one of confusion. No playgroup? But why? How? Why? Then she pressed her lips together into a sad, frozen smile in an unambiguous demonstration of sympathy.

Don’t cry for me, mommyganger, I wanted to say. I have never been one for organized, scheduled socializing (if you couldn’t already tell by my completely unnecessary sarcasm). Sororities held no appeal for me, and Nate and I don't have a set group of couples that we invite over for potluck dinners the first Wednesday of every month.

The first time I even considered signing up for friends was when I was pregnant and brought home one of those pretty fluorescent flyers posted around my neighborhood imploring me to MEET NEW MOMS! SHARE FEELINGS ABOUT MOTHERHOOD! But as the day of the first meeting drew near I came up with 37 excuses not to show up. It was too humid. I was too tired. The Surreal Life marathon was on.

Instead I would settle for making mom friends the traditional way –praying my existing social network would breed.

The truth is, I could have really used some new mom pals back then, ones who transcended the anonymous message board wags (and my nosy neighbors)as a source of information and advice. But I wasn’t ready to join a mommy group.

Because that would mean I was a mommy.

And that was scary.

I've said before that after 30-some-odd years of not preparing for parenthood, nine months hardly seems adequate to reverse the course. And so I avoided developing friendships around shared breastfeeding woes and vaccination ideology. I didn't want to bond with women over sling choices. But above all, I didn't want to be in any situation where I might be known merely as Thalia's mom, stupidly assuming that one description of me would nullify all others.

It seems laughable now, as motherhood has become such an inextricable—and thoroughly enjoyable--part of my identity. But it took a good long time. Longer than the time you get to call yourself a new mom and join a new mom group.

So now in the playground I decided that maybe it wasn’t too late for me. Perhaps this sweet, chatty woman in the $400 sunglasses was a pilates-toned signal from the universe that it was time for me to branch out socially, experience the joys that other women have expressed to me about their amazing playgroups. Certainly there’s something to be said for having friends with whom you never have to apologize for cutting off the conversation mid-sentence while extracting the bottle of Windex from your kid's mouth.

Right then I knew: I wanted to be in a mommygang! I did, I did! What would I have to do to prove my worth? Shoplift soy milk for the group? Brand a rubber duckie into my forearm? Whatever it was, I was sure I could rise to the occasion

That's when she asked where I got Thalia’s great jeans.

"Old Navy," I told her.

She gasped, horrified.

And in that one brief moment, it was clear I failed the initiation.

I was out.

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This post also appears (albeit proofread) at Time Out NY Kids as part of my weekly Monday column. Find it along with cool stuff to do with your family around NYC, the awesome city where every parent fits in somewhere.

The Debauched Preggo

I have been requested--nay, commanded--by the lovely and talented Her Bad Mother to guest blog for her today while she takes a little r&r. Immediately I agreed, provided I wasn't in labor yet. Then she told me I was lined up after MotherGooseMouse, Motherhood Uncensored, and GingaJoy. Yeah, not too intimidating.

And then she announced the topic:

Burlesque blogging.

Which, well, if you could see me these days, would make you laugh so hard you'd pee. Or maybe that's just me. But still, I have done my best to rise to the occasion and keep her place tidy in her absence. You know, water the plants and pick up my pasties before I lock up; that sort of thing.

So click on over for a little peek at Worship the Belly. I'll show you mine and you don't even have to show me yours.

A Letter To #2

My daughter (and I assure you we'll have a proper name for you in due time):

I have been so focused on the medical condition known as pregnancy and the changes its meant in my life that I fear I have not documented enough thoughts about you, the person. Not you the fetus and how you've affected my bra size or sleep patterns; not you, the proficient cervix pummeler; not you, sister to Thalia.

Yes, you're all these things. But I need you to know that you're more.

You are joy--to those you know and even those you don't. You are going to make strangers forget their missed subway, their bad meeting, their harried days, if only for that brief fleeting few seconds while they catch the eye of the smiling newborn in the stroller. Trust me on this one.

You are wisdom. Through you we will learn and grow and rediscover things about ourselves and the world that we hadn't even thought to consider.

You are laughter. It's your birthright. You can't be born into this family and avoid it. No pressure though; just be you. You'll see.

You are hope. In a world where it's too easy to think what a mess this all is, and how dare we bring children into it, you are joining a family that takes the other view. We believe that you're coming here in part to tip the balance a hair more towards good than evil, more lightness than dark. You're going leave this planet better than it stood when you arrived. Is that asking too much?

