A Second Time First Time Mom

Being a new mom is really hard.  You have no idea what you’re doing, there’s this tiny screaming alien you’re in charge of keeping alive, and, initially at least, you feel pretty awful. Either you can’t sit because of tearing, or you can’t move because of stitches-and you are still responsible for breast feeding and washing bottles and doing laundry and pacifying your incompetent husband, not to mention hosting the zillions of people who want to meet the new baby.  Add in sleep deprivation and lack of bathing and you’ve got a recipe for a potential new torture method for terrorists.

Being a new NICU mom is even harder.  You have to manage the newborn, plus all the machines the newborn is hooked up to and the wires that come with them, portable heart rate monitors and oxygenation monitors and an oxygen tank. Every feed, challenging on its own, also comes with multiple medicines.  Then there’s the risk factor-preemies have very low immunity, so even minor colds can prove majorly damaging. So when it came to getting out of the house, we chose not to.  It was just too difficult to schlep Lily AND all her stuff and worry about someone breathing on her.  It wasn’t like I could install a permanent sneeze guard, like at a salad bar.  We didn’t take her out, we didn’t allow people in (except for select family members), and I hated my life.

But as a second time mom, without all the preemie accoutrement, it’s a whole different ball game.  Holy crap I can do this.  It’s just a baby: a baby in her car seat, a baby in her stroller, a baby playing on her activity mat smiling up at a rattling frog. Why didn’t I know about all this? And this is where our parenting story changed.  We aren’t first time parents, but we ARE, in so many ways that it’s crazy. Such as…

Belly buttons are gross.  We never had to deal with Lily’s cord falling off because she was already 3 months old when she came home, with an umbilical hernia, so it looked like a little tail was protruding from her abdomen.  But a bloody stump that crusted over and repeatedly fell off only to scab over again? I didn’t sign up for that.  It fell off in a blanket and I thought it was a raisin, until I picked it up and started to gag.   Even Lily told me, “There’s poop in Margot’s belly.”  Yes, dear observant child, it does look like poop.

How much does she eat? We don’t have to do forced feeds? We don’t have to feed her overnight? What do you mean she eats until she finishes on her own and I don’t have to shove an entire feed down her throat?  There can still be formula left in the bottle? She doesn’t need thickened feeds or specialized bottles? None of this was familiar.  We were used to timed, forced feeds, waking up a sleeping baby to keep her on schedule, to keep her gaining weight, to make sure they didn’t want to revert back to an NG tube.  Lily’s weight gain was slow and painful.  Margot eats. And eats and eats and eats. She put herself on a feeding schedule when she was 1-day-old. She finishes bottles, burps, and goes back to sleep. The hubby and I keep saying how strange it is, the way she eats, the way she’s growing and gaining weight, and our friends and family keep reminding us that it’s actually normal. This is the way it’s supposed to be. We’re still not sure that we believe them.  She’s gained over 3 pounds since being born! One pound in Lily land was a cause for celebration. But 3 pounds! That’s gotta be a Guinness record or something (it’s not-Margot is strictly 50^th percentile).

Margot purrs and coos. She makes this funny little noise that sounds like “hi” and then she smiles, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Her hands found each other weeks ago, she batts at her toys, she tracked while still in the hospital, she realized that she has feet the other day (although, I think it was a fluke), and she rolls up onto her side in a cute little rocking motion. Completely normal baby behavior, apparently, because I had no idea!  We had physical therapy for Lily to bring her hands together, and it took her months to batt at toys.  Lily never vocalized, never made little baby cooing sounds, and language was her biggest area of delay (even though she said “mama” at 8 months, the rest of her language took much longer). There was no echolalia with Lily.

The baby can leave the house!  She’s portable-we take her anywhere and everywhere. She’s a lady who lunches. Whether it’s to the playground with her sister, to the mall with my mom, or simply to the supermarket, Margot comes with me.  And, as it turns out, I have freedom. I’m not tethered to my house, afraid that a single cough will result in a lengthy hospital stay. I don’t resent my husband for being able to leave, because I can leave, too. I can see my friends and get errands done and take day trips and be with Lily-I can be a mom like all the other moms who got to bring their babies home.

