Justin Bieber, now in delicious bite-size morsels

Evidently the dolls will be out in November. The one thing they're missing is a great slogan. Any thoughts?

Something always gives

There are just some things you accept that you give up experiencing when you're a working mom. New foods. New friends. New words, and new teeth.
The first all-by-myself monkey bar expedition. The first fairy princess dress-up playdate. The first goal scored at soccer practice. The first snowman drawing. The first snowman making.

Mostly I've learned to do without; what choice do I have? Still, some of them hurt a little more than others. There's not a day that I don't wish I had a magic mirror that Ozma gave Dorothy, so I could peek in on my girls at any given minute to witness the small triumphs and sweet moments.

But for me, my Achilles heel is missing pediatrician visits.

I want to be there. I feel I should be there. I'm the mom, dammit, and it kills me not to be there, holding hands and stroking heads, ready with a lollipop after those boosters. And so I never make the appointment until the last possible minute and the school is calling and ugh did we miss a deadline or something? because I simply am not available during appointment hours. Of course procrastination doesn't somehow make the need to visit go away. One of these years I'll learn that.

So I finally resigned myself to rely on my sitter to take the girls in for well visits (remember when they were just called check-ups?), willing away memories of sanctimommy judgments I once made myself about nannies in the waiting room with children.

(Oh, don't we all know best when we've got our first baby in our arms?)

I briefed my sitter on the questions to ask, the forms to get, the little nighttime cough to discuss. I looked Sagey in the eye and promised, don't worry sweetie. I don't think you get a shot this time. It's just a visit. With the nice doctor.

And then, in the middle of a meeting, I get the call from the nice doctor about the shot.

The guilt hits. The crushing, debilitating, evil, pathetic working mom guilt. The stuff that never goes away even when you think you've got it all under control. Like it just has to creep up into the forefront of your consciousness once in a while to keep you in check; a stinging reminder that no, you can't do it all. Something always gives. It's a guilt that wants you to feel it, and feel it good. Yes, right now. Yes, right in the middle of a meeting. And no, you can't suppress it.

I'm wondering whether my 3 year-old feels betrayed or abandoned or simply in pain and I'm just not there. I'm in a meeting debating the very important, life-of-death decision of how big the title card should be at the end of the commercial.

The tears burn the back of my eyes. I'm just not there.

The Battle Hymn of the Kindergarten Republic

Last night, as I smushed my butt into the kindergarten-sized chair and settled in for curriculum night, I felt all the pride and emotion and anxiety and excitement as the first day. Looking around at Thalia's work I could tell she was inspired. And it's not surprising. Her teacher is exuberant and committed. The parents looked friendly. The teacher described science and reading and snacks and art and rules. I was delighted to be part of the New York City public school system.

And then came the stars.

A quick mention of the "star chart," more a behavior modification tool than a rewards chart, to help give kids a nudge in the right direction towards extra-good behaviors or away from the shedding of bad ones.  It seemed fair. It seemed...like not a big deal at all. After a week in school every kid had a star or two. The end.

Or, not the end?

One hand is slowly raised in the back - a concern about the star chart. But what if our kid feels bad because he didn't get a star? Then, more questions. Are our kids participating for the right reasons if it's all about the stars? And are the stars fair? And are the stars good? Are the stars a path to low- self-esteem? Are the stars a public school thing because really, we're Waldorf parents and I'm still coping with the fact that we're here [deep breath]? Will stars be the ultimate destruction of our children, in a fight for their eternal souls along with processed foods and those light-up sneakers?

Lines were drawn! The pro-stars versus the no-stars!

I was hoping for blood.

I put $20 down on the mom in the glasses and the purple suede Merrills. She looked like a prize fighter in another life.

Um, wow - this is the most discussion we've ever had about the stars in 15 years, the teacher said.

And I started to feel bad. Because my superhero power is empathy. And it was starting to get awkward in there.

"If it weren't for star stickers, my kids would still be in diapers," I said with a smile. "So, I'm all for them!"