But first we have to meet.

I'll be the one with the IV in my arm, the huge smile, and the teary eyes.

See you soon.

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Abby Normal

I entirely buy into the premise of Placenta Brain - that affliction that strikes pregnant and postpartum women alike (let's say postpartum up to about 7 years). It's an ailment that enables you to excuse behavior like forgetting to pay bills, watching ANTM reruns when Lost is on, and struggling with the mental retrieval of such challenging words as bike and your own name.

I didn't realize however that it totally killed my mental parenting scrapbook too.

I've always prided myself on my ability to remember insane details. It's a running joke in my family that I'll say to my dad, Hey I ran into Steve last week - remember Steve? Oh you know...you met him after that dance in 7th grade when I was wearing the purple satin knickers. He was in an orange velour shirt, and he was there with that girl Katie, the one who got braces in 5th grade and had that dog I hated...

I am not exaggerating. Ask my dad. These very words have come out of my mouth.

But now I find myself unable to remember any information that might benefit me as I prepare for welcoming another ankle-biter into the Mom-101 household.

Did Thalia even exist before today? You wouldn't think so from my parental exchanges of recent days.

This week a friend stopped by with her ten month-old and I asked in all seriousness, "do you want a blanket or something on the floor for her to crawl around?" This is a kid who's on the verge of walking. And talking. And like an idiot that's never had a kid of her own, I'm thinking she might like to lie on a blanket and drool, maybe bat her hands at a nice black and white mobile dangling above her head.

"Yeah, I don't think she'll stay on the blanket," my friend answered, way too kindly.

The day before, I was in the local toy shop and a woman asked me to suggest a good toy for her 11 month-old on the plane.

"A Magnadoodle," I said confidently. "Oh wait...is he picking up crayons yet?"

"Um, not really," she answered, as she walked away freaking about her son's delayed crayon-holding skills instead of realizing that I had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

I even had a mom next to me in the diner ask at what age it was okay to feed her baby yogurt. My answer:

"How old is your son?"

"6 months."

" Yeah, that sounds about right."

Der.

If I can't remember what Thalia was doing five or ten months ago, for God's sake how am I supposed to remember what to do with a newborn? Am I going to forget to support her head? Put her on her stomach sleep? Am I going to try and feed her Cheerios before she has teeth? Oh wait, you can do that right? They gum them? Ugh, I don't even know. I'm just not that mom who can recall when Thalia went from crawling to cruising, or when to start using soap in the bath or diaper wipes instead of those cloth thingies with water.

I JUST DON'T REMEMBER.

I want to be the cool BTDT mom. The one who's like eh, this baby stuff is old hat.

But instead I feel doomed to repeat Mom-101 all over again, only with saggier boobs.


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I am not entirely comfortable with asking for votes in the Bloggers Choice Awards, but I do feel very comfortable giving a huge shout-out to Ian for nominating me for Best Parenting Blog and Hottest Mommyblogger which...well that made me laugh so hard I almost peed. Which is not saying a lot these days, come to think of it.

Yes, hot. Very hot.

I'm actually hoping to win 137th Best Parenting Blog. So if you see that category, that's where I'd like you to vote for me. I've heard I'm well on track.

While you're there voting for Mir however, I will be shameless about asking for you to vote for Cool Mom Picks for Best Shopping Blog and Best Blog about Stuff (thanks, Crank Mama!) because, well...it's great. And I can only say that because there are so many other people that have helped make it great. Kristen and I just take the credit.

The Barbie Confessions

Recently I spent a lovely afternoon with a friend in the burbs. While I don't envy her zip code on the other side of the Holland Tunnel, I certainly covet her playroom--a whole sunny space devoted just to toys and books and dress-up clothes and more toys and more books and a way cool rocking horse.

Don't even get me started on their backyard.

Thalia of course had the time of her life, thanks in particular to her attentive playroom tour guide, my friend's oldest daughter. Thalia loved the big girl attention from the 4 1/2 year old who delighted in handing Thalia favorite books, offering up her own stuffed animals for play, or styling her in the appropriate cowgirl hat while demonstrating how to ride Western.

I was so engaged in snapping photos of Thalia on her first rocking horse ride that I nearly missed the question:

"Thalia, want to play Barbies?"

I gasped. Audibly. Rudely.