Spitting up is not a cause for alarm!  This one was a shocker for me. Our pediatrician uses the term “happy spitter” to describe a baby who spits up and it isn’t bothered by it.  Whenever Lily was spitting up, and then screaming, and then spitting up more, it meant that she needed a higher dosage of previcid-she was not a happy spitter. The acid reflux controlled her, and, therefore, us.  But Margot is a happy spitter. She is unfazed when she spits up. Hell, she barely even notices it (she also doesn’t notice when I shove my nose in her mouth to smell for potential acid).

But because we aren’t, technically, new parents, we have been able to handle baby issues a lot quicker and with less emotional meltdown than if Margot was our first.  Like when…

Margot needed to be under bilirubin lights while she was still in the hospital. The nurses were worried about me, that I would react negatively, that I wouldn’t understand.  And I explained to ever shift change, this was nothing! I was a NICU mom; I’d handled much worse than bilirubin lights.

About a week after being born, Margot developed a large, egg shape bruise on the back of her head.  Our pediatrician was mystified, so she sent us to the E.R.  It was 4 pm on a Friday and there was nowhere else to have tests done so expediently.  A first time mom would’ve panicked, but I’d been to the Valley Pediatric E.R. before, and I knew that Margot was fine.  And Margot was fine and I was calm and my husband was calm and we made it home before Lily’s bedtime.

A few days after Margot came home I noticed that she was having problems with her formula.  So I changed it. No hesitation.

With Lily I pumped for 3 months. I was scared to stop.  I belabored the decision, crying about my insufficiencies, berating myself for my lack of supply.  This time-3 weeks.  Supply never increased, I had a toddler to chase around, and I wasn’t going to beat myself up again. My body isn’t milky.  Even my gung-ho breast is best pediatrician thought I should stop.

So I’m a second time first time mom. We’re getting to experience all those great new baby moments and memories without all the new parent anxiety and I have to admit, it’s pretty damn nice.

Margot on her activity mat-6 weeks old.

Welcome Margot (Being a NICU Mom is Something That Never Goes Away)

On June 11, 2015, we welcomed our second little princess, Margot.  Margot was born full term, weighing a healthy 7 pounds and measuring a whopping 20 inches. It was a “normal” pregnancy with no complications, full of the usual pregnancy side-effects, resulting in a newborn girl who smiled within hours of being delivered, revealing enormous dimples in both cheeks, and shining blue eyes. And the only thought running through my head was, “Do I get to keep you? Can I take you home?” Every shift change required the same explanation: no, she’s not my first, but we were in the NICU for 11 weeks with the first one so this is new to us, I don’t know what to do with a newborn, yes I know I do an excellent swaddle-the NICU nurses taught me well.

But before she arrived, I had to make it through the pregnancy.

Being a NICU mom is something that never goes away.  The horrifying emergency c-section, the memory of wires and medications and potential surgeries, seeing your child intubated, unable to move, trapped in a plastic cage where your touch is irritating to her paper-thin skin; both you and she are helpless.  You’re not really a mom and she’s not really your child. Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. The trauma does not disappear and it only resurges once you are presented with similar circumstances: pregnancy and the potential for going through it all again. Even making the decision to get pregnant brought tearful conversations and gut-wrenching self-doubt. Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. And only other NICU moms can understand. If you’re not a fellow NICU mom you can try to empathize and relate and comfort, but you will never truly understand, and that’s okay. We don’t want you to go through what we went through (we don’t wish that on anyone), but you can’t walk a mile in my shoes because you weren’t sitting there for 11 weeks, unable to bring your baby home from the hospital.  Because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away.