Heads turned. Three people laughed. Maybe two. The rest glared at me like, who the fuck are you, lady, and shut the fuck up. We're trying to have a VERY IMPORTANT STAR FIGHT HERE.

I always make a good first impression.

Dropping one ball in the juggle

Okay so I have an excuse for getting Sage's pick up time at preschool wrong yesterday. I have an excuse for leaving her sitting there with the teacher (even though she swore it was okay) on the second day of class while the other kids came and left (she did swear it was okay) and sat and sat (she said it was okay, what!) and read books and really, generally was fine.

Yesterday I launched a new website. Well, we launched a new website, the we being the Cool Mom Picks team plus the genius Beth Blecherman of TechMamas.  It's called Cool Mom Tech. And I think it's going to be awesome.

So yeah, I was a little distracted yesterday. Enough to leave my 3 year-old sitting alone with the teacher (even though she swore it was okay) for an hour until my sitter came.


I hope you like the site. It was built with a lot of love, a lot of hard work, and, as with all endeavors, a bit of mommy guilt.

Alice in Grownupland

I once appeared on a national television show talking about Elmo Sex. You know, when you plop your 18 month-old in front of Elmo so you can run in the bedroom for a little uh...adult time.

It's the perfect scenario: You know you have a fixed amount of time, you know your kid is totally entertained, and you've even got that little 30 second warning in the end when the Elmo's World song kicks in.

My kids have long since outgrown Elmo and so this weekend, we tried something new - Alice Sex. We figured a Disney classic is always good for an hour or so of good, quality child rearing.

That is, until your three year-old knocks on the door frantically to inform you that Daddy, Alice got BIG and she is GROWING and she is stuck in the HOLE and she is TOO BIG FOR THE HOLE!

So you stifle your giggles as you toss a towel around your waist and you "yes honey" her while you rush her back to the couch, begging her to watch for just three more minutes to see what happens. Because you know, it will be something really really good! So just you wait and see...for three minutes? Okay? Three minutes? Good girl.

Not 30 seconds later she runs back in (damn those sliding French doors) as we dive under the covers, and she stands there breathlessly with very important news.

Alice is now smaller!

There is an easy joke about the Eat Me sequence here, but I'm not going there.

I kissed a boy

Today for no good reason at all, I was compelled to go to Facebook and look up the first boy I ever kissed.

I still remember the game of 7 Minutes in Heaven at gymnastics camp, scampering up into the sand dunes with him, away from the circles of giggling kids. The sand was cool. The air was perfect, and the waves of the Long Island Sound crashed below us. I let him kiss me. He asked me if it was my first time. I may have lied.

I was nervous. It was nice. We kissed again. My heart raced.

The next day, he liked someone else instead. She was older. She had blonde hair and wore thick, slick pink lip gloss. She was always rubbing her lips together. She could do full splits. She lived in the city. I didn't stand a chance.

Today I saw his face for the first time in 30 years. He's adorable. He's also a fan of Living with Wine and Gay List Daily.

I have that effect on some ten year-olds.

Who was the first boy you ever kissed? Where is he now?

A birthday reflection. Complete with disco ball.

I still remember the day in sixth grade when my best friend Hally and I sat down and calculated how old we would turn in 2000. The answer was 32.

I had a pretty clear picture of how my life would be then: I'd would be living in the city, most likely down in the Village in the same building on 8th Street and Mercer where I got my hair cut by Anita, the punk rock stylist, with the hot pink leather couch to match the streak in her hair, and the zebra rug and the shiny black Felix clock. I'd have a pink streak too only me, I would have a bigger apartment--a loft probably. Whatever that means, but it sounds cool, right? And I'd have a small round roller rink in the living room--nothing major, just for practicing spins. And I would have to raise the ceilings to get a disco ball up there, but that wouldn't be too hard, right? I didn't think I would be married yet, because world-famous writers didn't do that quite so soon (I mean, just look at Fran Liebowitz!) but I would have a lot of boyfriends. Maybe three at a time. They would have cool names too, like Mark and Scott. And I'd have a lot of roller skating parties. Probably an MG Convertible too.