"Uh..." I stammered. "Uh..." As if she had asked "Thalia, want to play Meth Lab? " Or, "Thalia want to play Taliban?"

In her 21 months Thalia's been exposed to trucks and animals, blocks and tricycles, crayons, musical instruments, battery-operated drums that call to you in the night, and the occasional licensed character. Lest you think I'm some snotty hipster mom who only lets my daughter play with rag dolls hand-stitched by global artisans out of organic soy fiber, I've got no beef with mass market toys as a whole. In fact, I love Elmo. Love him. His 20 minutes of airtime each morning essentially guarantees 20 minutes of adult activities in the next room. There's even the one-minute warning, the little song at the end of each episode that should be renamed, Time To Find Your Underwear, Moms and Dads. Yeah, Elmo is just fine by me.

But Barbie? She's a foreigner in our world of play. Or was.

It's just a doll, I tried to rationalize as I watched my friend's daughter sweetly offer up her favorite Barbie to my daughter. A curvy, golden blond, rhinoplastied doll, who, if brought to life, would be the chick complaining loudly from the dressing room next to yours, this size 2 is soooo biiiiig--but still, a doll. Is there really any harm in exposing my daughter to a doll? Especially when I'm sitting right with her, ready to blurt out "A princess is not a valid career choice! Just so you know!" should the need arise.

So why my angst?

This topic has already been discussed to death by people far more up on the issues than I. (Most recently Peggy Orenstein's great NY Times piece, What's Wrong With Cinderella, springs to mind.) I don't know that I have a whole lot to add from an academic standpoint.

From a personal standpoint, I know that dolls are good. That fantasies and creativity and imagination are good and that dolls help facilitate all these things. Do you know I recently found out there is a learning vacuum out there? A learning vacuum! I think that all things being equal, I'd rather Thalia conduct tea parties with a battalion of Barbies than push around dust bunnies while she hums the multiplication tables. I want her to explore all aspects of her femininity, try on mommy's jewelry, and play Barbie Marries Ken just the same as she plays Grocery Shopping or Ruthless Network Executive. It's healthy and it's developmentally appropriate and it's fine.

I suppose what I don't want is her looking at her own thighs when she's 7 and telling me they're fat (however unlikely if she continues on this path of eating like, one Cheerio a day). I don't want her feeling bad about her curly notblond hair. I don't want her thinking that achievement should take a backseat to accessorizing, or that the attention of the Kens and the GI Joes of the world take precedent over all else.

She's not even two; I just thought I'd have more time before starting the dialogue.

All this ran through my head in the four seconds it took for Thalia to take the Barbie from her new friend's hands, examine her, then set her down on the floor.

At which point she headed right back to the bookshelf.

That's my girl.

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If you live around New York or are just visiting, check out Time Out NY Kids which has tons of family-friendly activities listed along with great parenting advice and articles. It also happens to be where my posts are syndicated every Monday. Toooooootal coincidence.

Ceci N'est Pas Un Chat

Yesterday I was spending some quantity time in my favorite room, the bathroom, when I glanced over to see the fat, evil cat poking her head out of the bathtub with that guilty look that says either, I'm drinking out of the faucet or I just puked all over your sheets again but you'll have to get into bed in the dark and lie on it to find out where.

But for a brief moment her faced looked...well, nice. Oddly devoid of intent to do harm. Like a sooooo bershon teenager who suddenly reverts to your sweet little girl again when no one else is looking. And at once I was taken back to the early days of life with Desdemona, way back before Nate and I would lie around in bed wishing only half-jokingly that maybe if she really loved me, she'd kick it soon.

(Don't judge me too harshly, animal lovers. I will reiterate that this is a cat that inspires little compassion. I swear, PETA has a subdivision called PETA-EDWSU, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals Except Desi Who Scares Us.)

1991. In the wake of the first post-college (and post-college boyfriend) breakup, I took Desi home to fill the void. She was a feisty little thing from the get-go, but loyal like nothing else. She followed me from room to room, even somehow managing to perch herself up on the narrow sliding glass door over the tub every time I showered. She nestled behind my neck in bed at nigh, suckling and keeping me awake with the lusty purring--something I only half-minded. I had more than my share of free weekends to compensate for the lost sleep back in those days.

