Having It All*

ABC Love

2009-02-18T22:46:00.006-05:00

We are walking home from school, and I wish for the zillionth time that I possessed octopus arms. Why Muffin’s school bedding, 7 paintings (“No, Mommy, we can’t put it in your purse – it will get bent!”), and a recycled items sculpture all need to go home on the same day is beyond me but they always do. Muffin’s hands are occupied with a tiny pack of gummy bears, a souvenir from a classmate’s trip to Germany. Although I’ve never been there, I silently salute Deutshland for sponsoring this whine-free walk home.

We pop into the bodega to pick out a few items for dinner. I forget to grab a basket on the way in, so since I cannot spare the seven seconds it would take to go back, I start balancing groceries awkwardly in the crook of my elbow. Muffin is, as normal, ignoring my pleas to stick close, so I scan the aisles for her as I look for the items I need. My arms begin to ache, I’m fuzzy on the five ingredients I need (but I know there are five!), and I’m not entirely sure where my child is. I fantasize that I am not pregnant and can have a nerve-settling glass of wine when I get home.

Finally we rendezvous at the front of the store, and get in “line.” I use quotes because there’s no actual check-out line, people just wait uncertainly in the narrow aisles, right in the path of shoppers. Muffin and I get close to the register. I choose this moment to lose my grip on the pile of artwork, and it flutters to the ground in every direction. The other customers are treated to the balletic display of a pregnant woman attempting to bend at the waist gracefully while simultaneously holding canned goods and explaining why 3-year-olds may not have gum. I’m sorry to say there is grunting.

I force myself to smile and notice Muffin has polished off the gummy bears. Hoping to lighten my mood, I fall back on the same gag the Canuck and I have been doing forever: wait until she’s done, and then lay on the guilt.

“Hey, you didn’t even save any for me? But I looooove gummy bears.”

I realize she is not technically finished when, to my surprise, she pulls a shiny, headless bear from her mouth. Her eyes are solemn as she holds it out for me. She’s not calling my bluff, she’s giving me her last precious (partially chewed) gummy bear. I could not have been more touched if she'd offered a kidney.

I am the epitome of every frazzled working mom cliche in the world, but man, is she so way worth it. I am at the front of the line now, with people tapping their feet behind me, but I bend down to give her a long squeeze.

22nd's Time's a Charm

2009-02-04T08:07:00.003-05:00

Due August 15.

Staring Down Adoption

2009-02-03T22:50:00.001-05:00

I’ve always said I might like to adopt someday. A lot of people do. How easy it is to imagine the best version of myself when it’s all theoretical.

We decided to try Clomid, but that was as far as we wanted to go with fertility treatments. With one biological child, I could accept missing the pregnancy experience this time around. And instead of IVF, it just seemed to make more sense to put our dollars into adoption, which would almost certainly result in a child. We could only do the Clomid for three to six months, and adoptions can take several years, so we figured we might as well pursue adoption at the same time. We’d know about a pregnancy well before we got a match.

I threw myself into research, talking to everyone I knew who’d done it, zeroing in on recommended agencies and familiarizing myself with the complicated process. I was very interested in adopting from a poor country and giving a child a chance for a much better life. I love my work, but it nags at me that I do nothing to make the world a better place (I don't think knowing how to pick a chic diaper bag qualifies). Here was my chance to make a difference – all the difference – to one kid. I zeroed in on Ethiopia, one of the most open countries right now, with infants available. I’d always had an interest in visiting Africa, and adoptions there could be completed fairly quickly with just one short visit.

Navigating the process was one thing. Wrapping my head around the idea was another. It seemed preposterous; I was going to travel somewhere, pick up a random kid, and they'd be mine forever? I looked at my friend’s kids, and tried to imagine them as my own. I never doubted I would adore my own flesh and blood, but what if the connection wasn’t there with an adopted child? It wasn’t something I could undo. I looked at the adoptive parents I knew, and they loved their kids just like I loved Muffin, although some admitted the infatuation was not instant. Still, it was hard to picture it.

The more I turned it around in my brain, the more I faced cringe-worthy truths about myself. A co-worker freaked me out with her story about how her daughter from Ethiopia spent her first weeks in the US in the ICU. That girl was her second match – the first had died before she could be adopted. Although you can specify if you’re unwilling to take on a special needs child, many still slip through the cracks due to a lack of competent doctors who can diagnose properly. And even relatively healthy kids can have many initial problems due to prenatal malnutrition. If Muffin became ill I’d drop everything to be by her side. But signing up to take that on, when I already had one kid who needed me and a career I loved – I had to admit I wasn’t up for it.

I also had to own up to some disturbingly shallow motivations. Ethiopian children seem to be exceptionally beautiful, and that eased some of my fears about bonding. Surely a gorgeous face would be easier to love. And I had to admit – ugh -- that I relished the idea of how the world would see me. A child of a different race would broadcast that I was a selfless, do-gooding, Angelina type. These were seriously pathetic reasons to adopt. I couldn’t decide if the ridiculous reasons negated the decent ones.

A chat with an old friend from college who’d adopted a son from Ethiopian jarred me into reality. She said a day didn’t go by that someone didn’t make a rude comment or a nosy query. She could never just be a mom with her kid. She also expected major identity issues in the teenage years, and planned to move to a mostly African-American neighborhood so her son could be surrounded by faces that resembled his own. I looked at my own network of friends and acquaintances and found it pretty vanilla. How would it feel to not only look totally different than your parents, but to have a sibling that was pretty much a carbon copy?

Even the thought of adopting a kid who looked more like us didn’t ease my fears. Wasn’t it still a crap shootin the end? What if I got a bad seed? I know from personal experience that biological siblings can be night and day, but still the false security is comforting. I wanted Muffin 2.0.

For someone with little belief in fate, adoption was going to be a quantum leap for me. But with big risks come big rewards. I had the same feeling I used to have when I was a teenager just starting to date – totally petrified of what might happen but pusling with excitement just the same. We signed up for meetings with domestic and international agencies – and filled the Clomid prescription.

Secondary Infertility: Who Knew?

2008-12-15T16:26:00.007-05:00

How can someone who’s already had a baby be infertile? It was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard.

Many women have all the same tests I did and get no kind of answer. They are left to wonder if perhaps it really is just a matter of "relaxing" and "letting it happen." At least I knew I wasn't crazy, and I had a reason.

Perhaps I was always hormonally a little off and just got lucky the first time around. I doubted that, because I was briefly pregnant before Chloe (2 pregnancies in 8 months, not too shabby) but then again maybe this explained why I’d miscarried early on. My doctor said she wouldn’t have expected me to be having this issue at 33 years of age, but of course I am rapidly reaching – ugh – “advanced maternal age” and that wasn’t helping matters.

“Listen, I wouldn’t say that you could never ever get pregnant,” said my doctor. “But if it does happen, it will probably take a very long time.” She recommended Clomid. I immediately thought of Jon and Kate Plus 8, which has me petrified of multiples. That money shot of her Frankenbelly in the opening credits is like a car accident you can’t look away from. My OB explained the chance of multiples – mostly likely twins -- was 10%. She said I could totally do twins. I realized she didn’t know me very well.

What had happened in the last 4 years to mess with my fertility? I spent a lot of time wondering if anxiety was somehow depressing my lady parts. I have found the rhythm of the preschool years very challenging (drop-off and pick-up book-end my day with stressy subway rides) and I work in a much more intense work environment than I have previously. I find very little time for girlfriends, and with no close mommy friends with kids of the same age, I generally just let those days where I am pretty sure I am a total fraud of a mom fester and eat away at me. I don’t roll with the punches and can’t really pull off Zen. And then there was that cookie(s)-a-day habit, which unfortunately was not counter-balanced by a steady exercise routine. But I didn’t smoke, drank moderately and have never done drugs of any kind. And despite the chaotic pace, I am madly in love with my life and my family. Still, I couldn’t help wondering: Had I done this to myself?

(Ohh, that felt a little Carrie Bradshaw, if she ever wrote about something as unsexy as infertility)

I’ve always thought fertility science was a landmine. It seemed that there was a high probability that you’d have to make some awful decision about reducing multiples, or deciding just how bankrupt you want to make yourself chasing after pregnancy. And I hate even little decisions, not to mention thorny, life-altering one with multiple levels of moral ambiguity. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t fault anyone who’s experienced baby lust and made their way through the infertility funhouse in hot pursuit -- I just hoped I’d never have to go there.

And yet here I was, realizing if I wanted another biological child, I probably had no choice. My doc mentioned she could reduce if it was multiples but I knew in my heart I just couldn’t. And I also knew that if I had twins, somewhere down the road, probably after many years of no sleep, few vacations and stretch marks that look like a cougar mauled my belly, I would think back and realize that everything always somehow works out in the way you want it to, even if you're fuzzy on what you really want.

Or maybe that was a convenient theory to have when you've lost control over your reproductive destiny. But I'll take it.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

2008-12-11T17:49:00.004-05:00

Remember that time I wrote about how I wasn’t sure I was ready to have another baby?

Soon after I wrote that, the Canuck and I decided to have another baby. I’m tricky like that. Freak in overblown manner, discuss ad nauseum, come to terms, make decision. That is my way.

Nine months later, I was in my OB’s office for my annual. I mentioned casually that I had been trying to get pregnant but wasn't having any luck. I wasn’t too worried because clearly I had the reproductive goods, and anyway it had taken 8 months to conceive Chloe, so this was only a little longer than that. “Huh,” she said. “If you’re not pregnant in three months, I want you to come back for some tests.”

Three months later, nada, not even a chemical pregnancy. We started the work-up. First, the Canuck took his lunch hour for a little love in the afternoon at Repro Lab. He would like you to know all his boys are the Michael Phelps of sperm. I was up next. I was a champion ovulator – check. My ovaries weren’t shriveling up – check. There was no fallopian tube blockage (oh do ask me over cocktails some time about the 18-inch catheter they put up my hoo-ha to help them make that determination) – check. However, blood tests revealed that I was woefully low in progesterone. A successful pregnancy usually requires at least a level of 15. I was a 7.

“Dx: Infertility” she wrote on my file.

Free Diapers, Size 5

2008-03-11T22:19:00.009-04:00

The big girl underwear has landed.

Muffin potty-trained about a month ago. I wish I could say I figured out some brilliant no-fail system or that I was able to use some maternal Jedi mind tricks to sense that unlike the other 87 times we tried, she was now finally ready. But the truth is that my parents came to visit for the weekend, and Muffin wanted to dazzle them with her mad potty skillz, so she whizzed up a storm. We put her back in diapers for the school week, but then picked up the training again the following weekend. I kind of couldn’t believe it worked, to tell you the truth. On Monday, Muffin arrived at school, resplendent in panties and high-fiving her teachers. Except for one on-the-DL poop in the closet and a few nap-related leaks, she’s been pretty much accident-free. Goodbye, diaper bubble bum, hello baby plumber’s butt.

Cue the Sunrise, Sunset, but nothing drives home the point that Muffin's growing up more than seeing her wipe her own bum. But aside from fleeting moments of my baby! nostalgia, having a potty-trained kid rocks my world. I love getting rid of the diaper pail, and with it the Eau de Poop that hit you every time you walked into her room. I adore the so-cute-it-hurts underwear, all rainbows and hearts and poodles. I can’t get enough of the tender way she asks me every time we’re in a public bathroom, will you hold me so I don’t fall? And then, our faces close together, we make bets if this one’s a loud flusher or a quiet one.

I am also rather surprised at myself for embracing the whole process so easily. Before I became a mom, I cringed at the idea of using a cutesy word like “potty” or of needing to explain about girl parts and boy parts. (I probably haven’t done such a good job with the latter, because she insists only boys have butts). But I experience no shame or embarrassment (Exhibit A: this blog entry). When Muffin calls me over to the toilet to look at what she’s produced, I oohh and aahh without a bit of irony. I swear I could be having tea with the queen in Buckingham Palace but if Muffin started up with that suspicious leg-crossing action, I would not hesitate for a moment to ask her if she has to make pee-pee on the potty. And then I would smile proudly.

Top Three Weirdest Things My Kid Said to Me Today

2008-01-16T21:27:00.000-05:00

3. "I love you, crazy baby Santa."

2. "I have a puppy in my tummy -- a boy puppy and a baby!"

1. "I use my toothbrush on my bum."

Thanks

2007-11-27T18:36:00.000-05:00

Sitting around the Thanksgiving table, we hold hands and bow our heads to pray. My parents do a round-robin type of grace before dinner, and this time my mom decides we should all share what we’re thankful for. The ritual of grace always presents a bit of a conundrum for me, as I try to appreciate all I have without thanking a God I don’t believe in. I'm happy to be given a topic.

As the prayer train goes around the other side of the table, Muffin leans over and asks, “What y’all doing?” She turns Texan for some reason whenever she asks this question. While Miss M can recite the traditional before-dinner prayer by heart, as the child of heathens Muffin has no idea what grace even is.

“Think of something you like and that you’re happy to have,” I whisper in her ear. I am up next, so I talk about how glad I am that my sister has had her baby before her due date, giving me a chance to meet her when she was just days old. I’ve somehow met all three of my nieces and nephews within a week of their birth, as they did with Muffin. Despite living halfway across the country from my family, I don't miss as much as you'd think.

Muffin’s turn. “And what are you thankful for?” my mom asks.

“Chicken,” Muffin replies solemnly.

I’m thankful for chicken too.

Snapped

2007-11-26T22:47:00.000-05:00

You know that saying about something involving a high level of coordination being as difficult as herding cats? I propose a new expression: Trying to get three two-year-olds to smile for a Christmas photo.

Miss M could not work it without musical accompaniment.

Lil C seemed concerned that all the adults in the room are singing B-I-N-G-O, jumping up and down, and possibly losing their marbles.

Muffin tried a variety of imaginative poses. She is still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Toddler Model.

This is going so well - let's add 6-day-old Baby Jojo into the mix.

Muffin's solo session didn't go much better. Diva.

At least we got to see the big guy -- and we even mustered a nice smile.

Life of the Potty

2007-11-20T23:20:00.000-05:00

We introduced the potty right around the time Muffin turned two. Having her actually go on the toilet seemed about as likely as monkeys flying out of her butt, but we figured we had to start some time. She seemed to enjoy the novelty, so every night at bath time we dutifully sat her down for a little quality time on the throne. We might read a book or just shoot the, um, shit about pooping and peeing, and who all does it – a topic that held endless fascination. I’m sorry, but if I know you in real life, we've probably discussed the fact that you too poop. She's suitably impressed, I promise you.

