Oh Irony, How You Taunt My Youngest Child With Your Cruel Literary Device Ways

Even french fry eating

is very serious

business.

My little baby girl is a real live, almost walking, not quite talking garbage can. She can eat anything even remotely described as food-like. Anywhere. Any time.

Wait a minute, that's a lemon.

A delicious lemon.

Or at least she would. If it it weren't for the teeth.

Which are currently best described as tooth.

I am not sure what minor infraction that Sage committed in a past life - perhaps she grafittied the Parthenon or put shaving cream in Napoleon's hands while he slept then tickled his nose - but karma is getting her back big time by refusing to supply her with the necessary choppers to satisfy the unabated hunger within.

It is cruel. It's mean. It's teasing and teasing isn't nice.

The rare photo in which Sage actually smiles at the camera instead of the food.

Thalia cut her teeth like a normal kid, a few on the bottom at 8 months, next a bunch on the top, add some incisors, coupla molars. Wham, mouth full of teeth. Poor Sagey, however, is about to turn one with just that lone tooth at the center top, hardly even halfway out.

(And the next one to come is its next door neighbor, perhaps a crueler hand dealt by the mistresses of fate as Sage is surely destined to be buck toothed for some time. But at least she will be able to eat artichokes.)

Sage wants to eat. She has to eat. She is dying to eat OH MY GOD MAMA PLEASE FEED ME SOME MORE FOOOOOOOD. And yet she is limited to that which she can gum.

Passover: The holiday in which God passes over all the toothless babies and makes them eat matzoh instead of lamb on the bone.

"Meh."

She ogles Nate's spare ribs with pure, unabated yearning. I only wish I could give it to her whole instead of shredding it into teeny little shards fit for...well, a baby. Although truth be told, Sage impresses with how well she puts the limited capabilities of the gums to use. To see her at work in that little wooden high chair of hers, legs dangling, jaw pulsing, is like watching a woodsman fell an oak with a plastic butter knife.

In a way, Sage is lucky that she's the second child with the demeanor to just shrug and do the best with what she's got. I think she's pretty much taking it in stride.

At least until a snappy carrot or a whole green apple ends up on her sister's plate and not hers.

And then she is defeated.

---

EDITED TO ADD: Holy cow, I totally forgot about Perfect Post Awards today. Rats. Well if I were to have remembered in time, I'd have awarded Liz from This Full House for her post on Blog Reader Appreciation in which she not only took the time to link like a hundred billion great bloggers, but actually said something nice about each one. Which is so par for the course because Liz is one of the kindest, most giving, supportive bloggers in the history of all blogginess and related blogginess-type things.

Hope it's not too late to put a pretty button on your site, Liz. You earned it.

The San Francisco Chronicle

Two sure signs you're in San Francisco:

1.

2.

You know, you take a whirlwind trip to other coast.

You survive The Feet, you arrive at your hotel with the $16.95 a day internet and the view out the window of another hotel room.

You do a little shopping, you manage to stay awake long enough to wish your friend good luck on her book reading, open your eyes at 11 for the arrival of your pregnant friend who is a far more intrepid and less complain-y traveler than you.

You arrive at ABC thanks to a real live San Francisco hippie cab driver in time for your segment - and a fire drill.

Outside ABC studios

ABC studios outside ABC studios

You realize that you missed Katie Segal by one day, and instead get to share the massive green room buffet with a gorgeous personal trainer-slash-mom who puts our thighs to shame.

Ritz crackers! Triskits! Planters! No expense was spared.

The link is up. The dirt? Unfortunately, there is none.
So lame when TV hosts are actually nice, isn't it?

After the show you skip the Web 2.0 conference in favor of the LSD channel in your hotel room and a few minutes of Gigli.

We were way too not on acid to be watching this as long as we did.

Seriously. Gigli. I couldn't make that up.

Later you get wined and dined at a totally killer restaurant in the company of delightful friends old and new (Victoria! Shoot me your url)

Amy needs to learn a little something about dining with bloggers.

Well, it is San Francisco.

You manage to scam a stretch limo back to the airport as the sun rises out the tinted windows.

Too tired to even steal a swig of Jack.

But in the end, the most memorable part of the entire week was coming home to your daughters, one of whom is saying dada like a pro, and the other of whom managed to make a card for you on which she wrote MOM all by herself for the very first time.


The lives we lead.

The Agony of the Feet.

The trip to San Francisco this morning was happily uneventful, with the exception of the feet.

The nasty, smelly, hammertoed, chipped-silver-nailpolish-covered, old lady feet. The feet that remained mercilessly unsheathed from any sort of protective footwear the entire flight. Right next to me.