Because of all the (no medical explanation available) complications with Lily, we were being followed very closely, by my OBGYN, by my endocrinologist, and by my new perinatologist, the amazing Dr. Z. Slight flashback is necessary.  Because we knew by week 20 that something wasn’t quite right with Lily, we were frequent fliers at MFM (our hospital affiliated sonography center), and our perinatologist left much to be desired-unkempt, wearing a too tight top and a too short skirt, she never received my vote of confidence. She would postulate and suggest and hum and haw in circles, completely uninformative blather, and I never felt like I was getting adequate care. So this time around, I complained, and not in that passive aggressive way that women are famous for. I made it very clear that I would not see Dr. Awful again, and that if they sent her in my room, I would simply leave.  I out-rightly refused to see her.  Why does making yourself seem like the most difficult patient in the world often result in getting the best care?  Enter Dr. Z, a brilliant, neurotic angel sent from heaven to resolve all my insecurities. She ran every test, twice, explained all possible outcomes, what the numbers meant, what the growth scan estimates really estimated. She actually understood that we were simply waiting for the other shoe to drop and she agreed that our anxieties were completely valid-she even once called me, on my cell, 5 minutes after we left the center, just so she could go over another blood test with us.  When routine bloodwork showed something off by 1 one hundredth of a gram, she re-ran a whole battery of tests to allay both my and her fears.  She was Woody Allen and Jonas Salk combined, but with Gene Simmons’ hair and a complete lack of affect-imagine Lorne Michaels’ voice, slightly more feminine, and there you have it. 

Do you like the word normal?  I’m not a big fan, but when it comes to your doctor telling you that your baby’s growth is normal and that your pregnancy is normal and that all your test results are normal, you learn to love it.  We’d never heard the word normal before in relation to a pregnancy or a baby.  Dr. Z used it every time we saw her.  And we cried tears of relief. She was my spirit animal.

Dr. Z’s confidence was amazing, and it certainly helped to curtail my NICU mom brain, but it couldn’t stop the fears and worries in their entirety (I needed to stop having NICU nightmares were I gave birth and the doctors wouldn’t give her back to me-I was having those on a nightly basis). And it certainly didn’t help misguided friends and relatives who could not understand why my husband and I were still anxious.  “But the doctor said it’s normal, so stop worrying.” I can’t say it enough: because being a NICU mom is something that never goes away. You are so unbelievably misguided in your attempts at relating to me if you think that repeatedly hearing the word “normal” suddenly makes the horror and pain of everything we went through, and the fear that it could happen again, dissolve like early morning fog.

39 weeks later, there she was, perfect (minus some slight jaundice), no wires, no medications, no barriers…just mine-I got to keep her.

Margot-10 days old!

A Weighty Issue

It was impossible not to notice her-she wasn’t tall or remarkably good looking, but her knees jutted out at an odd angle and her thighs were thinner than her calves.  She walked across the room to pick up a magazine and balanced on one leg, more a flamingo than a teenage girl, and I wondered if she didn’t weigh enough to even topple over.  What was she, 12, 13, maybe 14 and she couldn’t weigh more than 65 pounds, a concentration camp survivor instead of a blossoming young woman.  She sat back down and crossed her legs, where they melded together and still didn’t look like one leg.  Her mother sat motionless, expressionless, unaware that I was staring while Lily slept on my shoulder, waiting for the nurse to call us in so her doctor could examine her, prescribe a higher dosage of Prevacid.  I’d seen teenagers in our pediatrician’s office before, mostly sulking, low shouldered boys and girls reminiscent of my students, rolling their eyes at their parents and laughing embarrassingly when asked to give urine samples.  But this girl, this poor girl who was being counseled to drink extra milk at dinner, she was a shell of a sullen teenager, barely subsisting on air and disinterest. 

This isn’t my first encounter with eating disorders-I work with teenagers after all, and I’ve had quite a few students taken out to rehab or special facilities.  We know them easily by their lightness, by their walk, by their uniquely controlled fascinations and concentration.  You’d be surprised by how many students I’ve had who were dealing with anorexia while also maintaining a near perfect GPA.  But I’m a mother now.  I see everything in a different light.