After a few weeks, Muffin peed – a thrilling development. After a few weeks, lo and behold, she made a larger deposit at the bank. We hugged her and high-fived her as if she’d pooped gold. We taped up a potty chart – flower stickers for #1 and gold stars for #2 – and she filled it up in just one weekend.

And yet, six months later, she’s still in diapers – ok, technically, she’s in the pull-ups, the ones with the Little Mermaid, Princess Jasmine and Cinderella on the front (Cars pull-ups are an acceptable substitute but if try Dora, God help you). She is perfectly capable of recognizing the need to go and holding it, but totally inconsistent in her desire to actually make it to the bathroom. I call it the Lesser of Two Evils litmus test; if she is stalling on bedtime, feeling rushed out the door for school or some other onerous activity, she’ll shout the state of her bladder from the rooftops and make a beeline for the pot. But if she’s playing or dancing or, say, eating my Chapstick, she can’t be bothered. Unless we can catch her beforehand and convince her otherwise, her preferred poop scenario is in her room, in the corner, bracing herself against the table. I’ve put the totally adorable big kid underwear on her a few times, thinking that might make my little fashionista a convert, but despite me asking her every 15 minutes if she had to go, she just casually wet herself and kept on playing.

There have been a few setbacks along the way – falling into the bowl when she forgot to put the special seat on, accidentally using her hand as a wipe (and to her credit, being suitably horrified). But I don’t think they’ve been enough to put her on the path to adult diapers. I’m not sure what the glitch is. Perhaps one day she’ll wake up and tell us she’s off the dipes for good, and we’ll know that this is it, she's finally really ready. But of course there are no traffic lights in parenting, and we'll probably have to muddle through like always. Her teachers have encouraged us to take a long weekend and just do it. They think she’s almost there, just needs a little push.

Maybe it’s that we’re not ready. I’ve walked the streets of Manhattan, weakened postpartum bladder bursting, unable to find a bathroom -- Central Park in particular is a restroom no man’s land. We do like our adventures, and really committing to full potty training means sticking close to home for a while.

But I think I’ll also miss the day when using the potty is no longer an event but just a bodily function not worth fussing over. Seeing the smile spread across her face when she hears the tinkling of pee, and watching her little butt jiggle as she runs off to tell Daddy -- well, I can take a lot of shit for that.

The Recent Past, in Three Acts

2007-08-01T23:12:00.000-04:00

Hello! I’m not dead. Let me bring you up to speed:

I
In February I changed jobs and started working on a new website launch, and finally it’s live! Check it out. It’s so gorgeous and witty and smart, I want to marry it. This is a real high point in my career, because it meshes so perfectly with the life of diapers, Play-doh and toddler OCD that I already live.

And yet, as we got closer and closer to our live date, life got steadily more unmanageable. If I wasn't clacking away at the office, I was logging in right after I put Muffin to bed – every night. Errands were not run. Doctor’s appointments fell off the calendar. I canceled on friends. The apartment descended into squalor. The Canuck was rebuffed. I often went full days, sometimes two, without seeing Muffin. My gym membership mocked me as I started to get the squished-butt look that's the hallmark of a sedentary lifestyle. My nails I don’t even want to talk about. The only bright spot was that I worked right through lunch so often that I now actually weigh what I claim to on my driver’s license.

There is a ton of work, but what has really crippled me is how my mind races and short-circuits as my stress level increases. Sometimes I find myself rushing to the bathroom, bladder busting, and realize that I have had to go for hours, but have somehow forgotten. Yes, I forget to pee.

II
Not long after our launch I was working late. Chatting with a co-worker, we heard what sounded like very loud thunder as the building started to shake. We turned to the window and saw an explosion just outside our window. Someone (maybe me?) screamed “Get out!” and we all ran for the emergency exit. I barreled down 8 floors, falling several times in my stupid platform sandals but not stopping because I was pretty sure that the building was about to come down on me. I would venture to say that anyone who lived in New York during September 11 had nightmares about rushing down steps, and I can’t tell you how desperate and helpless and scared shitless I felt to find myself in the nightmare wide awake. I’d like to think I’m a decent person, but horrifically, I did not wait for my co-worker who stopped to take off her heels, and even worse I told a woman in front of me on the stairs that she had to move faster, faster, faster. Ignoring the rule about feeling the door for heat, I slammed right through it to the street, where I was ½ block from this:

It appeared a building was coming down. I was so turned around that I couldn’t tell if it was our building or Grand Central across the street, a potential target I worry about every time I walk through it.

After one quick glimpse, I ran like my life depended on it, because in my mind it did. Shoes and briefcases littered the sidewalk. I didn’t look back again and waited for the smoke to overtake me, but it never did. Two blocks later my legs were burning and I was wheezing. My co-worker caught up to me, and we found shelter in a nearby building, where I deep-breathed, tried not to faint and hoped very hard that everyone else I worked with was ok. Word soon spread that it was not terrorism, but a water pipe explosion that looked a whole lot more deadly than it actually was. Hours later, when the trains were running again and I had borrowed subway fare to get home, people were laughing and yakking away on their cells, just like always.

Because the explosion happened in front of our building, our offices were closed for six days while they made repairs and tested for asbestos. My purse, wallet, keys, phone, credit cards and ID were all sitting on my desk. I did however have my passport, which expires in 19 days. My renewal application was on my counter at home, but I hadn't gotten it together to send.

The first night I barely slept. The next night was a little better. I feel closer to normal each day, although I think loud noises are going to give me the heebie jeebies for a while. The city’s moved on, and as for me, well, I’m getting there.

III
If you ever survive a pipe explosion, I highly recommend you go on vacation immediately afterward. Three days later we flew to Chicago to meet my family and caravan to Michigan for the week. It rained most of the week and there’s something about a lake beach that doesn’t sit quite right with me, but all in all it was a restorative week. Although by the tail end Mommy started having that second vodka and tonic, seeing my daughters experience the pleasures of watermelon on the rind, squirt guns, monster bubbles and ketchup-drenched corn dogs made me feel about a zillion miles away from New York.

Tackling the Tough Questions

2007-06-21T22:07:00.000-04:00

Muffin [poking at my breastbone]: Mommy boobs.

Me: Yes, those are my boobs.

Muffin: Muffin have boobs?

Me: Yes, you have boobs.

Muffin: Daddy have boobs?

Me [judging the concept of man boobs too subtle for a 2-year-old to grasp]: Boys don't have boobs. Daddy's a boy, so no, Daddy doesn’t have boobs.

Muffin: Muffin a boy!

Me: No, you’re a girl. Girls have a vagina.

Muffin: Muffin ‘gina! Muffin ‘gina! Right there.

Me: That’s right, you have a vagina so you’re a girl.

Muffin: Mommy?

Me: Yes, sweetie?

Muffin: Elmo have boobs?

Me: …

Take Two

2007-06-14T23:19:00.000-04:00

Last week the incision on Muffin’s head didn’t look quite right to me. “No touch, Mommy,” Muffin kept saying, swatting my hand away, but after a few days I made her sit still for a closer look and it was clear it was not healing as it should be. We took her back to Dr. Waner’s office, where they took off the steri-strips to reveal an angry half inch-wide gash on her head. They had used dissolvable stitches, but because the strawberry was even bigger than it looked on the surface, they didn’t hold, and the incision had opened up. That was a Thursday. We spent Friday flogging ourselves for making the situation worse when we could have left well enough alone. On Saturday, Dr. Waner himself called to say he wanted her back in for surgery first thing Monday morning.

Although the dread factor was increased this time, knowing exactly what we were getting into, the actual procedure was much easier to bear – at least for me, but I think for Muffin too. An emergency that morning meant her surgery was 4 hours late, so by noon, we were in pre-op with a famished baby who had not eaten or drank anything since the night before and was rapidly approaching naptime. So they took pity on us and gave her “goofy juice.” I’m not sure what it was, but all I can say is that, dude, she's a natural stoner. She laughed maniacally at everything, offered sloppy kisses willingly and completely forgot about the forbidden fruit of the blood pressure cuff. You could tell she remembered having been in that room not long ago, and probably had an idea of what was in store. But hopped up on the goofy juice, she couldn’t really be bothered to care.

Since I held it together better than I did last time, I was coherent enough to behold what a tough little cookie we have unleashed upon this world. She took ages to go under, and even as my throat started to swell, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride as the nurses and doctors looked at their watches and wondered when this kid would finally be gassed already. In recovery she woke up pissed as hell, and when the Canuck and I joined her, two nurses were holding her down as she administered enough kicks to make them very sorry they had ever cut her head open and made her wait four hours for the pleasure. Offers of juice and cookies couldn’t have been more enthusiastically rejected than if we had offered dirt pies with grasshopper garnish. That is, until she decided she was good and ready, and then she downed two cups of apple juice and six cookies in 4 minutes flat.

While she was under, the wonderful nurse that assists Dr. Waner gave her little French braids so she’d look cute until we can wash her hair next week, which was the one time I did almost cry (what can I say? Hair is close to my heart). Even right after surgery, she looked amazing; the incision is so clean and thin that you almost can’t tell she’s had anything done. By the time she went to bed that night, she was back to normal, and has been kooky and chatty and delicious this entire week. We are back to thinking we did the right thing. But even if we didn't, I know she'll be just fine.

Bell and/or Whistle

2007-06-02T22:43:00.001-04:00

So this is my secret shame (secret in that I have complained to most of my girlfriends but the checkout lady at the grocery store doesn't suspect a thing): my husband does not always read this blog. Ok, that's exaggerating; he does read it...when I badger him...repeatedly. I wrote the piece about him running the marathon, and then waited for him to read it and bask in all the lovely things I'd written about him. After 3 days, I dragged him over to the computer to finally take a look. By then I was considering adding a postscript about how although he is very athletic, he sadly has a third nipple.

In his defense, he's just not really into blogs (I think it's the unassuming Canadian in him), and he is one of those strange people who actually spends all his hours at the office working. Also, this is a man who open drawers and forgets to close them. I can hardly to expect him to remember to read his wife's latest innermost thoughts and feelings.

He suggested that in order to help him remember to read this blog (which he does seem to really enjoy once he gets here, especially the entries about farts, burps and poop), I should set up a mailing list. So I did, at the bottom of this page. Sign up (there's no committment beyond giving your e-mail) and you will be notified when I post something new, honey. That goes for anyone else out there too.

She's So Sensitive

2007-06-02T22:09:00.000-04:00

Not long ago Muffin and I were taking one of our patented World’s Slowest Walks, and we passed a woman helping her daughter learn to ride a bike. The mom’s method could only be described as tough love. The little girl was on the verge of tears, but her mom kept telling her to stop crying and keep going. The girl fell, not all the way to the ground but enough to bring on true sobs of fear and frustration, but the mom again insisted that she get back up. No hugs, no kissing boo-boos, just sharp-tongued, Bobby Knight-style mothering.

Of course, Muffin had to examine a crack in the sidewalk just as they were slowly passing, so we ended up kind of inadvertently gawking at them. I couldn’t help but recoil at the mom’s lack of sympathy, even though I realize (in a way I never could have during my pre-mom years) that you just don’t know what kind of parent you’ll be until you’re there.

A few months ago we were at a friend’s birthday party. My friend’s mom was crossing her leg and inadvertently brushed Muffin. My daughter looked like someone had actually intentionally kicked her as her smile headed south and she scrambled over to me, arms out. She clutched me tightly and buried her head in my shoulder. She didn’t cry but I could hear her trying to catch her breath. She didn’t move for a good five minutes.

And here’s the terrible thing: I loved every second.

Muffin is generally too busy to be much of a cuddler. But at random moments she zooms over to me, whispering “hug, Mommy.” Often she’s tripped or pinched her finger, but sometimes someone just looking at her funny is enough to do it. Once the Canuck was pretending to be asleep on the couch and surprised her by blinking his eyes wide open suddenly. She ran off and buried her head in her hands, even as we were explaining that she hadn’t actually woken him up and that Daddy wasn’t mad at all. Guests are a mini-trauma every time; the buzzer rings, she yelps and rushes into my arms for a “carry you” (still working on those pronouns). In these moments, I am The Mommy, and my touch can restore her to her normal bouncy self, and it’s one of the greatest feelings ever.

But I am beginning to wonder if I am coddling her just so my mommy ego can get a stroke. I’m not talking about those times she’s truly injured – in those moments I can feel the gray hairs sprouting from my head, and I would gladly forgo the hugs and take on her pain in a second if I could. But then there are those minor daily wobbles and bumps, where a parent’s reaction can often determine the child’s. Sometimes I am breezy and all walk-it-off. But just as often I am offering a hug before Muffin can even figure out if she is upset enough to need it.

We have friends with a daughter so shy and sensitive that she had to bring a bucket to preschool to throw up in each day before she went in. Now she is 6, and her mom has decided she can no longer accept birthday party invitations, because there have just been too many times where the poor girl cannot get up the courage to leave her mom’s side and join in the festivities. I know her mom is proud of what a sweet and sensitive girl she is, but I also know she’s at her wit’s end trying to draw her out and toughen her up.

Maybe the woman on the street was in the same place.

29 Pounds of Fabulous

2007-05-15T20:47:00.000-04:00

At Muffin’s birthday party, I had a bucket of leis out for the kids. None of the other kids got a chance to wear them:

My friend Jenn commented that perhaps I should pass on to Muffin that golden rule of accessorizing: before you leave the house, take one thing off. That, of course, is next on my list, right after teaching her to poop in the toilet.

On Saturday morning when I went in to get Muffin up, she requested the following, in this order:

1. Ernie
2. Bracelet
3. Other Bracelet
4. Necklace
5. Sunglasses

Before we left the house, she added a backpack and a stuffed mouse. The end result is kind of…pint size drag queen, don’t you think?

I mean, does it not look a little bit like she was out clubbing all night, and has stumbled into a greasy spoon at 6am, a little rowdy and maybe possibly still drunk?

I am so going to have the weird kid on the playground wearing the tutu, the galoshes and the cowboy hat. And it is totally my fault for passing on the style obsession gene and for taking such obvious pleasure in dressing Muffin. Already she is getting very opinionated about what she wears, and I know the day is coming where I will lose control altogether. And when it's up to her -- well, the results are not pleasing to the eye. Doesn't she know when she pairs, say, her red Crocs with green socks and a pink polka dot dress, it kills Mommy a little bit inside?