Desi watched the first episodes of Seinfeld with me, chewed on ticket stubs from a matinee of Ghost, and heard me sob as I watched scud missiles fly through the air, painfully aware of witnessing real war for the first time in my lifetime. She saw my hair color change. Often. She mauled my first real piece of furniture. She hid in the bathroom while party guests crammed into my studio apartment, drank gallons of punch, and swayed woozily to mixed tapes belting out Lloyd Code and The Divynyls.

She watched me eat a lot of ramen noodles.

She moved with me out of state then back again. She cuddled with me as I collapsed with exhaustion from jobs that demanded my soul and my holiday weekends, all while my business cards were reprinted with increasingly longer titles. She saw my CD collection slowly outgrow the 6-inch gap between the TV and the disc player. She watched posters come down and artwork go up. She made a nest for herself on the closet floor among shoes that evolved from sales rack pleather to $300 kitten-heeled mules.

But what struck me most as I sat in the bathroom for the 18th time or so that hour is that Desi was there for the endless parade of ill-considered boyfriends, BFsF whose names I no longer recall, co-workers turned friends, hit-and-run suitors whose faces became blurry the morning after the drunken make-out session, and men who insisted "I'm just not ready to commit" when really they meant, "I'm just not ready to commit to you."

She saw me go from the me I was to the me I've become.

And that's when she met the man who didn't get away.

Soon came the dog. And the move. An office that became a nursery, and a baby that grew into a fur-grabbing, tail-pulling, aggressively cat-petting bundle of affection. Life as Desi knew it--as we knew it--was now something else entirely.

This crazed little black beast has been the one consistent thing in my life for 16 years, the one being who could tell the stories I've forgotten or wish I could. How could I even consider begging friends to keep her when we move later this summer? So what if she would eat them whole if given the chance; she was my companion for all these years and deserved better from me.

And just as my heart was swelling for this fat black furball and our decade and-a-half together, I walked back to the bedroom.

Where she had crapped all over the bed.

"I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you different."

I know you would have had way more clever things to say about your own death than I, so out of respect I won't even try.

But I did have the pleasure of meeting you once, back when I was about 15. I had just read Slaughterhouse Five and you asked me for my thoughts on it. My thoughts. A 15 year old. I don't remember what I said--or, what really kills me, what you said--but the profound impression remained that you could be someone with so many brilliant things to say and still know you have things to learn. Even from a kid.

"When Hemingway killed himself he put a period at the end of his life," you once said. "Old age is more like a semicolon."

I'd like to think you lived like a big old exclamation point. You don't get that just from farting around.

RIP Kurt Vonnegut, 1922-2007

Baby Naming FAQ

The name recos! I am drowning in them. Drowning in the kindness and creativity and...okay, a few kind of weird ones.

I can't believe the degree to which people--lurkers even--have opened their hearts, minds, and baby naming books to help out a poor, disfunctional infant-namer and her contrarian partner.

I wish I could respond to each of you individually. But then I'd just feel guilty, like I could have spent that time coming up with more names.

So allow me to provide a baby naming FAQ to address some of the general issues:

1) Do you want to honor a relative?

I will tell you my options are limited, me being a Jew and all. While gentiles are blessed with proud, strong family names that pass muster in today's society, my people are sort of stuck with Irvings and Hetties and Hortenses. Still, we may have an idea or two.


2) Okay so give us the name - or at least the initial.
[edited to add: This refers to the name of deceased family member to honor - NOT the name of the child which we do not have]

Can't. Family reading. Warring factions. Montague/Capulet level stuff.



3) What about Kayleigh?

I regret that I cannot accept alternaspellings of names. It's not personal, it's just that they will revoke my New York City residence status according to city bylaw 188734.16.


4) I always liked names with lots of Ys where vowels should be.

I'm so happy for you!


5) Can't you just pick a name and tell Nate...tough? Hahaha

Um, no. It doesn't work that way around here.


6) But you're the one giving birth!

Stop making a good case.


7) That doesn't seem fair.

Welcome to my world


8) Do you have any favorite names from when you were a kid?

Debbi. Which is one more outstanding reason why 15 year-olds should not be having children.


9) Hey, I gave you like 7 great names. What about those?

I have 7 great friends who have all used those 7 great names.


10) Hey, I gave you a great name too!

Yeah, that was the name of the woman Nate slept with before me, also referred to as "the herpes scare girl"


11) Nate doesn't really want to name her Clinton Portis does he? He's being funny? It's a joke?

Yes he's being funny and no, it's not a joke.


12) I like the idea of a theme - Thalia and Clio is so cute.