I can remember having a weight “issue” since high school-I think every girl does.  We’re so busy comparing and measuring up, wishing we could be someone else, look like someone else.  I look back on pictures of myself at 15 and 16 and I feel like shooting myself-why was I so blind?  There was absolutely nothing wrong with me.  Now I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been; well, the heaviest I’ve ever been while  not also pregnant, and even though I’m not thrilled about the way I look and I’m actively trying to change my weight and my shape, I’m also the most confident I’ve ever been.  I think it comes from a general contentment with my existence-a beautiful, healthy child, a loving husband, a wonderful life.  I don’t have the time or the desire to reprimand myself for not going to the gym because I’d rather spend the time with Lily.

Lily stays asleep on my shoulder the entire time I focus on this poor girl and her mother.  How do I prevent this future for my own child?  Instill a confidence in her that enables her to tell the world to fuck off, to allow her body to be her own? Maybe she’ll just get my husband’s metabolism and I won’t have to worry about any of this.

Creating a Jewish Identity

My husband and I are both Jewish, but neither of us is terribly religious.  I was raised Reform, went to Hebrew school until I was bat mitzvah’d, went to Jewish sleep away camp (long live Eisner) and lived in a home with separate dairy/meat plates and flatware (although it wasn’t really a strict rule).  We didn’t have separate dishes for Passover and my parents never blinked an eye at my cheeseburgers.  Until she became allergic later in life, my mother loved shellfish, and Chinese food just tastes better with roast pork friend rice and boneless spare ribs.  My mom only bought kosher meat, but not because of religious doctrine-she thought it tasted better (and it kills me to admit it, but she was right about kosher poultry-hi mom-see, the fact that you're right about something is now in print).  We went to synagogue on the high holidays, fasted on Yom Kippur, avoided leavened products on Passover and devoured latkes on Hanukkah.  And this all seemed normal-it was the same Jewish life that most of my friends were living with only small variations here and there.  But as an adult, and now a mom, I’m realizing just how important it is to create and strengthen my own Jewish identity so that I can help my daughter form one of her own.

The truth is, I’m an atheist.  I don’t think it’s that shocking if you know me, or even that shocking in this day and age.  But how do I consider myself a Jew if I don’t believe in God?  I see Judaism as my culture-if my ancestors had been from Ireland I’d consider myself Irish-but as we come from everywhere (Germany, Poland, Austria, etc...), the only unifying factor is religion.  While my version of Jewish culture doesn’t rely on faith, it does rely on tradition.  I love making a Passover Seder and spending hours on the perfect matzo ball soup (although, my matzo balls need some work).  I make a killer brisket and I can perfectly replicate my mother’s latkes.  I love going to the kosher butcher to buy turkey necks and chopped liver and Tam Tams and those egg rolls that they have at Wesley Kosher which I haven’t bought in years but are really, really good if you’re in the area.  The first Friday in our home I lit Shabbos candles.  I didn’t pray, because for me it has no meaning, but the act of doing it meant a lot.  The only thing that broke in our move was my menorah, and I’m still upset about it.  I plan on doing Tashlikh this year with Lily because I think it’s beautiful and I think she’ll get a real kick out of throwing bread (although she’ll probably just eat it).

I think that, at least in part, I’m working so hard at maintaining my Jewish identify because my daughter won’t see and experience the more traditional aspects of Judaism that I grew up with.  Both sets of grandparents were Conservadox (that’s a combination of Conservative and Orthodox)-they existed on a sliding spectrum at different points in their life.  Most of my memory lives with my mom’s parents-Lou and Lily (my Lily’s namesake).  My grandfather walked to synagogue and when we came to visit we used to wait for him to get home before we started our dairy lunch.  Their house was completely kosher, they observed Shabbos and they had separate plates for Passover-beautiful, green, Depression glass plates that I’ve inherited (there aren’t many left, I’m afraid). I hated dairy lunch and I hated how their services were all in Hebrew and I hated that I could never figure out the timers on the lights at their house.  And my daughter will never experience this.  She will never have the frustration of wanting a turkey sandwich and being turned down or having to wait for her grandfather to walk home when a car would just zip zip him home in 2 seconds.  I want my daughter to know all of these things, to know what a more traditional sense of her religion is like-I wish she could sit at my grandmother’s dining room table and feel that same frustration.    When I was older (and when she was older) I was having breakfast at my grandmother’s kitchen table.  I asked her which were the dairy bowls so that I didn’t accidentally take the wrong thing.  She smiled and told me I could use whatever I wanted-any bowl, any spoon-so long as my grandfather didn’t see.  At that moment my love for her increased tenfold.  When my grandmother let me break the rule, it somehow made the rule even more powerful, like we were co-conspirators in a fancy Jewish version of espionage against my grandfather.  I wish I could say that my grandmother winked at me and slid out the swinging kitchen door all Charlie’s Angels, but that wasn’t her style.  She sat down and sorted through her pills.