Leo DiCaprio Would Totally Not Approve

2007-05-12T16:45:00.002-04:00

My badass friend A and I once let lettuce come between us. I threw out the dregs of a salad, you see, and she thought that was incredibly wasteful. She’s originally from Russia, so I guess she’s been raised to make every last bit count. I am originally from New Jersey, so I was raised to go to the mall and just buy more. My reasoning for the egregious salad toss, as I recall, was that I figured I would throw it out now rather than pitching an entire Tupperware container a few weeks later, since let’s be honest: I would let the lettuce sit in my fridge until it became too soupy and vile to even think about opening.

A year or two later, A and I were roommates, and under her tutelage, I started hating waste too. I’m not saying I don’t squander perfectly good food now, because sometimes I do. But at least now I have the decency to let it really bother me and I make a genuine effort to avoid it when I can. As a result, I involve the Canuck in things like leftover smorgasbord dinners (you can imagine how that goes over). And sometimes Muffin gets random dinners like half a meatball, a browning banana and a toasted bread butt.

It’s a good thing A lives in Pittsburgh, because if she thought I was bad with the lettuce, she’d be scandalized by Muffin. Although Muffin is an adventurous eater, she’s also two, so at times she will reject things just for shits and giggles. She’ll have one mouthful of yogurt, and then request applesauce. She’ll ask for milk and then demand water. She’ll say she wants a banana – without mentioning that what she wants it for is to squish between her fingers. Some nights I’m great at tricking her into eating what I want her to, other nights we have a big to-do about it, with much discussion about how not-nice wasting is. Other nights, I am too tired to struggle with her over it, and so I serve up options until she is satisfied. My trash can fills up with half-eaten dinners.

And it’s not just food. Every day – usually several times a day – she runs over to the stepstool and points to the sink. “Right there,” she commands. I groan, because what she wants is to “wash dishes,” which basically means standing at the sink with the water running for a good 20 minutes (which is longer than she'll do anything else). Oh, I’ve tried filling up the sink, setting the water pressure to just a dribble or redirecting her to bathtime. She is not fooled. I start to tell her no, but then I see the J. Crew catalog that just arrived in the mail, and calculate that with Muffin occupied I probably have just enough time to page through it and dogear the things I like.

Then this week, a serious violation. I was in the bathroom, doing what, uh, people do in the bathroom and having it all narrated by Muffin. The phone rang, so I quickly finished up and ran to get it. As I chatted with the Canuck for a minute or two, things got quiet. Too quiet. I returned to the bathroom to find half a box of tampons floating in the toilet bowl. At least they were the biodegradeable kind.

The Before Shots

2007-05-02T22:11:00.000-04:00

I have been so busy working (hence, the radio silence here) that I haven’t had much time to fret in my usual way about Muffin’s surgery. But suddenly, it is upon us, and we are due at the hospital by 8:30am tomorrow.

I’m not really worried she’ll die or anything. It’s minor surgery, and Dr. Waner has never had any of his patients die on him. I’m stressing over the stupid little details – about how we’ll amuse her as we wait, how we’ll distract her from the fact that she can’t have any breakfast, about what time we have to get up to make sure we all get out of the house by 7:30. But really my mind keeps circling around the awful fact that Muffin will be scared out of her mind tomorrow. I will do everything I can to try to make it better for her, but it won’t be enough. This surgery unfortunately coincides with a slew of new fears, like airplanes, loud flushing toilets, and most of all, doctors. During her 2-year well-baby appointment, she started crying almost the second we hit the the exam room. We calmed her down by promising no shots, but I won’t exactly be able to do that tomorrow.

A few people who read this blog (and even some people who have met Muffin in real life) say that you’d never know she has a birthmark. I generally choose photos where it’s not plainly visible, and I’ve become adept at styling her hair so it’s hidden. But tonight we went up to the roof so I could get some shots to remember the strawberry by. It’s funny – it seems like ages that we’ve been looking at it, but I know years from now we’ll squint our eyes and try to conjure up what that thing looked like.

You know what’s weird? I think I’m going to miss it a little bit.

UPDATED: Well, it’s done, and we are all fine. Thank you to everyone who let us know you were thinking of Muffin. She actually handled it all well and was so very brave. The surgery started about an hour late, which meant three hours of wandering through hospital corridors and reading the three books we brought with us approximately 187 times (there’s nothing like having zero left in your bag of tricks to make you welcome the idea of sedation). She asked for food a few times, but dropped it easily when I said I didn’t have any. She was fine with putting on the hospital gown, cool with getting her temperature taken and shy but not scared with all the doctors who came in to see her. She was even okay in the operating room – that is until they put the gas mask on her and she started fighting. Mercifully, it was over in 30 seconds, and then I was treated to the sight of my daughter’s eyes rolling right into the back of her head. That's one that's going to stick with me for a while.

When they brought us in afterward, I could hear her crying from across the room. She was thrashing about and very confused – however, she was lucid enough to ask for her pacifier and her blanket, and calmed down as soon as I gave them to her. Suddenly, everyone was looking at me and asking if I felt ok. I did – until 10 seconds later, when a wave of nausea and lightheadedness washed over me. They actually dragged out a reclining chair – the same kind the adult post-op patients recover in – and made me sit there until I felt better. I fully expect 25 years from now, Muffin’s going to be delving into her mom’s narcissist tendencies in therapy.

She looks pretty worse for the wear, with a big exposed incision, a drain snaking out of it, and her hair sticky and matted from rust-colored antiseptic, which we can wash out in 48 hours. Personality-wise, however, she seems back to normal, asking for Elmo, picking her nose, and demanding meatballs for dinner. It's nice to have her back.

Catching Flies

2007-04-14T19:17:00.000-04:00

Today we were out running neighborhood errands in preparation for Muffin's birthday party next weekend, with a lot of to-dos on our list. We ran right into naptime, and sure enough Muffin fell asleep in her stroller. We gamely tried to keep her awake for a few minutes, but it was no use. So while the Canuck ran off to do one more thing, I rushed home to get her into her crib.

People were pointing and smiling at her as we passed, and I congratulated myself for dressing her all toddler-chic in striped leggings and retro sunglasses. She's completely scrumptious -- it was no wonder people were noticing.

It wasn't until I got back to my building and was fishing around in my purse for keys that I finally caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye.

Breaking the Curse

2007-04-11T19:17:00.000-04:00

I get incredibly attached to The Way Things Should Be. When you're a parent, this is such a bad idea, and yet I keep expecting life to follow the precious parenting moments playbook. I'm particularly suspectible to this on holidays, when in some crazy corner of my brain I have the idyllic home movies all blocked out, lines written, wardrobe chosen. At Halloween, I got a belligerant lamb instead of a charming little trick or treater. We spent 10 hours in the car on Christmas Day, and Muffin peed right through the holiday outfit I'd chosen so carefully. You'd think that by Easter I'd learn, right?

We didn't get off to an auspicious start. On Saturday we headed over to DUMBO for the Easter egg hunt held at the park under the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges. It was ridiculously cold for April, especially right on the water, and the event was poorly run. Big kids were mixed with toddlers, so as Muffin zeroed in on an egg, inevitably some older kid, his basket already overflowing, would swoop in and steal it. Muffin behaved herself through it all and answered yes when I asked if she'd had fun, but I doubted we were really making memories here.

On Sunday morning, we let her go through her Easter basket in bed. She ate a chocolate bunny for breakfast, and perhaps not coincidentally, we had to give her her very first time out a few hours later.

And then, somehow, it all turned around. We went over to our friends J & J's apartment, where they were having an Easter buffet dinner. Although J & J rival Martha Stewart in their hospitality and cooking prowess, they always go out of their way to include Muffin (and all the nuttiness she brings) in every invitation. She was the only child there, and yet they had stayed up late the night before decorating Easter eggs and hiding them around the apartment for her to find. They also put together a beautiful Easter basket for her, full of thoughtful items. Seeing how special they made it for her -- and therefore for the Canuck and I -- choked me up a little. And isn't that the gushy stuff precious moments are made of?

To see photos from Easter, click here.

Yes, She Kisses Her Mama With That Mouth

2007-04-04T22:51:00.000-04:00

One reason the twos (ok, the almost-twos) are not so terrible: my girl and I can actually have a conversation. It goes something like this:

Me: How are you?
Muffin: Good.

It’s awesome. Sometimes she asks me how I am too. I’m pretty sure she’ll be in the gifted program.

Gogus became gogourt and eventually yogurt. People who are not me, the Canuck or Sally can actually understand what she is saying a good percentage of the time now, no translator necessary. “Daddy sleeping,” she’ll observe. You better affirm that yes, Daddy is in fact snoozing away, and quick, or she will repeat it over and over, louder and louder, until Daddy is no longer sleeping. She seems to get such a high from being understood, she refuses to let one single opportunity for validation pass her by. All day long I repeat what she says to me back to her like an obnoxious parrot. Muffin will also ask the same questions over and over in a bullheaded attempt to morph reality, as if she has not quite grasped the concept that "we have no more applesauce" is as true at 6:33pm as it is at 6:34pm, 6:36pm, and 6:37pm.

She's making great strides, it's true, but she still has a long way to go. One urgent area of focus: perfecting her pronunciation of "truck." You see where this is going, right? She loves trucks, and points them out every time she sees one, but it comes out as an exuberant "fuck!" every time. If it's a fire truck, you just get a stuttering variation: fa-fuck. "T-t-t-t-truck," I tell her. "T-t-t-t-fuck," she says back, looking pretty proud of herself. We frequently pass the fire station near our house on walks, and sometimes they invite us in to look at the rig. I don't dare stay long, because it's only a matter of time before she drops an f-bomb on one of New York's bravest.

#2 (and I Don’t Mean Poop)

2007-03-28T23:06:00.000-04:00

It’s official: every single friend or acquaintance who was pregnant when I was pregnant with Muffin is either expecting again or has already had their second child. Of course the conventional wisdom is that 2 years between kids is optimal, but I had no idea this was so firmly entrenched. I went to a 2nd birthday party recently, and I think I was the sole XX-chromosomed representative at the bar. Although being surrounded by women with baby bumps did make me feel totally skinny, it also weirded me out. I mean, really? You guys are ready to do this again? All of you?

I am beginning to consider maybe starting to think about having #2 – possibly. But I am wishy washy at best. I know I don’t have forever, but having one successful pregnancy under my belt takes away a lot of the urgency. My sister and I are four years apart and very close, so I don’t believe that siblings have to be close in age to be, uh, close.

A few months ago, I thought for a day or two that I was pregnant. As the nurse gave me a blood test, I grumped about how I’d just started a new job, how we didn’t have space for a baby, how I wasn’t ready to move out of Brooklyn, how this would just totally screw everything up. I’m sure that had I been pregnant, I would have come to the conclusion that it was the best of all possible outcomes after I’d had a few days to turn it around in my mind. But at the moment, I was about 80% pissed, and 20% happy – and I think most of that 20% was comprised of fantasies of Felicity and I taking prenatal yoga together.

All of my friends who are pregnant work part-time or aren’t working at all. If I didn’t have to worry about how I could make a full-time job work with two kids, I can certainly see the logic in birthing the kids in quick succession, getting through the pregnancy/breastfeeding years in one fell swoop, and being that much closer to having a family where all members know how to wipe their own butt. I know that by waiting I am that much farther away from my fantasy of reading the paper while my children play – by themselves -- in the next room. I get all tingly just thinking about it.

I did not have a particularly hard pregnancy. My labor and delivery didn’t go as I’d hoped but I’ve certainly heard worse stories than mine. Yes, I feel overwhelmed some days by the one child I already have, but the more time I spend with other 2-year-olds, the more I realize that I actually have Muffin pretty well in hand and intermittent chaos is just part of the gig. However challenging it has been, there’s nothing about the experience of carrying and raising a child that makes me hesitate to repeat it someday.

And yet I know I am just not quite ready to do it again.

I love the spontaneous playdates that happen in the hallways of our building. I love that the Canuck and I still have a little time to debrief and make each other laugh each day. I love my 9-to-5 job. I love that Muffin and I can walk out the front door of our building and see a dog, a fire truck or an airplane in 10 seconds flat. I love fitting into the same clothes I wore before I had Muffin. I love how happy Muffin seems in our small but cozy apartment. I love that I can focus on her and only her in the few hours I have with her each night. Life is just so good, and why mess with a good thing?

Catch Up

2007-03-15T21:57:00.000-04:00

One of the reasons – admit it! – people have kids is to see their own qualities reflected back at them. Muffin has a lot of me in her, what with her ski jump nose, her allergic-to-the sun skin tone and her undeniable dance ability. But thankfully there’s one big way that she does not resemble her mama one bit: she is a magnificently adventurous eater.

I spent most of my childhood trying to figure out a tactful way to deduce what was being served before accepting dinner invitations at friends’ houses. Even with screening, I’d often end up in awkward dinner situations, since, well, I didn’t really like anything unless it was completely sauce-, spice-, and flavor-free. Slowly over time (and in leaps and bounds since I met the Canuck, who is the most contagiously enthusiastic eater you will ever meet), I got over my food phobias and now consider myself only mildly picky. Although I'm probably still a culinary liability to the Canuck, I can accept any dinner invitation without hesitation.

I did not want to pass the finicky eater gene passed down to Muffin, and fortunately she is her father's daughter when it comes to food. Vegetables I've only learned to like as an adult -- broccoli, cauliflower, squash -- she eats with relish. I bought her a microwave kid dinner to try, and she ate all the peas and none of the mac 'n' cheese. One time the Canuck made a chili that was just too spicy for me to stomach, but she ate it no problem. Although "yellow cheese" is her most frequent request, I've seen her eat Humboldt Fog goat cheese, pecorino, dill havarti, brie and a very sharp Quebec cheddar. I learned early on that I could get her to eat any meat as long as I slathered it in BBQ sauce.

And while I remain staunchly anti-condiment, she is quite taken with ketchup. Eating out at a new, still-getting-the-service-down restaurant recently, I had to ask for ketchup five times, as Muffin grew despondent. When finally this tomato-based nectar of the gods arrived, she tucked into a basket of sweet potato fries happily, dipping all the way. When they cleared our table and took the ketchup away, she bid it farewell with a somber wave. I guess the loss hit her hard, because she kept repeating "bye, bye ketchup" all the way home.