Occasionally they touched me.

Seriously, you are glad the resolution on this is so bad.

Tomorrow Bay Area friends can watch Kristen and I choke on live TV doing Mother's Day gift recos on ABC's View from the Bay somewhere between tips for turning off technology, and fun and easy exercises to get your body ready for the beach.

I hope they don't expect us to participate in either of those.

I imagine we'll be okay if I can manage not to think about the feet.

Karma, You Truly Are a Bitch, Aren't You.

Close to two decades working in advertising and in all that time, I never really considered that one day I might have to downplay my own profession to my children.

"Mommy, maybe I can try this?" is the consistent refrain after any ad with even an iota of kid appeal.

"That's a commercial," I tell Thalia trying to channel my best Carol Channing in Free to Be You and Me. "It looks like a show but it's not a show. It's someone trying to sell us something. And sometimes those things are good and sometimes they're not. So we need to be really really smart and look carefully at what they're selling in that commercial and decide whether we really want to try it or not."

"But maybe I can try that?"

"Sure honey," I sigh. "Maybe."

We don't watch all that much commercial TV with her - and mostly the commercials are for other shows. Dora promoting Wonderpets, crack promoting heroin. But recently Noggin starting running some sort of insipid animated extended-length commercial featuring "The Huggies Clean Team," which is sort of like a cross between the Muppet Babies, the Chipmunks, and a lobotomy.

Boy it got Thalia's attention.

"Mommy! I want to watch this show."

So I went into my commercial spiel. She seemed to get it.

The ad came on again yesterday.

"Mommy, it's the commercial!"

"Yes, honey! You're right! That's a commercial." I was so proud of my smart, media-savvy, not quite three year-old. "And what's it trying to sell us?"

"Diapers."

I beamed.

"And LOOK! That's a funny looking snake!"

"Yes sweetie, it is. Because he is there to..."

"That snake is ALL BLUE."

"Yes, yes he is. He is definitely blue."

"And that's a flamingo! Playing a banjo, mommy. A BANJO."

"Yes sweetie. Because the commercial wants us to..."

"This is great! All these animals! I love animals, mommy. LOOK AT THAT FUNNY YELLOW FISH. Is it a whale? It's a YELLOW WHALE MOMMY. I love that yellow whale."

"Yes, of course you do. But sweetie, this is a commercial."

"That is a commercial for diapers mommy. It's not a show."

"Right."

"I love that commercial."

"Okay."

"It's a funny commercial. For diapers."

"Okay."

"Maybe I can try this mommy? Maybe I can try it some time?"

The loud thud that followed was the sound of karma socking me in the gut with the force of a thousand yellow whales.

Breakup by Blog

Goodbye my sweet.

You served me well for four years but now it's time to bid you farewell, send you into the arms of some other (lesser) writer. It's not my fault. I would have kept you, even though your processor was dated, your software malfunctioning, your power cord sucking the big one, and your e and i wearing off for the third time each. But the old employer wants you back.

Okay, they would have taken more than double your market value in exchange for your freedom. I passed. Sorry.

It's not you, it's me.

In the time that we were together, I wrote brilliant ad campaigns. Brilliant, original, award-winning, career-changing ad campaigns. No one will ever see them, of course. What's that adage about advertising being better without the clients? I wrote some good campaigns too. And some mediocre campaigns. Sometimes at 6 am. Sometimes at midnight. You didn't sleep a lot, and neither did I.

I spent my entire first pregnancy on bed rest with you on my belly, branding my thighs with permanent red marks from the heat of the titanium casing. You can still see the scars. I wrote letters to my unborn daughter. I researched fetal development and fetal positions and fetal anomalies that I pretended not to have read. I spent far too many hours researching crib bedding. I spent far too many hours creating my registry then changing my registry, then changing it back. Then changing it back again. Then just...oh ok. I'll leave it.

No I won't.

I banged away on anonymous mom message boards. I learned the meaning of CIO, CVS, SAHD and OMFG. I used the term snarky. I used the term LOL. I denied ever using the term LOL.

I wrote very, very bad poetry.

I started my first blog with you. I created a pseudonym that stuck, only because citymama was already taken. I left my first blog comment. I got my first blog comment. I got my first email from a blogger kind enough to tell me that my comments were off.

With you I learned that html wasn't pronounced hatemail, and that wysiwyg wasn't a typo. I got my first paycheck from blogging. I started my second blog.

I found my voice.

I had my second daughter. I managed to find a name for my second daughter.

I lost my cat.