I remember lighting Shabbos candles with my father’s mother in front of this enormous mirror in their entryway.  The table was lacquered to a high gloss shine and the candles reflected from the table to the mirror and back again, bathing her in a sumptuous light as she bowed her covered head.  This is perhaps both the best and most beautiful memory that I have of my father’s mother, and it is a memory completely entwined with Jewish identity. 

My secular Judaism is filled with Woody Allen and Mel Brooks, fun with Yiddish, tremendous amounts of Eastern European delights, East Coast intellectualism, Gershwin (George and Ira), bagels and knishes and pickles (oh my), Arthur Miller, Joan Rivers, Hester Street, Fairway-the list goes on and on.  Perhaps this makes me a New Yorker more than it makes me a Jew.  But to me, the two are inextricably linked.

So here’s my plan. I’m already temple shopping-not actively, but I’ve already ruled out 2 places and am leaning towards option 3.  I only want to join a Reform synagogue because the Conservative ones that I’ve been to are way too restrictive.  We will go to services as a family, at least on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.  Maybe when she’s older we can have a sukkah in our backyard, too.  Lily will go to Hebrew School (maybe even Hebrew Pre-K) and be bat-mitzvah’d.  We purposely moved to a Jewish heavy town so that Lily won’t be the only one (my husband was one of two Jewish kids growing up).  I want to institute family dinners on Fridays-there will be candles but not a full out traditional Shabbos meal.  I’ll never have separate dishes and we’ve already cooked both lobster and bacon, but I do love my kosher chicken.  And I think I just need to be honest with her-when she asks what I believe, I’m not going to lie, but I am going to explain how important it is to me to be Jewish, to continue our ancestry and the values inherent in it; to see Judaism as not just a faith, but to see Judaism as a culture with its own identity.

Lily's first Shabbos-fast asleep in her carriage.

If Ever Two Were One, Then Surely We

I have an amazing husband.  (And no, he didn’t bribe me or put me up to this.)  I feel lucky every day, lucky that we found each other and we realized just how well we fit together.  Often, I find myself saying that my husband is one of the most enlightened men that I know-he gets up with Lily during the week if she wakes up before 6 a.m., he always lets me sleep in on the weekends so he can have private time with his little girl, he remembers anniversaries and birthdays and special relationship dates better than I do, he never gets mad about the money I spend or the things that I buy (granted, I’m not a big shopper so I think he gets off pretty easy on that account),  he admits that he has awful taste so he agrees to let me decorate the house and dress him however I want, he adopts my friends as his own friends and he gets mad when they get hurt, and he likes to catch me off guard with surprise gifts that show how well he listens. 

And the thing is…well…I’ve dated.  I was good at dating, too.  But even in retrospect, no one was ever this wonderful.  I’ll explain:

The hubby and I first met on J-Date, the online Jewish dating service.  Previous to meeting him, I went on many J-Dates, but they weren’t the most pleasant experiences.  I was meeting a lot of guys who I had nothing in common with, or who had terrible manners, or who were just plain weird.  I went on so many first dates I could write an entire book with each chapter being a different guy.   I was actually at a point where I wanted to give up on the whole online dating thing and go back to traditional dating: bars, begging friends to set me up, etc…  So, in a last ditch dating frenzy, I expanded what I was looking for and saw my husband’s picture.  He was pretty cute, and his profile said he was new to the city, so I figured a New York outsider might be a good idea (especially since I wasn’t hitting it off with any of New York’s current residents).  I sent him a message and we started chatting-we had a lot in common like football and music and The Simpsons.  He arranged for us to meet.