Big Doings

2007-03-11T21:57:00.000-04:00

March 11, P-day: Muffin first pees on the potty.

Back From Rehab

2007-03-07T22:24:00.000-05:00

Some of the two people who read this blog (hi, Mom!) have wondered why I am not updating more. It’s a combination of things, really. I’ve been laying low – as low as a mother of a spastic toddler can lay – with a few minor but nonetheless nagging health issues. At the same time, the Canuck and I have both started very challenging new jobs and are recalibrating to find balance again. My new position involves much more writing than my previous one, with some overlap on the parenting issues I blather on about here, so I scratch the itch to write all day long. When I get home at night, now I scratch the American Idol itch instead.

But most of all, I think it’s just all too much. I mean that a little bit in the negative sense of feeling overwhelmed, but mostly in the most glorious sense. Life with Muffin is just so chocked full. It’s progressing at a rate I can’t keep up with, slipping through the fingers I use to type. I mean, she winks now – or tries to, in a manner that suggests a momentary eye twitch. She announces, “jump” and then gets about 2mm of vertical. She counts to ten, with her own flair: one-y, two-y, three-y. She adores speed bumps, ketchup, bracelets, Kraft singles and toilet paper. In the morning she gives me a yogurty goodbye kiss right on the lips.

It’s hard to feel like I can even do her justice.

Can you actually burst from pride? If so, we might have a real mess on our hands.

Notes on Traveling to Mexico With a Toddler

2007-03-04T20:31:00.000-05:00

• There are some things about Mexico that make me want to chuck it all and raise my little panecillo in a shack by the sea. The cuisine for one – Muffin happily toots her way through meal after meal of beans. The hot weather makes her sleepy, so I enjoy a return to the heavenly era of twice-daily naps. And there’s always a cat or dog wandering around any restaurant you go to, which is a godsend during that interminable period in which your hungry child is waiting for food.

• Muffin’s hair, which at home is a mulletish mix of wavy and straight, morphs into a golden helmut of Shirley Temple ringlets. I fight the urge to slurp her up almost every second.

• There is bottled water for us to drink in the villa, but the water that comes out of the tap is not recommended for gringos. Because Muffin often drinks bathwater (ew, I know -- I’m trying to break her of this habit), we shower with her every day instead. Although I try to watch her very closely, I have to turn my back to grab towels or shampoo, so I can never be sure she has not opened her mouth to catch the downpour. I am dogged by barfing baby fears for the entire trip.

• Although our villa is right on the turquoise ocean, with a lovely pool to boot, Muffin is instead drawn to the tiny spicket at the side of the house. This faucet is usually just used for short intervals to clean off sandy feet, and I cross my fingers Mexico is not experiencing a water shortage as Muffin splashes around in it ten times a day.

• The Canuck gave me a Canon Rebel SLR for Christmas, and quite frankly, I am not worthy. The esoteric manual mocks me, with its assumption that any person who owns this bad-ass camera has a clue, which I don’t. Although Muffin is so cute and the light so stunning I couldn't’t help but get a few good shots with it, often I just grab the point-and-shoot out of sheer intimidation. Luckily the Canuck understands that I need a nudge and signs me up for a one-day weekend photo course.

• Although the concept was initially introduced by her Welsh honorary grandmother a few weeks ago, Muffin perfects her execution of “cheers." With the margaritas and chocolate milk flowing freely, she has many opportunities to clink glasses all around. Won’t that be a nice habit to bring with her to preschool?

To see photos from our trip to Mexico, click here.

Joie de Vivre to Spare

2007-02-20T22:23:00.000-05:00

ps. Yep, phoning it in with the photos. Sorry, AJ.

Going Our Own Way

2007-02-06T21:46:00.000-05:00

As we get ready to head to Mexico for our annual winter trip with Mom Canuck, I'm reminded of how right before last year's trip, I thought at the last minute to look up the Spanish word for birthmark (marca de nacimiento), figuring I might get some questions. We were barely off the plane and not even at the arrival gate before that phrase came in handy. As we walked through the terminal, I heard people whispering about and staring at my gorgeous little girl, who I am so proud to call mine.

This year I bet we'll make it through the airport with no nosy questions -- maybe we'll even make it through the whole week. Muffin has a headful of hair these days, enough to put in pigtails, which I have dreamed about doing as soon as they pulled her from my body and told me I had a girl. If I comb it the right way, and there's no wind, and we're not swimming, you might never even notice the ping pong-sized benign tumor on her head.

And yet after almost two years of avoidance, we have finally decided to go ahead with surgery to remove it. This is against the advice of my pediatrician, who told us to do nothing, and said it would be gone by age 2. Most generalists tell this to parents of kids with strawberries, unless the birthmark is somehow impeding vision, breathing or some other vital function.

But after much research and a consultation with a plastic surgeon, I've learned the latest thinking among specialists in this area is to deal with it early, before pre-school. Also, the actual timeframe for the birthmark fading is more like 10-15 years for many kids (Muffin is just two months shy of 2, and although it's flattened out, it's not going away any time soon). I'd still be inclined to wait it out, but the issue with Muffin is this: because it's above her hair line, she will always have a rather large bald spot right above her forehead, even when the strawberry resolves itself. I can't imagine this will bother her much as a small child, but when she's a teenager? After years of writing for women's web sites, I can tell you: hair is of monumental importance to the average American woman. And if Muffin takes after me, thoughts of her hair and how it's looking today and how she can purchase more products for it will take up the majority of her brain space.

What finally tipped the scales for us was finding this man. Dr. Waner seems to be the world's leading specialist on hemagiomas, and we have an appointment with him in a few weeks. I haven't met him, but I kind of want to make out with him a little bit already. He is universally lauded among the vascular birthmarks set, and unlike a plastic surgeon who usually deals with high-rolling boob job patients, Dr. Waner operates on mostly children. I expect he will be sensitive to Muffin, and also Muffin's mommy, who even now gets a little choked up at the thought of what's to come.

I don't imagine it's ever going to feel "right" to put my daughter through surgery to fix something that not life-threatening, painful or even entirely necessary. If you spend any time looking at pictures of hemangiomas, you'll see how truly lucky Muffin is. But I am realizing that we have to have the confidence to be her advocates, and not just accept what we are told. We have to do what we think she'd want us to do if her future grown-up self could advise us. Muffin is starting nursery school in the fall, and I think she deserves to go enter the classroom with skin expanders, a shaved head, a hospital stay, stitches and whispered remarks behind her.

I wrote an e-mail to one of Dr. Waner's associates, and he actually wrote me back a lovely note, offering to look at a photo of Muffin's birthmark, seconding my opinion that surgery seems like the right course of action, and easing my fears about the insurance battle I fear is ahead of us. I think these are good people; I believe we can trust them with our exquisite little girl.

Easy Peasy Queasy

2007-01-30T22:54:00.000-05:00

I live in fear of puke. I know it’s silly, but I do. I once went 10 years without throwing up at all. I have yet to vomit from drinking too much, but only because when I get that horrible queasy feeling I deep breathe – for hours if I have to – until the food begins to move through my system. There’s nothing worse than the cold sweats, the shaking, and the certainty that you are about to taste your last meal again, with a side of bile. I’ll do just about anything to avoid it.

So it’s no surprise I am a total wimp when it comes to other people puking. Dear friends, I wish I could say I'd be glad to hold your hair back and rub your back should you ever find yourself in this situation, but the reality is that I will probably be halfway down the block before you even start heaving. I mean, I once switched subway cars because I thought someone looked a little too green for my comfort. And the Canuck knows that he can torture me by pretending that he’s about to hurl. He does it all the time. Oh, we have good times, don’t we?

Ever since I got pregnant, and maybe even before then, I dreaded the day that my child would puke. Would she throw up all over me? Would I want to run away instead of comforting her? Would I be able to summon the inner fortitude to clean it up? I crossed my fingers that when it finally happened, the Canuck would take pity on me and expunge the evidence before I even got a whiff.

As I mentioned, the unimaginable happened when Muffin had her virus (fortunately, I was not within spewing distance). And you know what? It wasn’t that bad. I was happily surprised to find that my first instinct wasn’t to bolt but to reassure her that everything was ok. Not that she needed my comfort – she just nonchalantly popped the binky back in her mouth and went about her Elmo-watching business. And although I smelled phantom puke for hours after I mopped it up, really the clean-up was well within the boundaries of stuff I can handle. As someone commented on that entry, I consider myself initiated.

Like the Girl Scouts, motherhood should have badges that signify notable accomplishments. Getting pooped and peed on? Check. First public tantrum? Been there. Inaugural vomit? I’d wear that badge with pride.

Lucky

2007-01-21T20:26:00.000-05:00

Muffin pats the seat next to her. “Mommy.” She turns to the other side. “Daddy.” She loves nothing more than to be the meat in our sandwich. We give her a bath, the Canuck sitting on the toilet, me perched on Muffin’s step stool, our knees knocking against each other in our tiny bathroom. So often we tag team it but tonight we are ignoring dinner prep and doing it together. After a week and a half of almost non-stop travel, it is heaven to have him home. Muffin’s mouth forms a devilish O as bubbles flutter out of her bum. “Oh, it’s a Jacuzzi bath, is it?” laughs the Canuck. I can’t stop laughing either, and then Muffin starts giggling at us, and we crack up even harder at her. There’s a tiny bit of magic that happens when we are together, my dear family and me, if only I take a moment to notice.

The Devil Wears Baby Gap

2007-01-20T21:25:00.000-05:00

So the big bad mystery virus turned into bronchitis. A regimen of doctor’s appointments, PediaCare, Motrin, Amoxicillan and eye drops has finally worked to chase the sickness from Muffin’s little body.

However, there’s something else that needs expulsion. And we might need a priest, a crucifix and some holy water for this one.

I knew that I was spoiling Muffin while she was sick. But what else can you do when they are feeling so terrible except try to distract them from their discomfort? If Elmo will put a smile on her face, then she shall have Elmo, even though Mommy will still be humming his irritatingly catchy rap about the number 5 a week later. If a binky will soothe her, bring on the overbite.

Of course, she can’t understand why the rules are different this week than they were last week. And she expresses that confusion in a series of unfortunate behaviors that range from mild whining to full-blown, could-result-in-complaints-from-the-co-op screaming fits. “Yogurt!” she sobs as if I’ve said no, even as I am reaching to get it for her. I tell her to ask nicely, and so she yells “Yogurt please!” even louder.

I believe that one of the hardest but most meaningful ways to love your kids is to place limits on their behavior. So the wild west days have to end. But how to get control again? Since she was sick, she wants her pacifier all day long, but since we are trying to eventually wean her from it altogether, the rule is that she gets it only when she is going to sleep. As she stood near her crib, trying to grab the pacifier I’d placed out of reach, I decided to wait her out. “I’ll be in the living room ready to read some books when you’re ready,” I told her, and then settled down to wait, sure that this episode would be over in 5 minutes or less. I am the boss, I am the boss, I chanted to myself. A half an hour later, with me offering everything but the kitchen sink in the paci’s place, she was still bawling and her breathing was ragged. I couldn’t take it any more, and I gave in. Exhausted from the bronchitis and pink eye I’d developed myself, my resolve was just too weak. Elmo was on less than 15 minutes later.

My nanny had an idea. “Elmo is taking a nap,” she told Muffin. It worked, so I’ve been using it ever since. I don’t really love the idea of lying to her but I’m desperate. And I’m proud of myself for not taking it further. I could have told her Elmo is dead – and I killed him.

Sick and Tired

2007-01-09T21:44:00.000-05:00

Did you know that they have the Golf Channel on Demand? If you live in New York and have cable, cruise on up to channel 1009 and see for yourself. There’s also NY1, Court TV and National Geographic on Demand.

I demand National Geographic immediately! I must have it!

You know what they need? Elmo on Demand. Because I have a toddler who’s spent the better part of the last three days seeking the pleasure of his company. I’ve DVR’d some Sesame Street, and we have a few videos, but even she – she of the marathon Baby Einstein watching – is getting sick of the same old skits. Of course, if I have to listen to that overly precious puppet talk about himself in the third person one more time, I just might completely lose my shit, so maybe it’s just as well.

Muffin is sick, the sickest she’s ever been. On Saturday she had a bit of a croup-y sounding cough, but we were able to go about our day. On Sunday she refused to eat and had a fever of 102. By midnight it was 104 and her breathing was raspy. By 5am, she was at 105 and I placed a semi-hysterical call to my doctor’s answering service. She seemed unsure if I should go to the ER, but in the end advised me to just wait the four hours until her office opened. At 9am I was there, waiting to see Dr. Feelbad. Although she suspected it was a virus, she took a blood sample to rule out something more serious. She was visibly annoyed when I had a hard time keeping Muffin’s arm steady to get the needle in. She made a second attempt with the other arm, muttering under her breath how much better the first vein had been. I’m sorry I’m not better at holding down my fever-delirious, whimpering child as you try to shove a needle in her arm. My bad. I'll practice so I'll be better at it next time.

I have stayed home with her since she became ill. The Canuck is on a business trip, so I’ve been on night duty too. The first day it was a treat to be home with her, basking in the glow of feeling needed and stroking her soft back as we lay on the couch together. Today has been, to say the least, a trial. I think the tide might have turned around the time she vomited yogurt all over the couch. Maybe it was when she fell off a dining room chair as I cleaned up said puke. Or perhaps it was when she started secreting pus from her eyes, adding pink eye to her list of ailments. She is miserable, and miserable to be around. She barely napped. She asked for yogurt all day long despite the hearty "no thanks" her gastrointestinal system gave it earlier. She screamed “all done” after less than a minute in the bath, which I had banked on eating up at least a half hour of this very long day. She whined Elbas (her name for Elmo) on, Elbas on until I turned on the TV and fast-forwarded through any non-Elmo segments. I fear the constant tube-watching and pacifier-sucking habits I’ll be working on breaking when she’s better. I exercised the emergency early bedtime parental option; I told myself it was for her own good, but really it was for mine.

I feel so utterly alone, exhausted, frightened and patience-deficient. I could have asked my nanny to help out, as I am paying her anyway, but I am too proud to admit to her that I am having trouble handling this on my own. I’ve already told the Canuck, who returns late tonight, that if she’s sick tomorrow it's his problem. I feel angry that he left me alone with such a sick child, even though, had he asked me, I would have insisted that he go. Unfair and irrational, I know, but there you have it.