Indeed. But unfortunately, an advertising creative naming her kid Clio is like an actor naming her kid Oscar. Only far more gross.


13) What does Thalia have to say?

She's sticking with Apple. She's been very consistent on this.


14) Hey, where'd my suggestion go? I know I posted one.

Take it as a compliment that I liked it. I just can't have any evidence of it anywhere, or Nate will kill the name - far be it from him to ever say his daughter's name was a suggestion from some blog geek.

Revenge of the Jennifers

I sit here at 36 weeks pregnant, enormous and anxious, pouring through books like 800 Bazillion Baby Names and Simply the Best Baby Name Book in This or Any Known Galaxy and No I Swear This Baby Naming Book is Like, Sooooo Much Better Than the Others. My mechanical pencil is at the ready, that I might excitedly scribble sixteen stars with alternating exclamation points around The Name when I find it.

But for some reason I can't find it.

Or to be more specific, there are names I like. They are simply not available.

It's a strange beast, this 21st century baby naming business. Back when I was a wee lass (you know, walking to school uphill both ways, fending off drunken Confederate soldiers, etc.) things were much simpler:

You basically named your daughter Jennifer.

It didn't matter that your best friend had a Jennifer or that you had two cousins with Jennifers or that the celebrity du jour named her child Jennifer. In fact, you were proud to have chosen such a popular, contemporary name and you didn't even bother to disguise that fact with eunicque spellings like Jynnyfr or J'Ennifer. You just propped yourself up in that hospital bed, wrote J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R on the birth certificate in your anesthetic stupor, and went right on ahead loving your baby Jennifer as if she were the only baby Jennifer in the whole nursery-- never having even a clue that she'd grow up to resent being known as Jennifer P or Jennifer R for the rest of her days.

Today, this will simply not do. The new guidelines (surely made by a bunch of Jennifers, seeing as how they now rule the world) dictate that you may not use a baby name that has been taken by anyone you know, anyone you vaguely know, anyone you used to know but haven't seen since your high school reunion, anyone known by anyone you know or used to know or vaguely know, or, worst of all, anyone who's ever appeared between the covers of US Weekly.

These new mandates on name ownership evidently have had some impact. If you spend a few moments at the Social Security Administration's names database (a great place to while away those long third trimester days), you'll learn that the top 20 names in 1972 comprised 15% of all children. Today, the same top 20 is half that. There's just a greater pool of names to choose from today, and so, you're expected to find one that's gone unclaimed within your social circle.

If you deign to steal a friend's name (yes, I have heard this actual expression used) in lieu of finding a shiny new one, expect to fend off passive-agressive remarks like "Mind if I refer to her as Chloe II?" Or "How very Swedish of you."

Therein lies my problem.

In a nutshell, I have friends and family with excellent taste, damn them. Their kids have fantastic names-- hardly a clunker in the whole lot. And since I'm getting such a late start on this whole baby business, that leaves me, essentially, with the remnants.

You know things are tough when you flip through the increasingly dog-eared pages of one of the baby name books and realize that in a wholly sober state you circled Isis.

While my readers have been kind enough to offer up their rejects or even their own names (because certainly none of them will offer those of their children) over the past weeks, I have yet to find one with that magical combination of "awesome!" and "wow, I can't believe no one I know has used that yet."

And so, I continue to look for inspiration, holding out hope that The Name will come to me before that first contraction starts. I look through lists of Shakespearean names. Poets. Goddesses. I scan IMDB for Oscar Winners of the 1940s. I browse museum websites for favorite artists. I even humor Nate and try to look through the Redskins roster for a name he might go along with besides Clinton Portis. (Or Clintonia Portia, as Jaelithe cleverly suggested.) Then every so often, I think I'm onto something.

"I like the idea of a name from the natural world," I tell a friend. "Maybe something floral?"

"Nice!"

"But I'm afraid the only unclaimed options are Calendula, Nasturtium or Wandering Jew."

"How about Rose?" she suggests.

"I know two just in our building."

"Okay, well Lily is sweet."

"That's Melissa's daughter's name."

"Pansy?"

"Nope."

"Daisy?"

"No way."

"Dahlia?"

"Dahlia and Thalia..."

"Yeah, that's not good. Okay, so Fern."

"Unfortunately Jennifer just named her daughter that last week."

"Jennifer R?"

"Jennifer P."

And so it goes.