I am notoriously on time.  And by on time, I mean early.  I operate under the assumption that 10 minutes early means on time, and on time means late.  The hubby is the same way (another commonality).  However, on our first date, I was late.  Very late-almost 30 minutes due to a subway delay.  I left more than enough time for the unpredictability of New York mass transit, but apparently the 1 line did not want me to be on time.  By the time I got down to Christopher Street in the West Village, I was panicking.  I didn’t have his phone number, we hadn’t exchanged them yet, and I didn’t want him to think that I’d stood up him.  Luckily, he was waiting at our agreed upon location, Café Dante, and the lateness provided a good conversation starter.  That’s when I learned that he was also always on time and also, like me, did not drink coffee.  Meeting at a café seemed convenient but neither of us actually partook in the café’s goodies.  He had a Bailey’s and I played with a saucer of ice cream-I don’t really like ice cream.  We just talked.  We had a lot to talk about: I have the same name as his sister, he has the same birthday as my sister, he’s originally from the same town as my mother, we’re obsessed with the same TV shows…we were instant friends.

When I was careening down the street like a mad woman, attempting to make it to the date on time, I was trying to calm myself down.  “Don’t worry, you’re not even going to like this guy.”  I did this before every date so as not to get my hopes up when he turned out to be a tremendous loser.  But my first appraisal of my husband was, “not too bad.”  He was cute and he was dressed appropriately.  I was immediately relieved that I wouldn’t have to teach him to dress.  I was wrong-this was his one nice going out outfit, and I did eventually overhaul his entire wardrobe.  My husband loves this-he hates to shop so he’s very happy to have me do it for him, and once I started coordinating his outfits, he started to get compliments.  Now he can do it all on his own.

We walked around for hours.  My husband’s experiences in New York were sorta limited, so he relied on me as a guide.  We walked up through the village and through Union Square.  We watched the rats and the squirrels chase one another until a security guard kicked us out.  He was just a nice guy who kissed me on one of the benches, spat out a cheesy line, and then laughed at the sheer corniness of what he said.  Honestly, I didn’t know if I liked him, but I had so much fun on the date, I figured that I’d give him a second date to sort out my feelings-to see if I had any.  I was leaving on a school trip to London for a week and I said that I’d call him when I got back.  Actually, he called me, before I left, to tell me he had a great time, but I didn’t know that it was him.  See, my husband has awful handwriting.  I grew up with a left handed doctor for a father, so I know bad handwriting.  My husband’s is so awful that when I entered his number in my phone, I entered the wrong number. I literally could not read what he wrote down.

My mother has this theory.  Well, it’s not really my mother’s theory-it’s the theory of her next door neighbor’s mother (when she was growing up in East Meadow).  When the neighbor’s mom was young, she had a particular philosophy on dating-she had three dates every weekend: a Friday night date, a Saturday night date and a Sunday afternoon date.  She figured that she would continue to date all three gentlemen until one proposed.  Saturday night proposed first and so she married him.  This dating strategy begat a theory: have a Friday night guy for fun, a Sunday afternoon guy for brunch and a Saturday night guy for seriousness.  So, after I met my husband I wasn’t sure about him.  I thought maybe he could be a good Friday night guy.

The hubby is 100% not my type-we’ve talked about this a lot!  I’m not his type either, which is why we were sorta confused about each other at first.  I normally like short, nebbishy guys who are really literary and pretentious, somehow interested in the arts.  My husband is tall and sporty and doesn’t understand three quarters of the references I make.  But, the cool thing….early on in our dating life, when I asked him what he liked about me, he said that “I can learn from you.”  He was really open to new experiences and learning about what I loved.  I, of course, reciprocated: we joined a co-ed recreational soccer league.  I even went to a Jets game with him, and as a die-hard Giants fan, that’s really going the extra mile.  He occasionally takes me to theater and museums-I even negotiated a Woody Allen film.