It’s 9:30pm, and in the 2 hours since I put her to bed, Muffin has woken up 4 times. I’ve finally just bought her into my bed and am singing "You Are My Sunshine" on loop as I type this. Every once in a while, her little head pops up and croaks, Elbas on? before falling back into a fitful sleep.

I have a feeling it’s going to be another long night.

Update:

Thanks for all the kind words, phone calls and offers of help. I'm feeling more than a little embarrassed, because after a day off sick duty (at work) and after a decent night's sleep, I see now that I was being a total prissy drama queen. I think of the dignity of parents dealing with serious illnesses and disabilities, and single parents who are always doing it on their own, and I kick myself for not thanking my lucky stars every single second.

When I came home last night, Muffin's eye were bright, she was running around as she usually does (so much to dismantle, so little time) and she slept 10 hours straight. We even went two hours with no Elmo! She still has a fever but I think she is finally beating this thing.

Christmas Miracle

2007-01-03T19:41:00.000-05:00

Because there is something seriously wrong with us, every Christmas the Canuck and I travel to both Chicago and Toronto to visit with our families. You might think that having a child would make us rethink that plan, but we are pretty thick that way. I hate the idea of not seeing my niece and my nephew (and oh yeah, my parents and siblings too, of course!). Muffin is the only grandchild on the Canuck's side, and I don't think the Canadian postal system could handle the delivery of all the gifts she gets from her grandma, uncle, great aunts and cousins. Although I fantasize about a holiday that does not involve packing, security lines or turbulence, a Christmas without family wouldn't be much of a Christmas at all.

We planned to fly out the evening of the 21st. When we got to the aiport and tried to check in at skycap, the man in charge informed us casually that all flights to Chicago had been cancelled. His delivery was so deadpan that I thought for sure he must be pulling our leg, which was not very Christmasy. We went inside, and were informed that there would be no flights to Chicago that evening, and the best thing to do was to call the reservations line. We did just that and were informed by the airline that they could not get us there until the evening of Dec. 24 -- and that was with a stopover in Raleigh. We were planning to fly to Toronto on Christmas Day, so obviously this was not going to work.

Christmas Miracle Part One: Despite the fact that far less trying situations have completely undone us, neither the Canuck or I combusted upon hearing about this snafu. I don't think I even smoked. We simply took another cab home (now $70 poorer), and then hopped in our car. We drove 14 hours to Chicago over Thursday and Friday, then 10 hours to Toronto on Christmas Day, and then 11 hours home to New York on Saturday. It all went very smoothly, aside from the fact that there were no rest stops in Michigan, and all the restaurants off the highway were closed on Christmas. The Canuck peed behind a 7-Eleven. I ducked into a dodgy donut shop near Detroit, where I had to be buzzed into the blood-spattered bathroom.

Christmas Miracle Part Two: Despite 35 hours in the car over the course of a little more than a week, Muffin was a joy. I'm not saying it was easy to keep her occupied, and my back is still sore from twisting back to attend to her. We spent much of the time playing eye-spy with Christmas lights and trucks; every time she'd see one, she'd ask me for more, which -- well, thank you for seeing me as that all powerful. On the last leg of the trip we had a portable DVD player, and I believe she watched Baby Einstein seven times. She now imitates the puppet characters, which I'm sure will prove embarrassing in my crunchy, never-let-my-kids-watch-TV neighborhood sometime soon. I felt awful to keep her immobile for so many hours when she's so anxious to explore, but she didn't cry or even whimper at all. She was as merry as I could have asked her to be, and that was a merry enough Christmas for me.

What a Difference a Year Makes

2007-01-02T23:01:00.000-05:00

The cousins, this year and last:

Electra

2006-12-18T22:28:00.001-05:00

Everyone goes through phases, I guess. Picasso had his blue phase. In college, I had a very unfortunate overalls phase.

Muffin is in her Daddy phase.

When I get home from work each night, I can hear Muffin asking, “Mama?” as I walk in the door. I am greeted with a big smile, but then the inquisition begins.

“Daddy?”

“He’ll be home later, sweetie.”

(5 minutes later)

“Daddy?”

“No, it’s just Mommy right now. Daddy’s still at work, but he’ll be home soon.”

(2 minutes later)

“Daddy?”

And so on. When she’s not trying to gauge an ETA for Daddy, she’s pointing out his shoes, his coat, and his backpack like a lovesick schoolgirl. She even reverently points to the nasty Lee Iacocca olive oil spread he smears on his toast. When finally she hears his keys in the lock, she drops whatever she is doing to jet to the door and greet him with not just a smile but a big swoony hug.

That I could handle. But it gets worse. Sometimes when we’re pushing her in the stroller, she wants Daddy to walk beside her and hold her hand, reducing me to the role of unwanted chaperone on their romantic date. When she’s had too much walking and needs to be carried, she squeezes the Canuck with hugs that last for blocks, purring happily all the way. “Do you want to hug your mom?” he asks, charitably. She shakes her head no. I pull the daggers out of my heart all the way home.

I’m starting to feel like she’s just not that into me.

Now clearly, the Canuck is a dreamboat. I mean, I married him, didn’t I? I get the allure. But what does he have that I don’t? I’m not stricter. I don’t say no more than he does, in fact I think I say it less. I totally know more verses to “Wheels on the Bus” and put together much cuter outfits. Perhaps the fact that I generally spend more time with Muffin – and am more often the one cajoling her into eating vegetables, getting her into the bath and enforcing bedtime -- makes Daddy more of an exotic treat.

I am glad to see the Canuck get the enthusiastic reception he deserves; I’m afraid I’m sometimes too busy with my to-do list to tell him how wonderful I think he is, so I’m glad someone’s doing it. I’m happy for him, I am; and I know that she's just a fickle (and brutally honest) toddler, and maybe she’ll come down with a case of Mommyitis next week. But for now, it really smarts.

On Saturday, we took advantage of the gorgeous weather and headed to the zoo. We got there just as they were feeding the sea lions. Muffin was entranced – and a little bit afraid. As the sea lions’ barks cut through the air, Muffin rushed into my arms and stayed there for the whole show, leaning her head on my shoulder. I was squatting, and my knees were begging for mercy, but I stayed right where I was.

Girl on Film

2006-12-13T14:23:00.001-05:00

Since unbiased scientific experiments have concluded that I have borne The World’s Cutest Child®, I am keen to become a better photographer and obnoxiously document her every move. My current method is to employ the law of averages by taking about 50 shots in order to get one fairly decent one.

I would like to take a class on photography, but the courses I’ve found so far involve being in a lab multiple nights a week or for several hours on the weekend, which is too much of a time commitment for me right now. It seems counterintuitive to miss several hours of my daughter’s funny faces just so I can learn how to better capture them on film.

So I plod along, trying to somehow improve on my own. I mourn the loss of after-work daylight hours, because I’ve discovered any fool can take a good photo with the right natural light. The light in my apartment is another story. We have terrible sun exposure, and using a flash makes everything look like a bad paparazzi shot. I know it is possible to take a decent photo there, because once a professional photographer came to our house and took some beautiful shots. He was there to take photos for a greeting card line that never took off, and offered to take some portraits of the Canuck and I in exchange for me working my big belly in the generic preggo shot you see at the top right of this page. I don’t know what kind of pretty filter he had on his camera, but I’ve never been able to get a shot even half as lovely and natural as his were.

Although digital cameras are a godsend for bad shots like me, one thing they don’t do well is take the photo the exact second you press the button. Instead, they take a few moments, mull it over, and then decide in their own sweet time to capture whatever they feel like. It can be the difference between a baby book-worthy shot and one of your child looking stoned.

Add to that challenge the tornado of movement that is a 20-month-old child. I’ve ended up with a lot of blurry shots of Muffin in motion -- and the weird thing is that I actually kind of like some of them. I don’t know if I am just deluding myself into thinking I am arty, but they seem to capture something authentic about life with her. Muffin never ever stops, except to sleep, and the photos tell that story.

Here, I present to you some of my favorite mistakes:

Ps. If anyone who has actually read the camera manual has any advice on how to take better photos, I welcome your input!

PUI

2006-12-06T19:05:00.000-05:00

There is an oft-repeated story about my sister from her freshmen year in college. A bit of a straight arrow, she somehow found herself at a fraternity party, where a young man approached, tried to dirty dance with her, and revealed himself to be a teeny bit intoxicated. As his sloppy flirting continued, she retorted, “Dammit, you’re drunk!” and walked away in a huff.

This story makes me smile in recognition. The only difference between my sister and I is that at least she was cool enough to be at a fraternity party, whereas I spent my freshman year hiding in my room from those very bad kids who (whisper) abuse alcohol. Didn’t they know underage drinking was illegal? I was not about to spend my life in jail.

By my junior year, I had loosened up considerably – thank goodness for the sake of my husband, nicknamed the Teflon Camel for his superhuman ability to go to bed drunk and wake up hangover-free, even without a glass of water. But as for me, I’ve still maintained a take-it-or-leave-it feeling about booze. I might have a glass of wine when I went out, but I’d rarely open a bottle at home.

That is, until now.

NEW SELF: Hmm…Muffin's eating her dinner, so I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine.

OLD SELF: Don’t you remember that drug questionnaire they gave us in the 7th grade? If you drink alone, you are so totally an alcoholic.

NEW SELF: But Muffin’s here, so I’m not alone.

OLD SELF: So you don’t mind PUI – Parenting Under the Influence?

NEW SELF: I’m just having one glass, and that will not get me drunk. It will just make me feel a little relaxed and able to enjoy our evening routine. Applesauce splattered across my freshly mopped floor is a lot easier to laugh at with a wine glass in hand.

OLD SELF: People that need booze to feel relaxed are so lame. You should look for some more natural ways to relax, like yoga stretches or deep breathing or a trust fall. Putting a chemical into your body is not the answer. We talked all about it at youth group.

NEW SELF: Well, I used to unwind with a little TV or reading when I got home from work. But now when I walk in the door, I’m on mommy duty. Having a glass of wine helps me chill out when there’s no downtime.

OLD SELF: Do you realize that you went through a whole bottle last week? Next week it will be two bottles, and then three, and next thing you know you’re giving yourself a heroin enema and snorting cocaine in really fashionable knee-high boots.

NEW SELF: Well, that is a little alarming, especially because I’m a cheapskate and wine is not cheap. But that’s still only a glass a day. And one glass usually does the trick.

OLD SELF: What kind of example are you setting for Muffin? Doesn’t it make you feel bad when she points to a bottle of wine and says, mama?

NEW SELF: Well, she also points to butter and socks and the computer for mama. She’s not really going for my essence here, although she does hit the nail on the head when she gestures toward my shoes. But I guess this is a point to ponder: will observing casual drinking make her less curious, or will it cause her to view it as no big deal?

OLD SELF: You've changed; It's like I don't even know you anymore.

NEW SELF: It's still the same old me; I still don't like being drunk, and I would never imbibe enough to make me unable to care for Muffin. Hey now, can't we just get along? Come on, Justin Timberlake is on. Dance with me, please?

OLD SELF: Dammit, you’re drunk!

The Gentle Touch

2006-12-03T14:49:00.000-05:00

Let me tell you that when she was screaming bloody murder at 35,000 feet, I was thinking otherwise, but Muffin is growing up to be a most considerate, sweet-hearted little girl. During our trip to Chicago for Thanksgiving, she mingled with her cousins peacefully, gave stickers to everyone she met, and even started saying thank you, or in her case, gay goo.

Muffin’s new favorite word is baby, and like legions of females before her, she turns into a puddle in their presence. Although they are hardly babies anymore, Lil C and Miss M are both younger than she is, and she treated them with a big-sisterly patience and protectiveness. I was shocked at how little controversy even the super-cool Disney Cars Ride-On caused between the three of them, and how often Muffin would walk over to one of her cousins and willingly hand them a toy. Even better, they truly seemed to finally interact on this visit; Muffin and Miss M kept engaging in call-and-response giggle fits, and Lil C even got a goodnight hug.

Muffin reserved the most love for my brother's three-year-old dog, who has bone cancer and had had her leg amputated the week before. Muffin didn't notice the shaved hind quarters or the unsightly stitches, and every time she saw the dog she let out a delighted, "ooohhhh." The day we left, I saw her give the dog three hugs and one kiss -- her new world record for affection. It's as if, somehow, she understood that she should bestow her cuddles on the soul who needed it most.

Taking It Personally

2006-11-21T22:47:00.000-05:00

You know that saying, if Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy? In my case, if my kid ain't happy, Momma ain't happy either.

There are some days when my daughter is just plain crabby. I'm talking about those days when she bucks like a wild mustang in her highchair, refuses to lie down so I can change her diaper, and will not use of any her words but no.

Perhaps my "crabby" is another person's "normal 19-month-old behavior." Of course we would all like our little ones to be child actor-adorable at all times, but sometimes I fear I am too sensitve and self-absorbed to be a mother of a toddler, because they are going to act up, push limits and get frustrated at what they can't yet do, right? The thing is, it's not so much the actual handling of the behavior (although that's no fun), it's the sinking feeling that the way she acts somehow reflects my parenting skills. She can have a meltdown, and be fine 5 minutes later, but for hours afterward this thought will niggle through my brain: if I were doing a better job, she would be perfectly behaved Gerber Baby.

Recently we took Muffin in for a well-baby check-up. I didn't get my lovely pediatrician, but her evil twin. This doctor is so judgmental, stern and unrealistic that I almost can't believe my regular pediatrician has a practice with her. At my first meeting with her, back when Muffin was just two weeks old, she told me that no one except for her parents and grandparents should hold her -- this after I'd let at least a dozen friends and family members do exactly that. And um, I'd also taken her to a bar. An open-air, non-smoking bar, in the middle of the afternoon! Pretty much like a coffee shop except for the booze! I promise! And it's not like I let her do any Jager shots.

On this visit, the bad doctor offered up more tough love shots to the heart. First, she told us that letting Muffin use a pacifier (which we generally restrict to nighttime) is "denying her a crucial developmental phase of learning to self-soothe." She also said it was holding back her speech, which -- how much talking can she be doing in her sleep? Plus, Muffin says airplane and bowl and out and shoes and yogurt and tons of other words. I think she's doing fine in that area. She also chided us for taking Muffin out to eat, as we do maybe once a week, always in child-friendly restaurants, where we bring a heaping diaper bag full of books and toys to entertain her. She said sitting in a high chair for an hour, well, that's an awful lot to expect from a toddler. When I brought up confusion about how to discipline Muffin as this age where she can understand what I am saying even as she can't always listen to it, the doctor made it sound like it was easy-peasy, and told me that she had exceptionally well-behaved kids who never even needed a time out. Hey, weren't we talking about Muffin?