Oddly, the fantasizing about our future lives sort of ended at the millennium. Like I never even considered that there was life after 32.

And now here I am, ten years later, turning 42.

How did that happen?

I think the older I get, the less conventionally celebratory I become. Not that I don't love birthdays. But I do think that having a 9/11 birthday in New York City kind of tones the celebration down, and forces you to be more reflective than you might be otherwise, taking stock of your life and what really matters. Because let's face it, one morning you wake up to a gorgeous, clear blue sky and the next, there are two ginormous towers crumbling into toxic dust right in front of your eyes.

Honestly, these days I'd rather spend an hour with my toes in a salon pedicure bath and my head buried in the crossword, than at a bar doing shots with friends. Although come to think of it, today I plan on doing both. So there.


A lot has changed for me this year. I went back to work full-time, while still somehow managing to run Cool Mom Picks. Uh, also full time. I have two girls who are old enough to need me, and to really really feel it when I'm not there for them. I have a sigOth who's now working actual daytime hours for the first time since I've known him, meaning we're almost like a normal family these days.

Well, not really. But normal for us.


It's all forced me to cut back on my blogging here--let alone my blog reading and my blog commenting--which makes me die a little inside, but is also what I have to do right now. And I think that part of this boring-getting-older-maturity kind of business is just that; putting the needs above the wants. My id is pissed. It will get over it.

This doesn't mean I'm all business though. I've also felt more urgency to do the things now that I have always dreamed about--traveling more, writing a book...hell, maybe Nate and I will even start planning a wedding one of these days. He did send me a text message this week that read Hey, quick birthday-related, nothing to get excited about question, but what ring size are you? Again, do not read into this...

(I did not read into it. Mostly.)

I'm not sure if all this reprioritization is about some annoyingly cliché, looming threat of mortality that becomes evident in your 40's, or simply the understanding that this is the one life we get, whatever it may be. My mother always reminds me that there comes a point in middle-age when you simply have to acknowledge that you will not win more Oscars than Meryl Streep, or quarterback for the Giants, or marry Scott Baio. Or have that roller rink in your living room.

How you react to that understanding is what defines your character.

I choose to recognize that not achieving all dreams doesn't mean I haven't achieved any dreams. Besides, I've still got some time left.

You know what's funny? When I was 32, I did live in the Village. In a sweet little loft, exactly 3 blocks from that apartment on 8th and Mercer. There was no roller rink in the living room, but I totally could have fit a small one in there, if only the co-op board wouldn't have freaked out. I had a writing career and a few boyfriends and two shiny Ericofons from the same era as that Felix clock.

I liked where I was then, but I wouldn't go back to it either.

I think what I've got going on now is pretty darn good.

Are you where you thought you'd be today?

We found the dress.

She skipped down the street, between Nate and me, holding our hands. Sometimes she held tight and lifted her feet up behind her, like she was flying.

She was flying.

We entered the busy, bustling Kindergarten barely a minute before the teacher waved us out of the room. (Of course we were late. Nice to meet you. We're Those Parents.)

Some kids stared down at their desks. Some clung to their parents. Some sobbed. Thalia was far too busy penning her name in perfect little caps on the new Polaroid of her beaming face to even notice me squeeze her goodbye.

The tears stung the back of my eyes as I moved with the crowd of parents out the doorway. It was hard not to look back.

Isn't it always?

Maybe it's not about the dress.

I looked everywhere for the pink and red floral sundress - the one we made sure would be clean today. The one Thalia insisted she'd wear for her first day of Kindergarten tomorrow. She's had it all planned out for days, right down to the sandals and the ponytail holder. (That's my girl.)

I went through her closet: No dress. I opened every drawer: No dress. I did the crazy person move and looked through the same closet and the same drawers again, hoping for different results.

No dress.