I called him when I got back from London and we made plans.  He was shocked that I didn’t have jet-lag.  We met for a movie and when I saw him in front of the theater he had a present for me.  Most guys bring flowers or chocolates or something else totally generic and devoid of actual thought, but he brought a c.d.  Okay, I know that’s strange, but on our first date two and  half weeks prior, I mentioned that while I was in London, a band I really liked was putting out a new c.d.  Well, he bought it!  He actually listened to what I was saying, remembered and bought it for me.  I was completely flabbergasted.  I’m pretty sure that prior to my husband, no man actually made a mental note like that.  He still does it to this day-he’ll surprise me with theater tickets because I mentioned a show I wanted to see.  He’s unbelievably thoughtful.  Because he didn’t know New York he asked his New York friends about good restaurants and activities for us to do-he researched and made everything special, instead of just winging it.

While watching the Tonys earlier this year, I mentioned that I didn’t want to go to sleep until I’d seen the segment from Roger and Hammerstein’s Cinderella-that it had been one of my favorite musicals as a child.  I still remember going with my father to Erroll’s and being allowed to pick out one video rental.  I always wondered why the Beta section was so large with a much better selection, and I couldn’t understand why Beta wouldn’t work in our VHS player.  I’m sure my parents must have explained it to me, I do remember a friend who had a Beta player, but I think my 7-year-old brain had trouble wrapping itself around the difference.  Sometimes I rented the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine.  And sometimes, I rented Cinderella.  So at 31 it didn’t seem strange at all to be singing along to “In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be,” while my hubby looked at me somewhat askance.  He’d heard me sing the song before, I sing it to Lily all the time, but this was different.  He made a mental note.

Less than a month later, after Lily went through a horrible bout of separation anxiety (from which I wanted to abandon my life), the hubby came home with a surprise: he had, behind my back, booked my mom as babysitter and purchased tickets to go see Cinderella.  He could see how tired I was, how worn out and down I had been getting, and he thought I deserved a treat.  What man does this?  No one I’d ever dated before my husband was this thoughtful or compassionate or loving. 

When my friends complain about their husbands or boyfriends or ex-husbands, I normally just sit there with my hands quietly folded in my lap.  Sure, things aren’t perfect, and my hubby and I have our issues (in general, men are idiots, and he certainly has his moments), but I don’t want to complain. 

I hope that Lily has the luxury of one day meeting a man like her dad, so that she knows what it’s like to be loved and respected like this.  I hope that, as the first man in her little life, Lily realizes what men can be like, that men like her dad do exist, and that they are totally worth waiting for!

If I’m a Chicken You’re a Turkey

This is something I’ve been dealing with a lot lately, so I figured I would just say it: no, I am not cool enough for you, and I really don’t give a crap.  Mostly because I’ve never been cool, never wanted to sit at the cool kid’s table, or belong to the cool kid’s club, never wanted the recognition or judgment that comes with being cool.  I’m very happy just being dorky ‘lil ole me, obsessed with British period pieces and literature and art and crossword puzzles and Simpsons references.  I actually have repeated dreams where I can read with my eyes closed! I wish it was true.  I’ve always been “artsy,” as my mother would say (although lately her descriptor has been: “bohemian”), and pretty unconcerned about what was trendy.  I don’t like trends-they’re flippant, and not in that good way when I brush off your dumb-ass remark with a twist of my wrist and a sarcastic comeback.  Classic, I prefer classic-give me Katherine Hepburn and you can keep your Kardashians.

I might teach in a high school, but I’m not in high school.  I don’t need people to like me-honestly, I don’t want too many people to like me.  I have enough friends as it is, and I don’t know how many more friends I want.  I prefer real, true friends to casual acquaintances-it’s hard enough to keep up with my besties with our busy schedules, work, children, husbands, families, etc...I barely see my best friend once a month and I miss her like mad, but I know if I needed her that she would move heaven and earth to be with me (and I know this because it’s happened before).

Your innuendoes aren’t so clever, and I’m a lot smarter and a lot more perceptive than you realize.  You’re really not fooling me-hell, you’re really not fooling anyone for that matter.