She asked what Muffin ate, and I emphasized the beans and the berries and the brocolli and the milk. The Canuck casually mentioned that sometimes she eats cookies and I shot him the stare of death, because that was clearly the wrong answer and didn't she have enough proof that we are delinquent parents? I didn't dare ask any of my other questions -- as if I could even remember them as I broke a sweat and wondered if I was somehow holding Muffin the wrong way.

Now, it's not so much what she said, it's how she said it. We've been struggling over when and if to de-binky. We go back and forth over what kind of social situations are appropriate. And what with all our travel to see family, I do wonder if we push her too much. These are all things I'm obsessing about already, thank you; I don't need any help in that area. It's hard enough to hear from moms who never let their kids watch TV, make three homemade organic meals a day, and seem have bottomless vats of patience. But to have a doctor imply that I am holding my kid back, that I'm too hard on her...well, she's supposed to be the expert. Muffin got a flu shot, but I think I left the office in more pain than she was.

I need to change practices. My mommy ego is just too fragile for this kind of brusque bedside manner. So you put away your whip, doc; I don't need your abuse -- and besides, I've already got one I keep handy.

Lame and Lamer

2006-11-14T22:01:00.000-05:00

You know what makes you feel like a huge jerk – not to mention old and decrepit? Throwing out your back the morning after your husband runs a marathon. Because you cannot move, he has to limp around the apartment, changing the baby’s diapers, helping you put on your pants and fetching the hot water bottle, when really it was the plan for you to wait on him.

Then yesterday, with my back back to its regular whiny-but-not-screaming-in-agony disposition, another incident: in my pre-contacts morning haze, I sliced off the tip of my finger opening a new razor. It will not stop bleeding, even hours later. Ever tried to keep your hand elevated with a squirming baby on your hip? Because I only have Barbie band-aids on hand, Muffin is endlessly fascinated with trying to pull off the gauzy, bandaged pink lollipop on my finger.

How is that being a parent, the most important job in the world, doesn't have sick days?

I Married a Marathoner

2006-11-06T20:26:00.000-05:00

Bear with me; I do have a point.

When I was pregnant, the Canuck graciously took over all recycling duties in our household. This is a particularly odious job, which involves hauling all recycleables down to the smelly basement trash room, sorting the paper, plastic and glass, breaking down boxes, and tying up all the paper, per our persnickety co-op rules. After I had Muffin, I just kind of continued to coast on that job. If it came up, I'd point out that I birth the babies, so he does the recycling. And believe me, he was sooo getting the better end of that deal.

One thing you may not realize is that having a baby is the ultimate trump card. Really, what can top labor? What's scrubbing a toilet next to contractions that hurt so much you have to focus on not dying to get through them? He was never going to be able to top that physical feat, and I knew I was going to have a get-out-of-jail-free card in my back pocket for as long as we both shall live.

Or at least that's what I thought. See, yesterday, the Canuck finished his second marathon. Since his first, in 2001, he has worked the marathon into conversation at every opportunity; he even -- I kid you not -- got it into our wedding vows. To overcome his Canadian modesty to toot his own horn...well, it just goes to show you how hard it was to finish and how proud he is of himself. Since his first marathon, he's been saying, "I run marathons - that's what I do." And now that he's finished #2, that is technically as well as figuratively true. He must be doubly pleased with himself.

I cannot imagine how he finished. I can live through labor, but I don't think I could make it through 26.2 excruciating miles of running. Even Lance Armstrong was whining about how it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. The most painful day of my life produced our child, but what does a marathon yield for us as a couple? Well, while the Canuck can say he runs marathons, I can say I married a marathoner, and how many people are lucky enough to get that kind of athleticism in the gene pool?

You got me, babe. One marathon was impressive, but two? You've upped the ante, and my only hope of gaining the upper hand again is to bear kid #2.

So now I just have one question for you, Marathon Man.

Should I get the paper or the plastic?

To see more photos from the NYC marathon, click here. (And thanks to John for taking these photos!)

Anatomy of a Snapshot

2006-11-04T14:53:00.000-05:00

Last Halloween, Muffin dressed as a peapod, and we took her into the park to get some snaps. She was just sitting up on her own then, but still wasn’t rock solid with it. In fact, she face-planted into the grass several times, so we took periodic breaks for soothing.

Because it was a warm day, we took off her costume and then headed to the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, where they were having a Halloween festival. There, we captured this shot. It remains, to date, one of my favorite photos of her.

Her eyes, which I think she gets from her father, remind me of the pristine Bora Bora lagoon the Canuck and I swam in during our honeymoon. It was so effortless to get her to smile then, and so easy to take her photo because this was before she knew there was such a thing as running away. I love her pre-crawling baby pudge; I had recently stopped breast-feeding, and if you’d seen my boobs, you’d know why she’s such a chunk here.

Fast forward a year, which seems far more than that, given how much Muffin’s changed. I bought her lamb costume to Woodstock , bound and determined to get a good shot of her in it. Although she loves the outfit, and wanted to try it on as soon as my mother-in-law finished sewing it, she has a crusade against things on her head. I fear a long winter of earaches and bad hair, as whatever you put on her head – hat, pigtails, barrettes – she views as a personal challenge. I needed her to keep the lamb hat on. Without it, she looked like the Stay-Puft Marshmellow man.

In the end, we got the money shot. But these photos more accurately represent the experience of capturing it.

To get a smile for our favorite shot, the Canuck and I pretended to sneeze over and over. Muffin seems to revel in others’ nasal misfortune, hence, the big open-mouthed grin. I plan to obtain a sinus infection in order to get the perfect Christmas card shot, if that's what it takes.

Boo (Hoo hoo)

2006-11-01T22:07:00.000-05:00

Although I’m not a fan of cheesy clothing that commemorates it, I am a softie for First Christmases and First Halloweens and First Arbor Days. So it was not Muffin’s first Halloween. But it was only her second, and I thought it should be special and memory-making. It wasn’t.

Sally called me at the end of the work day to tell me that Muffin had not had a nap that day. She’d tried to get her down several times, and Muffin just couldn’t settle herself. She has never, ever gone an entire day without a nap. In fact, sometimes she still naps twice a day. Also – remember daylight savings? Muffin does not seem to know we’ve fallen back. This was all very, very bad.

When I got home, she was in a pleasant enough mood, so I thought we might coast through on a second wind. Then we tried to put on her costume, which, until this point, she had ooohhed and aahhhed and actually, bahhhed over too. She ran away until finally we cornered her in the bedroom and wrestled her into the costume as she squirmed and squealed. I somehow strapped her into the stroller, plopped on my cartoonishly large witch hat, gave the Canuck a dirty look for not wearing the Mohawk wig I’d gotten him, and tried to remember that Halloween was supposed to be fun.

We met some friends from the building to join the parade that takes place every year in my neighborhood. Their girls sat happily on their dads’ shoulders. Ours whined to get out of the stroller and then booked away from us at a fast clip as soon as we set her free. We tried her on the Canuck’s shoulders. She wouldn’t hold on. We tried her in the stroller again, and she flailed around angrily. We tried letting her walk, but she refused to hold either of our hands, and this was no place for her to roam free. In frustration, she pulled off her lamb hat, threw herself in the middle of the street, and sobbed. Four blocks into the parade, we were done.

On the walk home, I heard someone remark, “What a cute bunny rabbit!” as Muffin screamed and screamed.

Into the Wild

2006-10-29T20:12:00.000-05:00

This weekend we headed to a beautiful house in the woods in upstate New York. I expected to see squirrels, birds, deer, maybe even a bear.

I did not, however, realize that sheep were indigenous to that area.

Party Girl

2006-10-27T12:58:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, the three of us were invited to a pumpkin carving party at a lovely apartment in Manhattan. As is usually the case in our New York group of friends, Muffin was the only kid there. As soon as we arrived, I saw the food so beautifully laid out on the Muffin-level coffee table, and I started sweating. For the next two hours, Muffin was basically the toddler equivalent of the party guest who drinks too much, dances with the lampshade on his head, and spills red wine on your couch. She stuck her fingers in the guacamole, she triple-dipped into the salsa, threw half-eaten chocolates all over the floor, and managed to get her grubby hands on every clean shiny surface in the apartment. She somehow turned on a clock radio I could not figure out how to turn back off. Our hosts were wonderfully gracious about the whole thing, but I left the party feeling like I needed a drink. Aren't you supposed to leave a party feeling like you need to sober up?

On the way home, the Canuck and I debated if we would take her to an event like that again. I think there’s value in putting Muffin in these types of social situations, because how will she ever learn to navigate them if we don’t expose her to them? Plus, from a selfish perspective, we do occasionally like to do something other than deplete our NetFlix queue on weekend evenings. But Muffin seems to be at the worst possible stage to make these kinds of outings. Boundless curiosity – Impulse control = One Ill-Mannered Party Guest.

We’ll probably accept the next invitation, and I’m even thinking of hosting a holiday party, despite previous, um, crappy experiences. Cutting off these kinds of activities is so hard because the Canuck and I cling to the idea that we can still do cool things even though we are now parents. We want Muffin to know our friends, and to understand that while most of the time we live in her orbit, occasionally, she must live in ours. Also, we are very dim.

I take some comfort in realizing that we’ve probably reached the peak of this kind of difficulty. And we’re still standing, still madly in love with our daughter, and still on speaking terms with our friends. It can only get better from here.

New Math

2006-10-26T22:02:00.000-04:00

Sally told me that Muffin could count. I thought she was exaggerating, which she has been known to do. I visualized Sally ticking off numbers, and Muffin blithely continuing her laps around the apartment and see, we're counting! Kind of like we're changing your diaper and we're putting away your toys.

But I was wrong. Muffin counts. Sort of.

Me: Wanna count? Ok, let's count. One...

Muffin: Doo...

Me: Three...

Muffin: Ooor...

Me: Five...

Muffin: Nine...

Me: No, six...

Muffin: Nine!

Me: Seven...

Muffin: Nine, nine, nine!

Me: Eight...

Muffin: Nine?

Me: Yes, nine...and ten! Yay! We got to ten!

Muffin: (stares blankly)

More Adventures in Self-Feeding

2006-10-23T22:15:00.000-04:00

And Now for Something Lighthearted

2006-10-18T20:30:00.000-04:00

In the past few weeks, we’ve finally been getting our parental shit together and crossing some big things off the list. We started using a financial planner, who will help set up a college savings fund and figure out how to afford another kid some day. We’ve contacted nursery schools – ok, one nursery school – about coming by for a tour. And yesterday we drafted a will, just like real-life Parent Type People do.

We figured out guardians for Muffin before she was even born, but it’s nice to make it official. We’re also setting up a trust for her in case anything happens to both of us. I was surprised to find out I have a net worth - me! – and we’re not just talking about my shoes. We got intimate with awful hypotheticals: Should Muffin get the money at 18, 22, 25, or 30? At what age will she start to resent us for controlling from the grave? At what age will she be too young and irresponsible to manage it properly? Right now money is simply a fun thing to put in your mouth to give Mommy a heart attack.

We also talked about a living will, which specifies things like who should make medical decisions if you are unable to, your feelings on life support, if you’d like to be cremated, etc. Since our families are an hour or two plane ride away, and would most likely not be there in an emergency, our lawyer suggested we let all our friends know about our wishes. I got the giggles thinking about that e-mail blast: Hey guys! What’s up? Just wanted you to know that if I am in an accident and declared braindead, no heroic measures should be taken to sustain my life, ‘kay? And, OMG, totally play Justin Timberlake and serve vanilla milkshakes at my funeral.

My mom recently reminded me that my parents tried to talk to me about their will when I was a teenager, and I wouldn’t have it. It was just too awful and morbid to think about, and I got teary as soon as they brought it up. This time it’s different. I’m not thinking of myself, I’m thinking of someone I love even more than myself. As uncomfortable as it is, making sure she’s taken care of is something I am only too happy to do. As much as this navel-gazing blog would otherwise indicate, having Muffin has taken me a little bit outside myself, and that’s what being a Parent Type Person is all about.

Games That Have Grown Tiresome

2006-10-17T22:52:00.000-04:00

...at least to one of us:

Moving Target Onesie Snap
The Neverending Story (because we never ever get to the end)
Tampon Pick-up Sticks
Honk the Boob
Passive-Aggressive Blanket Toss
What’s Up My Nose?
Guess What I Want for Dinner
Attention Monopoly

Tongue-Tied

2006-10-10T21:51:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I wish my mouth had a backspace button.

For as long as I can remember, I've stumbled over my words when I am the least bit flustered. It's as if there's a short circuit in my brain, and the wrong word just pops out. Today I asked for a computer card instead of a computer cord. I say "you're welcome" before anyone thanks me. Even with close friends, I sometimes have to start a sentence 3 times before I can finish it.

When I do manage to get a coherent sentence out, I'm often kicking myself five minutes later for its substance. Recently I was talking to a mom in my building who had just returned to work after maternity leave; she was gutted about the decision. I babbled on about how awesome it was to be able to actually eat lunch when I went back to work, since preparing meals was a real struggle for me when I was home. But seriously, I liked going back to work for the lunch? That's what I said to recommend working motherhood? That doesn't even make my top 10 list of reasons why I work. I almost knocked on her door for a do-over.

That's why writing is so therapeutic for me. It helps me organize my thoughts. I'm often not really sure how I feel until I wrestle my thoughts down on paper and cut them down to comprehensible dimensions. If only I could hit the pause button on life, take a few minutes to sketch out my thoughts, and press play again, finally saying something eloquent, appropriate and maybe even funny.

I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because the conversations I'll need to have with Muffin as she grows up are looming before me, and I feel unequal to the task. At the moment, she only understands simple sentences so I've been able to tackle the big topics: "Yes, that's your vagina and your bum" and "Hitting hurts! No hitting." But as she gets older, the issues before us will only get more complicated and the message will be need to be more subtle. What will I say when someone at school teases her about her strawberry? How will I explain why she never got to meet her Grandpa Ken? How will I tackle why it's important for me to work, even if that means spending time away from her?