Thalia is anxious tonight. she's still up at 9PM, telling me she can't sleep. She's telling me she doesn't know enough about her classroom to have good dreams about it yet. She's peeling off her clothes. She's saying she's hot. She's asking for more milk, another story, a longer backrub, one more kiss. She's hungry. She's not hungry. And can't I just stay for a hundred and seventy-million more seconds?

My first-born child is starting Kindergarten tomorrow. My heart is bursting and breaking at once. And I don't have the heart to tell her I can't find the dress.

Heat, ayuh

The breezy morning on the pond are delightful, as are the evenings on a wooden porch chair spent staring up at a sky of a million stars. But the days are something different.

The heat wave that's swept over the eastern coast, right up to Maine, has put a bit of crimp in our fantasies of lolling around the cabin with fat hardcover novels while the kids turn the walls into a crayon art gallery of the loons and butterflies they've seen.

The digital thermometer reads no lower than 91 indoors, and sometimes hotter than the outdoor temperature by a degree or two. The ceiling fans are no help. And it's not like we can pop into a little book shop on the corner to cool off. This morning I write from the nearest coffee shop, a funky, friendly place with big couches and good music and a little old lady wearing a tie-dye Deadhead shirt and a hand-painted Obama hat--but it's a full thirty minutes away.

(Want to meet me here? It's 1.3 miles up a dirt road, left at the farm house, 11 miles to the stop sign, right at ORIGINAL CHAINSAW SAWYER NIGHTLY SHOWS AT 7PM, past 6 signs for fresh blueberries and the dead porcupine in the road, then turn onto Coastal Rt 1 down the hill towards town. On a clear day you can see Home Depot.)

The Mainers can be heard saying things like Ayuh, Ah never remember a summah like this one...nope, can't remember a summah like this all. 

Indeed, the cah is pretty cool. So that's where we spent most of yesterday.

We took the Acadia Park loop around Mt Desert, past Bar Harbor, with brief stops at scenic overlooks and rocky bluffs that quite literally take your breath away. Even with toes in the cool water at Seal Harbor, it was still too hot for the kids (and uh, me) for more than a few minutes.

A movie sounded like a good idea.


Add to the list of things they never prepare you for in Lamaze class: Driving 90 minutes to a second-run showing of Cats and Dogs. 

Of course when I tell Thalia and Sage the story in years to come, I will tell them I did it for them, like a Chuck E Cheese party or a life's savings spent on preschool. But it's only partly true. I did it for the air conditioning.

That sweet, blessed air conditioning.

With more than an hour still to kill before the showtime, we crossed the highway to my first ever Tim Hortons for maybe the worst iced coffee ever in history (now making it my last ever Tim Hortons too). We passed the final half hour playing Guitar Hero in the theater's arcade (Holiday in Cambodia!) and letting my kids buy about 65 Dum-Dums with the tickets they won from Skee Ball. Our body temperatures had begun to return to normal, and we were no longer insisting that the kids drink water every four seconds.

"As bad as the movie will be," my mother and I kept reminding each other, "it will be air conditioned."

Finally, finally the theater opened and we gathered the troops and prepared ourselves for the kids' complaints about the delicious cold.

Nate entered first, stopped in his tracks, and turned to look at me with eyebrows raised and eyes as wide as moons.

The theater wasn't air conditioned.

It didn't even pretend to be air conditioned.

I spent the next ninety minutes trapped watching a crooked projection of Kill Me Now in a hot, humid, smelly theater's squeaky seat, with a sweaty 3 year-old on my lap who alternated between telling me she was hot, she was bored, and wondering why cats were evil.

It's not that cats are evil honey - it's just the producers of this movie that are evil.

Thalia liked the part where the cat went onto the satellite. I liked the part where we got back into the car.

We arrived home in time to spring open the cabin windows and let some air circulate while we settled onto the dock for a glorious sunset.

The girls blew bubbles and threw stones. I sipped a glass of white wine from a chipped cup. We fixed the girls peanut butter sandwiches and cold carrots for dinner. The night was perfect.