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Want to read this again in another typeface? Check out Time Out New York Kids where every Monday my posts show up there too as a "column." (Fancy!) Even if you don't want to read this again, click over for great urban parenting tips and kid-friendly diversions 'round New York way.

I Should Be Forced to Wear a Sign That Says "I'm Hormonal and I Have a Blog So Watch Your Step"

To the mom in the vestibule of the restaurant who looked at Thalia and said, "Where are your gloves? Why don't you have gloves? See how my daughter has gloves? You should be wearing gloves on a day like today..." :

Fuck You.

Love,
Mom101

P.S. Your kid's clothes were ugly, she shouldn't be in a stroller at that age, and the name Brooklyn? Beyond terrible. Just in case you wanted my opinion in return.

The Whining Resumes

Now that my OB has declared, "everything looks just fine" and the sonogram technician has given me an imperfect weight guestimate of 5 pounds, 4 healthy ounces--I can go back tobitching about frivolous things like maternity bras the size of a minivan, my slightly troublesome new compulsion to eat a daily Reeses, and of course, the ongoing saga of what to name (or rather, what not to name) the baby.

Because she's coming in 4 weeks or so. And she's looking good, so say the experts.

(Here I squeal, just a little, but don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.)

All of your supportive comments and emails definitely talked me off a low ledge this week, and in fact, I now feel a wee bit embarrassed for an anxiety attack that seems disproportionate to the actual chance of any fears coming to pass.

Of course that's easy for me to say now, after hearing the words "everything looks fine." From an expert. In a white coat. With framed diplomas on the wall. Which is just who you want to hear those words from.

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Speaking of what to name or not name the baby:

(And I can assure you that Pear Fart is now officially off the list, despite Thalia's most recent suggestion.)



Huge thanks to Sandra who nominated She Who Shall Remain Nameless for a ROFL award. I'm in some pretty outstanding company, and duly flattered.

Although the closer I get to that 40 week mark, the less funny that post is starting to sound.

Separated at Birth?

Thalia...

and Jerri Blank?

Denial, Part II

So I'm going about this business of pregnancy, just doing what normal pregnant people do: Complaining about my weight, waddling to the diner for black and white milkshakes, scanning baby name books (and still not landing on anything...grrrrr), powdering the underside of my enormoboobs, and then, this morning, going through the utterly humiliating process of attempting to shave my bikini line in the shower--which, trust me, you want to know nothing about.

And of course, going to the OB.

"Just so you know," she said, after a perfectly, delightfully routine visit,"after you give birth, I'm going to have to take a blood sample from the baby. You know...because of the toxo."

The...?

Oh right. The toxo.

"Not that I think there will be an issue. But still, we have to test."

You know...because of the toxo.

"I could probably just get it from the cord blood come to think of it. And I'll have to send a sample of the placenta to the lab."

"That's cool," I said, trying not to let on that my carefully constructed fantasy world of fetal health and perfection had just crashed around the examining table in a dusty black heap. "It's not like I'm going to cook it for breakfast or anything."

"Or bury it in the backyard."

She laughed. I laughed.

Then she told me she wanted me to start going for non-stress tests once a week. You know...because of the toxo.

And then I left the office.

And freaked.

I forgot about the damn virus. Really forgot about it. Especially after the good amnio results back in December which indicate that pretty much all signs point to pfffft, don't even give it another thought. But still, there's always that teeny, tiny, minute little chance that...

ugh.

Nearly four months of blissful denial, gone, in one fell swoop.

And now I can't help but overanalyze my entire thought process since then. Have I avoided naming the baby because I'm scared something will go wrong? Have I not given her a cute little fetal nickname or washed her hand-me-down newborn clothes or avoided illegal cheeses as much as I probably should all because of this lurking anxiety--one that I refuse to articulate with much more clarity than what you're seeing here.

I really want to go back to denial again. In fact, I am doing my best. And I'm getting fairly good at it, if I don't say so myself. Too bad I can't put "great denier" on my resume somewhere because I'm convinced that after this whole thing is over, I could teach classes in it. Maybe the 92nd Street Y.

I deny it by eating the bad cheese, by climbing up stepladders, by stealing sips of wine, by complaining about relatively insignificant pregnancy maladies, and especially by being terrible at taking my toxo medicine as regularly as I should.

What I can't deny, I justify.