Well, at least I won't tell her it's for the lunch.

Tantrum-worthy

2006-10-04T23:04:00.000-04:00

Last week as the Canuck gathered his things to go to hockey, Muffin started fuss. There’s no fooling her these days; she recognizes the signs of an imminent departure, and as the Canuck picked up his smelly hockey bag and sticks, she collapsed to the floor and gave us some serious lower lip. We both tried to tell her he would be back soon, but she could not be dissuaded to view the situation as anything less than tragic. I saw on the Canuck's face a mixture of sympathy and amusement (he's forever awarding her Best Actress for her theatrics). But there was something else: a glint of pride. Muffin has cried when left with a sitter, but never when left with a parent. Clearly parents trump caregivers, but what happens when it’s Mommy vs. Daddy? I never thought that was a cagematch I'd lose.

(For the record, as soon as he left, Muffin realized Mommy was kick-ass company and calmed down immediately.)

Oh, how the mighty fall. Earlier this week, I had to leave for work early, before Sally even arrived. As I said my goodbyes, expecting the same blown kisses and waves that I usually get, Muffin threw herself on the floor in hysterics. It's best to not draw out the goodbye, so I headed to the door. I turned around one last time, and her little mouth, blooming in agony, broke my heart. I heard her sobs all the way down the hallway.

I called the Canuck as soon as I thought he might be at work, and confirmed that it had been a protracted tantrum that could not be soothed by even the magical fuzzy pink blanket. Ultimately, she needed a few minutes on her own to calm down. By the time Sally got there, she was fine.

Now that I could stop worrying, I could start gloating. I see your minor cranky episode and raise you a full-blown meltdown. Who's your daddy now?

Third Official Haircut

2006-09-30T13:32:00.000-04:00

...and the first time we actually remembered the camera.

Fetch

2006-09-25T20:29:00.000-04:00

Muffin already loves to be helpful (she also loves to be unhelpful, but that’s another story). Last weekend, I told her we were going to do laundry, and she became so vocal in her enthusiasm about this idea that I wondered if she’d misheard me. Could “laundry” be mistaken for “bubble-blowing Elmo cookies?” But no, it was the prospect of clean clothes that sent shivers of joy throughout her little body, as she helped me sort (I use the term loosely) darks and lights, carried each piece over to the washing machine, shut the door, and pointed to the detergent. Then she settled on the floor in front of the washer, and tuned in to The Laundry Show.

I can also tell her to go get her shoes and she’ll bring me a matching pair. Sometimes she even brings several footwear options to choose from. She’ll grab her towel when I tell her it’s time for her baf, as she puts it. Last week the Canuck had a hard day, and I told her that daddy needed a kiss. I had to ask her several times before it clicked, but eventually she toddled over to lean in so he could give her a kiss, which is pretty much as cuddly as she gets.

Now that she’s starting to understand commands and seems so eager to please, my head is swimming with possibilities. Muffin, could you run downstairs and get the paper so I don’t have to get dressed just yet? Sweetie, can you pick up daddy’s dry cleaning on the way home from the playground? Honey, could you get Mommy a margarita, frozen, no salt?

Playdate Politics

2006-09-21T21:36:00.000-04:00

Muffin is a Park Sloper, so of course she has playdates. Not just kids getting together, but playdates. It’s funny how you can be annoyed by the pretension of a word, and yet still find it coming out of your mouth. Kind of like how my linguistic crusade against word “nanny” went down in flames about 2 days in.

Playdates are really more enjoyable for the caregiver than the kid, at least at 17 months old. Muffin doesn’t really interact with other kids in any way that could be called “play.” And yet it seems important to give her exposure to her peers. I plan to send her to nursery school next year, and I don’t want it to be a total shock to the system.

I read somewhere that kids can’t truly feel empathy until age 3. That means they probably won’t get the idea of sharing (I share because I’d want you to share with me) until then. And yet you attempt to lay the groundwork. It’s like talking to someone in a coma; it feels foolish and futile but you hope it’s seeping in somehow.

Muffin hasn’t learned “mine” yet. She’ll go for another kid’s toy if left unattended, but generally she seems destined to be more the grabee than the grabber. This leads to some uncomfortable moments in social situations. What to do when another kid steals her pail and shovel at the sandbox? Muffin just pouts, but doesn’t grab it back. How to handle when the other kid thinks every toy Muffin touches is more interesting than the one that she has? You can hardly blame the kid, since they aren’t really developmentally capable of more, but it’s hard to see Muffin getting hassled with every move. The most awkward situation arises when another kid shoves Muffin out of the way. I squirm for the poor parent, feebly imploring their child to be gentle and play nice, and I squirm for sweet, sensitive Muffin, who someday is going to have to grow a backbone.

In My Dreams

2006-09-15T20:12:00.000-04:00

I was telling the Canuck about a dream I had the other night. The details are sketchy, but the main, um, thrust of the story is that I awoke to find that Justin Timberlake had crawled into bed with me, wanting to, you know, bring sexy back to my droopy postpartum body. Through circumstances I can’t recall, somehow my husband was in the next room, probably playing Yahztee with Cameron Diaz, oblivious to the fact that I had an *n Syncer between the sheets.

Anyway, after a lot of hemming and hawing, and perhaps a little exploratory making out, I piously proclaimed that I just cared too much about my family to risk their happiness for a little boy-band nookie. JT begged and beat-boxed and even did a little persuasive dance number, but I didn’t cave. I knew that was a line I would regret crossing.

“But I really, really wanted to,” I sheepishly admitted to the Canuck, which surprised me because in real life I’ve never been tempted to cheat. (In real life I’ve also never met Justin Timberlake) “And the worst part is that I’m not entirely sure I wouldn’t have dream-cheated on you if you hadn’t been in the next room. Man, I suck. I’m sorry.”

He started laughing.

“What?”

“Well, now I feel really awful about boning Nicole Kidman in my dream last night.”

This is Your Vacation With Kids

2006-09-13T20:43:00.000-04:00

A trip, not a vacation, a trip, not a vacation.

This was my mantra as I got ready for our week at the Jersey Shore. So at least I was prepared.

This is holiday relaxation before Muffin: Refresh my body with luxurious long sleeps, plow through a stack of beach books, cultivate an even tan with careful swimsuit strap adjustment, nurse vodka and tonics all day, and gorge myself on Tasty Cakes.

This is holiday relaxation after Muffin: Try to steal 5 minutes so I can pee in peace without Muffin pulling all the toilet paper off the roll.

I kid (a little). I did have my share of Tasty Cakes. I read some magazines. I drank a few vodka and tonics, although I don't think I ever finished one. The house we rented became overrun with the plastic cups I'd constantly abandon as I scurried to keep Muffin from falling down the stairs. I did get a lot of sleep, as I couldn't keep my eyes open past 10pm.

And yet there are some moments from the trip that will be etched in my brain forever: walking hand and hand with Muffin to dip our feet in the waves. Seeing the huge smile on her face as the Canuck took her into the ocean for the first time. Blowing BUBBLES! off the deck. Teaching her to collect seashells and hearing her "oooooohhhhh" over every one.

And so the push-pull of parenting continues. Our life is infinitely fuller with Muffin in it, but a whole lot more tiring. Next vacation, I'm drinking vodka and Red Bull.

To see photos from our trip-not-a-vacation, click here.

Vulnerable

2006-09-11T21:54:00.000-04:00

Last night we watched 9/11: In Memoriam, which originally ran on the first anniversary of September 11. The Canuck and I sat through it as slack-jawed as we did the first time we saw it. It brought back that plume of smoke I saw coming from the first tower as I walked to the subway in Brooklyn. It reminded me of how the downtown apartment we were camped out in that day shook when 7 World Trade Center fell late in the afternoon. I recalled the nightmares I used to have about bodies plummeting from buildings. I thought of how for a year afterward, I used to take the bus to work sometimes instead of the subway in what felt like a game of transportation Russian roulette. Death felt as if it hinged on the smallest decisions, and I felt crazy trying to make them.

The documentary contained an image I didn't recall from the first time I saw it. A woman, escorted by a police officer, was trying to navigate away from ground zero with her small daughter in a stroller. Her Maclaren, just like the one I push Muffin around in, was covered in debris. The mom was wearing a mask over her face, but of course her toddler had pulled hers off.

Five years ago, I had been dating the Canuck for less than six months. We were fiercely in love, but we hadn't yet had the chance to create the I've-seen-you-in-Spanx-and-still-love-you superglue bond we have now. And of course these days we have our little Muffin. There are fleeting moments where I wish I had nothing, because then there would be nothing to lose.

Some people say we've been too quick to forget. I don't think anyone who was here could ever do that, although honestly sometimes I wish I could. But I do try to push the crazy-making thoughts down. One cannot contemplate mortality on a daily basis and be a productive human being. I couldn't continue to live that way then, and with so much more at stake, I definitely can't live that way now.

In less than an hour, it will no longer be September 11. Soon I will regale you with tales and photos from my vacation on Long Beach Island. But right now I'm going to sneak into my daughter's room to peek at her once more before bed.

Stormy Weather

2006-09-01T20:55:00.000-04:00

We are going on vacation to the Jersey Shore next week with my parents, my sister's family, and my brother's family. Weather.com says scattereded thunderstorms are expected for most of the week.

I shake my fist at you, cruel, cruel fate! This would be tragic for so many reasons:

--We may be stuck in a non-babyproofed house with a 16-month-old (walker), an 11-month-old (crawler), and a 9-month-old (butt scooter).

--I will finish the summer as Flowers-In-the-Attic-pasty as I started it.

--I will be paying my nanny more than $500 to not watch my kid, all for the joy of watching storms roll in as Muffin takes inventory of all the sharp objects in the house.

--And most gutwrenching of all, Muffin's three bathing suits, two cover-ups and one pair of water sandals will not have an opportunity to make their seaside debut.

That would be a punch in the stomach for all of humanity. Let's all hope it doesn't come to that.

I Enjoy Having a Girl

2006-08-30T18:41:00.000-04:00

Muffin + Mommy = 4Ever

2006-08-29T21:58:00.000-04:00

Mornings are my favorite time with Muffin. I hear her chirping from the crib, and I scoop her into our bed for a cup of milk and a bit of Sesame Street. Too sleepy to realize she has more important things to do, she cuddles into the crook of my arm and points out Elmo, which, thank god, because that guy is not overexposed or anything.

Some mornings she is so scrumptious that I daydream about her on the train. And at my desk. And in meetings. And at the gym. I replay how adorably mussed her hair is upon waking, I remember how she giggles after she burps, and I smile to think about how she kisses her stuffed animals with an enthusiastic "mwah!" I fantasize about her like I used to think about boys I had crushes on; She is my new Justin Timberlake. I plaster my cubicle with posters of her in mesh tank tops, I consult the Ouija board to see if I will marry her, and I send her notes asking if she's free after playgroup. Please check yes, no or maybe in purple crayon.

Ohmigod, isn't she just dreamy?

Burning Questions

2006-08-25T12:58:00.000-04:00

On the first day of our nannyless week, I came home to find that Muffin had a small red mark on her hand. I knew she and the sitter had been at the park for much of the day, playing the sprinklers. I figured the sitter had missed a spot with the sunblock, or some of it had washed off. This was Muffin's only day with her, so it seemed pointless to make it an issue, and I reasoned that it could have happened in my care too.

But almost two weeks later, the mark remains. And now Muffin keeps showing it to me, and to Sally, which is making us both think that maybe it hurts. I believe it’s a burn, and a pretty bad one at that.

How would she have gotten burned? It’s possible that she climbed up on the couch and touched our lamp’s lightbulb. I know she loves to knock the lampshade, even though she knows it’s a “no.” But this is a pretty substantial burn. It is possible that the sitter let her near the stove while she was cooking? Did she give her a bath and accidentally turn on the hot water? Was she somewhere she shouldn’t have been? Dangerous possibilities are swimming around in my brain.

Injuries happen when you’re tiny and curious, and I know this will heal. But what won’t go away are the questions I’m left with:

Am I too casual about who I leave her with?

What do other working moms with no family in the area do when their regular childcare falls through?

Should I have used up the rest of my vacation to take care of her myself?

And did politeness and desire to spare a stranger’s feelings really keep me from advocating for my child and asking what the hell happened?

It’s too little, too late, but I’ve contacted the babysitting agency to see if I can get an explanation. I’m hoping there’s a good one.

UPDATE: The agency talked to both of the sitters, and neither remembers an injury to Muffin's hand. The woman from the agency thought that a burn would probably have cleared up by now anyway, and she's right -- I googled it. First degree burns clear up in 3-5 days. I don't know what that mark is, but I expect the self-flagellation to last at least 3-5 days too.

My Grass is Green

2006-08-22T22:13:00.000-04:00

I don't think a weekend has gone by since Muffin became mobile that I haven't wished for the time and space to linger over coffee and the paper. Coffee that I don't need to put in the center of the table to avoid curious hands. Newspaper that doesn't make a hilarious-to-a-toddler sound when it's crumpled.

This past weekend the Canuck and I went away for our anniversary. Muffin's grandma and aunt flew in to babysit, and we headed off to the North Fork of Long Island to get tipsy at the vineyards, eat two-hour meals in fancy restaurants, swim without inflatable devices and read the paper all we wanted. We had the weekend off from worrying about a nap schedule and where our next kid-appropriate meal would come from, and only had to take care of ourselves, which felt like nothing at all.

And it was great.

But it wasn't that great.

The town we were in had a beautiful old carousel. Muffin's never been on one, and I kept thinking about how exciting it would have been to take her on it. Yet another first in 16 months chock full of firsts. We kept passing the merry-go-round, and I kept wondering what it would be like if she were with us.

When we got home, she was napping, and it seemed like hours until she woke up. When I went in to get her, I discovered she'd grown even more delicious in our absence.

I'm not really missing anything all that great, being a parent. Or rather, I am missing a few of my pre-mommy indulgences, but it pales in comparison to what I'm getting.

And, anyway, the paper gets my fingers all dirty.

Tearin' Up My Heart

2006-08-16T22:03:00.000-04:00

The Canuck has been in Seattle on business all week. Unluckily, this is also the week my nanny chose to take her vacation. I am parenting without a net.

We are using fill-in babysitters from a local service. All things considered, it's gone pretty smoothly. I've come home each day to a happy sandy baby, with wet clothes drying in the bathroom, which means lots of time in the park's sandbox and sprinklers. Both sitters have been actresses, so they are full of new voices and songs and games that I could never be creative enough to think of.