We traveled the country together - LA, San Jose, Boston, Providence, North Carolina, South Carolina, Atlanta, LA, Orlando, Pompano, Tampa, Washington DC, Maine. And LA. And LA.
And LA.

And of course, Chicago. By way of Houston.

I've made friends with your help and I kept them. And I believe I will keep them for a very long time. But you, my friend, you are going across country tomorrow and you're staying there. Our time together is up. I've got a newer, sleeker, faster model. Not that there was anything wrong with you that we couldn't have fixed. It just wasn't worth it.

I'll always have the memories. And, probably, the red splotches on my legs.

Two's Company

There are times that I write because I have to, whether anyone is reading or not. My last post is included in this category.

And then there are times that I write because I have to and then, God bless the blogworld, get so more so much more in return than merely the weight of the imperfect parenting lifestyle off my chest. Like wisdom from women generous and brave enough to share their own thoughts and deepest fears with someone they've never even met. And advice from real live therapists. Free! Also, the happy, happy delurking comments (Ashley! Happy_Housewife!) which to a blogger is surely the emotional equivalent of a woman believing she turned a hot gay man straight.

I read every comment four hundred times over and appreciated every one of them.

Well, except one. Which referred to the idea of being glad at stopping at one kid.

I'm sure it was intended to be cheekier or more introspective than it came across, but had the unfortunate effect of making me curl my lips inward in the way that I've been told I do when I don't like something I hear. Not because she questioned my choice, but because my superhero power of empathy kicked in. I imagined good friends, offline and online who are currently in the freakout stage of holy shit I'm breeding again, reading that comment and wincing.

And because that concern was in my head, even as I wrote the post, I want to take it on directly.

It's amazing how guilt works. Someone once said it was the most useless of all the emotions. Okay, it was New Order. But I some researchy types have said it too. Guilt achieves nothing, it's an evolutionary flaw. It doesn't really indicate a higher morality or stronger sense of virtue or more self-awareness; truly I think I could have all those things without the accompanying nausea and weepiness and Haagen Dazs binges.

So then I feel guilty for feeling guilty. Which doesn't in fact cancel out the emotion in a double negative sort of way
But - and this is essential - guilt is not the same as regret.

I don't for a minute regret having Sage, even if I'm still reconciling how to be the best mother I can to her. Even if I feel bad that my attention starved toddler doesn't get me at her beck and call any longer. To anyone in second child freak out mode, hear this now.

(Or forget me - hear those out there with three kids, or a third on the way. Hell, ask my friend with seven kids, who does it so masterfully, she makes my concerns look absolutely absurd.)

I don't want to evangelize my own choices; I could have just as easily been the the mom who stopped at one. Or as I've mentioned, the single career woman who would never have employed her uterus at all, had Nate not come along and swept me off his feet, what with his no money and his squatter apartment on Avenue C with the fruit flies in the sink and the the putrid couch salvaged from a street corner in the rain.

I can put myself in nearly anyone else's shoes and come up with a perfectly excellent rationale for whatever choices they've made. It's a blessing and a curse. (And sometimes keeps me from ordering quickly at restaurants.)

But for those of you wondering whether you take the plunge into the world of multiple kids, I can only tell you this:

There are things about it that are hard. Of course. Guilt is just the beginning.

But if you think you love your first child now, then seeing her sweetly kiss her baby sibling on the head, or proudly introduce her at the playground, or scurry into your bedroom practically upending a chair on the way simply to exclaim SHE'S CLAPPING, MOMMY! SHE'S CLAPPING! Well, those things will make you fall in love that first child even deeper than you ever thought possible.

I think I've given them both an amazing gift: Each other.

You all reminded me of that this week. Thank you.

This is why we do it.

11 Months

This weekend Sage somehow, miraculously, without my help or express permission, passed the 11 month mark. We are now counting down the days until that astounding one year milestone, and all the parental reflection that brings. Also the party. Oy, the party.

I can hardly help but think of her without making comparisons to her sister. Surely I'd be forgiven, for Thalia was the only other baby I ever knew. Without her I wouldn't understand why teething equates sleeplessness, how small to cut the pieces of melon, the three-digit Kids-on-Demand channel by memory.

I learned how to love with Thalia. Sage is reaping those rewards. But then when I can barely envision writing my littlest girl a heartfelt birthday letter without somehow referencing her sister, I find it a little painful. I put myself in her crib shoes and I wonder if this is the thing that puts people into therapy so many decades later. I wonder if she'll grow up resentful - or simply accept it, not having known any other way.

This must be the curse of the second child I always hear about.

Although perhaps (maybe? hopefully?) less an actual curse than the overly guilty mind of an overextended parent.