When I count the eight bazillion kicks that the squirmy girl makes during the non-stress test I think, good sign. Good sign. When people tell me I look small for eight months I try hard to accept it as a compliment and not an indicator that the baby's not growing. When perfectly normal fears arise about loving that second child, I tell myself that all this drama will only make me love her more.

Thursday I have a comprehensive fetal anatomy scan that my doctor scheduled for some just-in-case 36 week measurements. If all is well, I know I can re-stamp my tourist visa for Happy Denial Land once again.

Until then I'll be keeping busy visualizing all good things. Like a newborn who won't stop crying. Bags under my eyes. Sore, cracked nipples. Twice the laundry. And three times the diapers.

All good things.

Geeeeeeeenius

Last week I described our frequent reluctance to praise our children in front of other people for fear of alienating potential friends or provoking the competimommies. The comments were wonderful, and some readers brought up the recent New York Magazine article that describes how now some experts are suggesting that we hold off on telling our kids that they're smart at all. Better to praise them for their efforts rather than their talents, the researchers say.

Which is all well and good, save for one teeny little barrier: The grandparents.

God bless the grandparents.

In their eyes, my bright but decidedly normal 21 month old daughter is a geeeeeeenius. Advanced. Insanely gifted. Destined for a dual major in biomedical engineering and something else with six or more syllables, after which she’ll develop the AIDS vaccine, end worldwide religious intolerance, become America's Poet Laureate, and win two Nobel Prizes, the Cannes Palm d'Or, and a People's Choice Award.

Then just wait and see what she does when she hits 25.

All this projecting started early, very early. Because apparently, an alert 2 week old is something akin to a prodigy.

“She looked right at me! She recognizes me from the hospital!"

"Yes, mom."

"She sees her hand! Did you see that? Her hand! HER HAND! She looked at it!"

"Yes mom, she saw her hand."

"She looked away from the TV - she's not even interested in the TV! She prefers books! Did you see her look at the book?"

"Yes mom, she's 12 days old and has already rejected all commercial broadcast media."

Geeeeeenius.

My mother in particular mastered the art of spin in a way that could give Fox News a run for its money. Thalia’s inability to sleep, like, ever, was due to the fact that she was too enthralled with the world to stop taking it in. A finger in her mouth was an indication of super-human physical prowess. Petting a dog was confirmation of her magical ability to communicate with animals. Staring at a tree was some sort of telepathic exchange in the animistic tradition.

While Nate and I made fun of these observations (well, just a little), the truth is, it was nothing short of sweet. There's something utterly charming about the notion of a baby so pure, so full of potential, that she's little more than a blank canvas onto which doting family members can project all their dreams in one big sappy gush of love, pride and optimism. And so the grandparents deemed her advanced. They said she'd change the world one day. And yes, they called her smart.

So maybe within the privileged, overly introspective, upper middle-class circles of New York City superparents we can be so bold as to analyze the nuances of exactly how to praise our kids, fearing that an errant slip of the tongue can cause (brace yourself!) underachievement. But is it really so horrible? Who among us hasn't witnessed a harried mother in the supermarket berating her misbehaving child with expletives. Or a father on the subway calling his distraught toddler an idiot as he threatens to give him something real to cry about.

I suppose what I'm saying is that there are far worse things to call your kid than smart. And far better issues for parents to lose sleep over than having a kid who believes it.

So if my parents want to call my daughter a geeeeeeenius? I'm not going to tell them to stop.

Although I will still make fun of them. Just a little.

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So here's a really nice thing! Starting today, on Mondays my posts will also appear as an online column for Time Out New York Kids--only the single greatest online resource for parents living or visiting the five boroughs. Visit their website to check it out, or to get urban parenting tips and geeeeeeeenius kid-friendly diversions.

And welcome to any new readers - delighted to have you here.

At Least It Wasn't the EPT Stick

Thalia understands concepts like dinner is ready or Elmo is on. I think there's a baby girl growing in mommy's uterus and she's going to come out in about a month after which you'll have a sister is just beyond her grasp at 21 months.

Even so, we've been trying to prepare her in whatever ways we can, if such a thing is possible. So we bought her a doll stroller yesterday.

Last night, we found her pushing it around the house containing not a doll, not a stuffed animal, not even the brown bag of muffins she had pushed home from the store that morning. Instead, strapped into the seat was this:


Maybe she gets this baby business better than we think?

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You may have noticed that this weekend, Mom101 tidied up the place with a wee bit of help. If I was having a boy I'd definitely have to name him Chag.