I don’t like drama.  Really.  Ask my husband, because he will attest to the fact that I’m pretty drama free, mostly because I’m a mature adult, but also because when I have an issue with someone, I confront that person.  I don’t pussyfoot around in passive aggressive bullshit mode (although, this post is beginning to feel that way).  When I complain about something it’s because I’m upset, not because I like to complain.  And like any woman all I want is for you to listen…not necessarily fix the problem.  Trust me, I will fix it on my own.   I think I got all my complaining out in my adolescence.

Aside from my husband, my daughter is my favorite person in the whole world.  And I won’t want her to have to deal with “coolness.”  I see bullying pretty first hand so I know the toll that it takes on teenage girls (and anyone who thinks, “Well I was bullied and I was okay,” doesn’t know what bullying is really like nowadays-it’s become inescapable with no retreat to the fortress of solitude).  My friend “N” thinks that I have a very healthy sense of self (that I have great self-confidence), but I have no idea about how to instill this in my child.

Traveling with a One Year Old

The plane was the best part-no crying on take off or landing in either direction.  Containment was an issue as all Lily wants to do is roam, so we spent a lot of time walking up and down the aisle to the delighted oohs and ahhs of the passengers.  Who knew that a non-fussy baby would be beloved on an airplane flight?  As a childless single I cringed at the mere sight of a child on a plane.  The fact that Lily spit up all over herself just prior to the flight didn’t seem to deter anyone, either.

We did everything we could to make the trip successful.  Lily had her own seat on the plane and she traveled in her car seat.  She was buckled in for take off and landing and turbulence-the internet told me so.  I called the FAA multiple times to verify that we could bring Lily’s medication, over 3 ounces, on board, and that we could bring frozen freezer packs to keep the medication cold, a medical requirement.  I’m sure that my name is on a watchdog list now and the NSA is tapping my phone lines, but that’s okay. What are they going to hear? Me talking to my mother.

When I was young-I don’t know exactly how young but somewhere between 6 months and 2 years-my parents and I flew to California so I could meet my great grandfather.  I’ve seen the photos so I know my parents aren’t making this up.  On the flight my mother pre-loaded a bunch of Easter eggs with little surprises for me, so after I’d been good for a set amount of time, I was given an egg, and then another egg, etc...etc…and the bribery worked.  We tried the technique with Lily and it failed miserably; she didn’t care about the eggs, but she knew that the eggs contained yummy, snackable goodness, so she just whined until I gave her the container of snacks.  Sometimes she’s a little too smart for her own good.  The hubby was worried about the plane ride, about disturbing the other passengers.  I just rolled my eyes and repeated, “We are flying from Newark to Ft. Lauderdale; this is the ‘going to grandma’s house’ flight.  The plane will be filled with kids.”  It was!  And aside from a conference goer or a random vacationer, everyone was going to grandma’s.

Prior to traveling the hubby and I had a long conversation about the hotel-I explained and explained how it was necessary to have more than one room, to have a kitchen, to do whatever we could to make our lives a little bit easier.  He didn’t believe me at first.  Being the youngest and not traveling too much as a child, my hubby was a bit naïve when it came to the realities of traveling with a child.  He was very glad that I talked him into everything-so when she napped, which is still twice a day, we could shut the door, so when she cried herself to sleep at night, which she is still doing and it drives me insane, we could shut the door, so when she needed a play room and one of us needed a nap…so when she needed a quick meal I could just whip one up in the kitchen…the list is extensive.  The hotel staff and long stay guests fell in love with her as we walked up and down the halls or when we fed her Belgian waffles at the breakfast buffet.  Lily was having the time of her life.

On the way home we were delayed…so Lily spent all her good napping time in the airport, waiting to board the flight.  Once we finally boarded she woke up, but I didn’t blame her (she was already asleep for an hour at that point).  Lily loves turbulence and flight attendants and little bags of chocolate chip cookies Jet Blue gives you as a snack.  She also loves the video monitors in the headrests.  Her cuteness got me expedited through security and the TSA was crazy nice to us!  I may never travel without my daughter ever again.

The reason we went to Florida was so that Lily could meet her great-grandmother Doris, Warren's paternal grandmother.  And, so that Doris could meet Lily, too.  They enjoyed each other's company very much.