In some ways Sage is so lucky to have come second: No hesitation to hustle her out of the house in her first days for fresh air. Fewer panicked midnight peeks into her bassinet to see if she was still breathing. An extra pacifier always at the ready. (I learned that lesson early.) And not one tumble from bed to hard floor as an infant, surely a miracle considering the number her sister experienced. I am a calmer mother with Sage. A happier mother. And I don't think anyone in our lives would disagree when I say she has a happier father too.

Yet at times I feel like I hardly know Sage at all. And that is crushing.

I could have predicted Thalia's every move at 11 months. I knew the nuances of her personality. I knew each milestone hit down to the day and I've got a full enough baby book to show for it. I see Sage in far broader terms. Is it any surprise?

While we spent countless hours just staring at Thalia as she stared in space or waved her arms or crawled through the lawn looking at blades of grass and shiny earthworms, Sage must be content to take what attention is left after Thalia's had her fill. I find there are fewer moments I have with Sage in which just she and I pat the bunny, lift the flap on the board book, build a fort out of blocks to knock them down, dance alone to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in the living room. I think of the many lullabies I sang for Thalia, the many nights rocking her in my arms while I strained to remember a sixth or seventh song - and I can hardly recall a single one that reminds me exclusively of Sage.

But then, she always put herself to sleep pretty well.

But then, it's not like I had any opportunity to learn new songs before Sage came along.

But then, maybe I just suck.

We think the oldest child is the independent ones. But a surer reality might be that the little one learns to put herself to sleep because she has no choice. Mommy's too busy racing back into the kitchen to finish dinner for the first or working longer hours to pay for the second set of diapers. The baby has to learn to entertain herself in the highchair while her attention-starved older sister demands to stand at the counter alongside mommy and spread the peanut butter ALL BY MYSELF. AND ALSO I WANT TO TASTE THE PEANUT BUTTER ON THE KNIFE WITH MY TONGUE NO NOT LIKE THAT, LIKE THISSSSSS.

I'd hate to think that Sage has spent her entire first year in a proverbial high chair, looking on at life.

But when I shut up and stop self-flagellating, it's unlikely she's done any such thing. I think she's experienced life just fine. It's me that's missed my opportunity to notice the details.

I live for those mornings when Sage arises early, fussing from her crib at 6:15 or 6:30. It's a guaranteed half hour, more if we're lucky, before the jealous toddler stumbles out of her (our) bed and starts pawing at me for attention and cinnamon toast. In those early hours, we can play patty-cake. We can bounce. We can make silly sounds. And I steal those quick thirty minute sessions to get to know her best I can. And get to hug her more. And get feel my love grow for her more.

Differently than it did for the first. But not worse. Or so I tell myself. Just...differently.

Spring! Spring! Ouch, Spring.

Yesterday Spring officially sprung in NYC. The dogwoods and magnolia trees opened, forscythia bloomed in blinding yellow, beds of early-rising crocuses had colorful company at last.

Walking around my Brooklyn neighborhood, spring fever was indeed here. But the truest sign of the season in these parts can be recognized in watching the women. And how they walk.

If you weren't paying close attention, the gait seemed normal. But on closer inspection, the steady, determined New York pace is just a little bit slower, just a little more awkward. As if a toe is curled inward or an ankle twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Faces are contorted mildly, full grimaces suppressed as the ordinarily unstoppable forward march of The Busy Woman is hindered.

It's like driving 35 with the emergency brake on.

For what you do not see underneath the trendy metallic flats, the raffia slingbacks, the open-toed kitten heels, the primary colored T-strap wedges that remained in shoe boxes and tissue until this fateful 72-degree day are the blisters.

Oh, the blisters.

It is break-in-the-new-shoes season in New York.

Unlike LA or most suburbs where we can hop contentedly from car to restaurant, from playgroup back to car, New Yorkers rely on our feet. They are our vehicles, our bikes, our chauffeurs. As such, we do our best to balance style and comfort of our footwear. But sometimes finding the comfort--without the help of summer callouses and the protection of woolly socks--is a slow, painful, uphill journey. Literally.

My own personal torture device yesterday were a pair of lovingly procured soft leather Cole Haan ballet flats with Nike Air Cushioning (tm) - a sure recipe for comfort. Or so I thought. But one six block walk to the grocery store and back had me remembering the adage about NY women breaking in their feet to suit their shoes and cursing the fact that I had no extra Dora Band-Aids in my bag.

I know they'll be my happy shoes in no time. I know they'll be the go-to pair that I live in non-stop. By BlogHer in July they'll be so worn and smelly and wonderful I won't even want to change them from conference to cocktail party.

But until then, yeouch.

---

One more cool thing about Spring? Mother's Day! One month away! Kristen and I have kicked our own asses digging up such amazing stuff for the Cool Mom Picks Mother's Day Gift Guide this year - we'd be beyond honored if you stopped by and checked out all the awesome suggestions from indie and women-run businesses we're trying to support.

Although if you really want us so happy that we might considering tattooing your name on our butts (I have plenty of room there, trust me), just post the dandy button code on your blog sidebar and we'll enter you in a drawing to win $400 worth of swanky mom merch like keepsake jewelry and yummy organic body butters. Find all the details on the guide.

Katie Couric: The Untold Story

I am officially a failure as a blogger.

Friday, as you may by know now, a group of us wimmins met with Katie Couric to talk about the viability of Katie as a blogger, and then Katie, the novice blogger, goes and writes about it before I do. Because you know - Katie Couric. First ever female anchor of network nightly news. Single mom of two. Shapely calves that I sense are not just owed to genetics.

Yeah, not really much going on in her life.

Entering CBS: Less the face of fear and more the face of I really have to pee

The back of my head loves the camera, logging a record 6 hours of air time.

Dueling Katies! I spot four...but which one is real?

Since by now pretty much everyone has written about it before me I figured I would have no choice but to embrace the sloppy seconds, the paltry table scraps of a story that is left, and to simply point to Katie's own excellent blogging and vlogging of the event.

But aha! Not so!

For after checking each of those blogs, I realize that no one has yet told the true story of what went on in that shiny white office high atop 57th Street that fateful afternoon.

Katie and Beth get Spin the Bottle off to an excellent start

Lisa Stone laughs as the bottle mysteriously points to her
the fourth time in a row

Amanda apologies for her chapped lips, having forgotten her
Burts Bees in her other diaper bag that morning

Devra, Danielle, and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Head
look disheartened as the bottle lands on Lisa yet again.

Hoping to get Joanne - she's dreamy!

Sorry Katie - I love you and you're cool and warm and smart and engaging and all that, but the real facts had to come out sometime. I know I told you I'm not a journalist but I do have integrity.

Our Own Little "Digital-Era Sweatshop"

Maybe this NY Times article explains why I've been so lax to update this weekend. I like blogging, but I'd rather my obit not read She was found face down on her computer with the esc key stuck to her cheek.

I've got so much to write about:
-A visit with Katie Couric (I know!).
-Some thoughts on BlogHer Biz this week and why bloggers and PR folks cannot seem to figure each other out. (Read live blogging accounts of my panels here and especially here with thanks to Rita and Shannon for sacrificing their finger joints that others might get to see me say vagina to a room of 300 people.)
-Perhaps most importantly, the notorious blogger karaoke pics from Friday night. I do hear Mama K has video, damn those Flip Cams.

But for now, I'm off to get the kids at my mom's, even if they would be happy to stay there forever. Because I miss them painfully, madly, deeply. I only miss posting half that much.

It's a Hell of a Town

I think that I'm a social person, with a decent enough social life. But it's not until I actually get dressed up and head out on the town that I realize I have sadly confused getting out with going out.

Getting out, most often with the kids, generally does not lead to the following:

1. Witnessing four EMTs in Times Square performing CPR on a guy on the street who may, from the look of it, have already been dead. I was scared to tell Dana this moments later at the sk*rt meetup for fear that she would run back to the midwest, never again to return to the big, scary city which her mother already told her would lead to her kidnapping or murder or worse - We might turn her liberal!

2. A black, thugged-out Lincoln Navigator parked in front of the Scientology center, which, when I went to take a picture for a potential blog post (a celebrity in the Scientology center!) changed my impression of the situation: Through the tinted windows, hard core porn was clearly visible on two drop-down screens on the back seat. My flash accidentally went off (d'oh!) at which point the occupants instantly shut off the video and turned towards me.

I ran. Oh yes I did. For I do not think it was Tom and Katie back there.


3. A drunk Irish guy telling me, You're the preeeetiesh mohsh beauful girl that I eeeever saw. D'yu haveaboyfren? Tellimees the luuuuuckiesh man ever. You tellem I said it. You tellimthat. Oh wait...you can't take my pishur. You can't puhme on the internet. You haffto erase that. I've done shum things, you know? I've done shumthigs I'm not proud of...d'yu have a boyfren?

4. Dinner consisting of a glass of wine, a mojito with Anna, and a bag of potato chips. But it was sour cream and onion, so that's two vegetables right there.

I have to get out more.