Yet Muffin has cried every morning when I walk out the door. I wait in the hallway, and each day she's settled down within 10 seconds. But all day long I have niggling doubts that nip at the my concentration. They are an amplified version of the worries I always have with my nanny. I expect they will remain when Muffin goes to preschool. And college? I might need to start drinking more.

I cannot be with her every moment. I need to work, I want to work, and even if I didn't, I'd need some just-me time. The cutting edge to that selfish desire is that I will never know exactly what goes on when I am not there. Is she crying inconsolably because she doesn't know where her parents are? Is she dangerously close to sharp table corners? Is she chewing her food well enough? Is she parked in front of the TV?

I guess I'll never know.

Missing Dada

2006-08-15T16:17:00.000-04:00

Marked for Greatness

2006-08-14T21:27:00.000-04:00

Readers of this blog may be too shy to ask about the the big red mark on Muffin's head. It has NOTHING to do with that time I let her fall off the bed, I swear.

The first time I held Muffin, I unwrapped her from the hospital blanket to get a good look at her monkey hands, her bird legs, and her froggy feet. I also removed the tiny knit cap to see her hair, which had looked curly right after birth, but now washed, was smooth and straight. I noticed a small purplish mark just over her forehead, but dismissed it as a bruise from the rough labor.

Over the next few weeks, the spot became bulbous. It reddened and grew. And grew. And grew until OH MY GOD THAT RED THING IS EATING OUR BABY.

It turns out Muffin had a hemangioma, also known as a strawberry birthmark. No one knows what causes them, but they are more common in girls than boys. My pediatrician told me it would most likely be gone by the time she was 2, but my own research suggests that about half are resolved by age 5, with the rest clearing up by puberty.

At first, the strawberry was oddly endearing. I called her Gorbachev Baby, and considered it an excellent excuse for hats. But then I starting noticing the uncomfortable silences we encountered when we met new people. One person visibly recoiled when I removed her hat without a preface. In airports, I'd hear whispers trailing behind us. I'd make jokes about it (see the first paragraph) that went over with a thud every time.

A few months ago we took her to see a specialist. He told us that although the strawberry will eventually resolve itself, the skin will always be crepe-y, and most likely won't grow hair. We can see that now that her hair is longer; that spot only sports peach fuzz, while the rest of her hair is much thicker. He recommended waiting a year or two, and then getting some plastic surgery to pull the normal, hair-producing skin over the bald spot.

We haven't decided what we'll do yet. The idea of her having surgery -- elective surgery -- fills my heart with dread. How will I explain it to her? It's all so shallow; after all, she could have cancer or a bum heart or my ugly toes. Perhaps there's a lesson in here, for her and for me, that it's ok to be less than perfect. But I also don't want to send my little girl off to school with a bald patch in the front of her head.

Now that Muffin's hair is longer, the birthmark is much less noticeable. It might be getting smaller, but it's hard for me to be objective since I see her every day. Some days I forget it's even there. But it is there. And I hate the idea of someone fixating on that birthmark and not noticing her electric smile or her curious eyes or her impish personality. Strawberry or no, she's a masterpiece, and I want the world to see that too.

Muffin at 4 months

Buyer's Remorse

2006-08-10T18:23:00.000-04:00

The Canuck and I have a running joke about the baby store – you know, the establishment where you buy babies. Did the baby store sell us a defective model? Will they let us exchange for a puppy? Will they still let us take the baby back after 14 days?

Lately I’ve been hoping that the baby store has a very lenient return policy. I may have to summon the manager if they won’t take this almost 16-month-old purchase back.

I wish it could be all thunderous burps and poop catastrophes, but lately Muffin has been a pill. She does not play nicely and obey her parents as advertised.

We had a tough weekend. Muffin went on a nap strike, sleeping only about an hour each day, when normally she sleeps 3 or even 4. My days were largely spent doing up all the things she’d undone. Spices are Muffin’s new obsession, and she cannot resist the spice drawer’s siren call, no matter how I beg and plead. Putting my spice rack back together 7 times in one day does not make for a relaxing, rejuvenating weekend.

My frustration came to a head on Sunday night. The Canuck went to hockey, which, of course, he had to; it’s his Canadian citizenship at stake. Muffin’s evening was spent flinging cottage cheese on to the rug, dropping zucchini fries over the side of her highchair one by one (and nodding no to me each time), freaking out in the bath because she wanted those bubbles, not these stupid bubbles, running away from me while I tried to wrestle her to the ground to get a diaper on, exploring the smelly contents of the garbage, throwing a tantrum because I won’t let her climb into the freezer, knocking the lamp I have told her in a stern voice not to touch, and turning the volume all the way up on the stereo.

In desperation, we ended up watching Baby Einstein twice in a row. While we watched, I sobbed. I cried because I know she understands "no," but I somehow lack the authority to make her respect it. I cried because I might be one of those moms who needs Supernanny. I cried because I knew she was feeding off my mood. I cried because I was sending her to bed with almost no dinner, all Oliver!-like, which seemed appropriate given that she’d flung every last bit of it on the floor, but still. I cried because I am so hair-trigger impatient. Mostly I cried because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I’m scared I’m raising a brat.

And you know what Muffin did?

She laughed at me.

Now, she’s a baby, I know. She’s too young for empathy. But the whole evening could have been turned around by one of those made-for-TV moments, where she gives me a hug, or pops her pacifier in my mouth.

I put her to bed, steaming mad. It’s an awful feeling to be angry at a little baby. I sank into the couch and felt very, very small.

The next day things were better. The Canuck took her to the doctor, who told him all of her behavior was completely normal, and that the best way to deal with it was to encourage her vocabulary. She said to forget the discipline for now, and just get through it. When I came home from work, Muffin reached for my hand and we made loops around the apartment, just two girls taking a stroll.

I think I’ll keep her…for now.

The Princess and the Puke

2006-08-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

We have accidentally discovered the perfect rainy/100+ degree day activity: mattress shopping! Where else is it perfectly ok -- in fact, encouraged -- to flop around on multiple beds with your shoes on? We tested out more than 10 beds, and Muffin gleefully tested them with us.

She may have loved the mattress store, but I'm not sure the mattress store loved her. Just as the salesman was starting his pitch, Muffin let out a burp that shook the windows. If she knew her ABCs, she could have burped her way to at least K. The salesman paused for a moment, unsure of how to react, but then soldiered on with more mattress facts. I don't really remember a lot of what he was saying, as I was concentrating on not giggling.

Then, just as we were paying -- mere minutes from being out the door -- she let one rip again. But this time she burped up a little of her lunch, all down the front of her shirt.

I bet that salesguy is very grateful a mattress is a once-every-10-years kind of purchase.

First Love

2006-08-03T22:32:00.000-04:00

When we were up north a few weeks ago, the Canuck and I went out on the boat while Muffin stayed behind at Grandma’s house. When we returned and asked how things went, the Canuck’s aunt’s mom – Muffin’s honorary great-grandmother, really – told me they’d nearly blown their brains out with bubbles.

I know what she means.

B-U-B-B-L-E-S has become the first word I officially have to spell in Muffin’s presence to keep her from going bonkers. We keep the bubbles hidden in the bathroom, and limit their use to bath time and outside so we're not constantly dodging slippery patches on our hardwood floors. But if I so much as think about cracking open the bathroom door, Muffin makes a beeline for the medicine cabinets and starts frantically pointing upward. She moans for the bubbles with increasing volume, as if she’s been in the desert for days and is just spying water.

Bubble…BUBBLE…BUBBBBBBLE!!!

I even caught her curled up on the floor with her blankie, spooning the big jar of bubbles she’d somehow nicked from the bathroom counter.

You would think her obsession with bubbles means she loves to blow them, or at least watch them being blown. But she’s all about the dip. She could spend hours absorbed in the process of grabbing the wand, flipping it into position, lowering it into the jar and then pulling it out. Some of the time she holds it up for one of us to have at it, but usually she’s content to just repeat the dipping over and over. I am trying to teach her to blow some air into the wand herself, but so far my efforts have only resulted in her ingesting a copious amount of bubble solution. Yucky, I tell her, but she just smiles and keeps on dipping.

Bipedal

2006-08-01T22:07:00.000-04:00

Last week I was mulling over a post about how I was worried Muffin wasn't walking yet. How I knew the right thing was to be all zen and let her develop at her own pace, but that I couldn't help fretting. How I had just received a BabyCenter newsletter that said 90% of kids her age are already walking. How I was worried there was something I should be doing that I wasn't -- or that I was doing something I shouldn't and putting undue pressure on her. How I was hoping she would walk before our beach vacation in a few weeks so she'd be too busy to stuff her mouth with sand. How I hated to see her little knees all bruised and scratched from crawling around in shorts.

And then:

Muffin Walking on Vimeo

I've noticed that many new walkers careen haphazardly about, leaning forward and racing to reach the object of their desire before they fall. Not Muffin. She is slow, steady, methodical. Each step is hard work and she invokes the rah-rah spirit of the Dada (Fine! She loves you better! Are you happy now?) in order to dig deep enough to keep trying, fall after fall.

She's my little tortoise. I couldn't be any prouder.

Nanniversary

2006-07-28T10:50:00.000-04:00

Last week was the one year anniversary of my nanny's first day with us. Surprisingly, Hallmark does not make a "Thanks for all the times you wiped my kid's ass" card for this type of occasion.

Twelve months ago, Muffin was still a non-mobile, (relatively) wee thing. I was playing the part of a woman going back to work. Although I went through all the motions, I felt sure I was going to wuss out at the last moment. Having a nanny in theory felt fine. Having a nanny in reality just felt too fancy, too middle-aged, too high-powered career woman.

We only interviewed three candidates; Sally won us over by teaching us how to use a rectal thermometer during her interview. She came a few times while I was still on maternity leave, and I went out for short jaunts alone to get used to the idea that someone else could take care of my little girl without breaking her. Sally and Muffin did just fine, and I even returned to fluffed pillows and an empty dishwasher. I began to picture myself back at work.

On my first day back at work, I left early and let my husband do the hand-over. It felt easier to pretend I was leaving her with her parent, not a nanny. And I didn't want raccoon eyes on my first day back. The Canuck took a photo of Sally holding Muffin and e-mailed it to me at work. It was actually a horribly uncute photo of Muffin, but still I got his point; she was cared for and everything would be ok. We were welcoming someone new and wonderful into her world.

A year later, I do the morning hand-off with no mascara issues. Muffin speed-crawls to the door to greet Sally each morning, and they chat and sing songs over chana Sally brings from home. Muffin has playdates at houses I've never been to. Moms and caregivers I don't know approach me on the playground to say hi to my daughter and she smiles with recognition. I can't help but feel left out sometimes, but I'm glad they have a busy, happy social life together.

Every time I complain about Sally, it smacks of It's just so hard to find good help these days attitude that I want to smack myself. Yet there are headaches. Oh, there are headaches. When Muffin has a grouchy day, Sally doesn't hesitate to point the finger at me. Just yesterday she told me that Muffin was tantrum-y all day because I had had a sitter the night before. She got into a shouting match with another caregiver in the building for reasons I still don't understand. She told me at Christmas that she expected a week's extra pay for a bonus. I was planning to give it to her anyway, but her asking for it made me squirm. Despite getting more paid vacation than I do, she nickel and dimes us for days off. She once called in sick because of cramps. There are days when she phones me at work to vent about tantrums or poop explosions, and I think, Mary Poppins would suck it up. But I try to remember that 10 hours a day with a toddler is very tough work, and if I were home, I'd have the Canuck on speed dial.

I know so much more than I did a year ago, and if I could go back and do it differently, I just might choose someone more zen and go-with-the-flow. But for better or for worse, Sally is ours now. When I came home last night, she met me at the elevator to tell me that Muffin had taken her first step. I think she was as thrilled as I was. Sally's far from perfect, but then neither am I. I do know she loves Muffin, and Muffin loves her. Our little symbiotic relationship hangs together, sometimes only by a thread, but hangs together nonetheless.

Common-Sense Party Planning

2006-07-24T21:35:00.000-04:00

Note to self: When preparing food for a birthday BBQ, next time remember not to choose complicated recipes that you’ve never tried before and that you are going to have only a 2-hour nap window to prepare. And perhaps offering lamb, chicken and shrimp for 4 guests is a bit of overkill.

PS to self: If you must serve a signature cocktail (And god, really? Signature cocktail?), it might be wise to forget the one that calls for orgeat syrup and requires you to comb all of Park Slope’s coffee shops in order to find it.

PPS to self: When the baby goes down for a nap, don't be an idiot and decide you are very tired also and need a nap yourself instead of preparing for the BBQ.

PPPS to self: After bathing the baby, remember to diaper her quickly instead of letting her crawl around naked, even if you are trying to clear up some very stubborn diaper rash. She might use the opportunity to take a huge crap on the floor, squish it between her toes, and then pick it up and smear it all over the couch in her room 30 minutes before your guests are set to arrive.

PPPPS to self: Get rid of couch ASAP.

Who me?

Dr. Feelgood

2006-07-22T09:44:00.000-04:00

Every first-time parent should be so lucky as to have a pediatrician as soul-soothing as mine. I usually arrive at her office with a laundry list of unexplainable developments (Possible rash! Slight fever! Strange rocking! Not walking!) that are probably all indicators that I am falling down on the job and a sham mom. She has a wonderful way of making all the pieces fit together into a logical story whose happy ending is that Muffin is perfectly normal and on track. I walk out feeling in control, like this parenting stuff is no big whoop.

About a month ago I took Muffin into her office. When she went to check her ears, Muffin nodded no vigorously. The doctor seemed a bit taken aback that she could communicate so clearly (I neglected to mention how sometimes no actually means yes), but with some gentle coaxing she was able to take a look inside both ears.

During the appointment, I mentioned the bath troubles we were having. She assured me it was developmentally normal, that fear is part of putting together how the world works. Then she casually mentioned this was happening a little earlier than normal because Muffin is so smart.

A HA!! This explains so much. The tantrums? A clear indication she is brilliant. The obsession with licking the bottom of my shoes? Evidence of her giftedness. The constant nose-picking? Clearly one step closer to quadratic equations.

You might think that an evening run would not rate as an occasion to wear a beret

2006-07-20T18:54:00.000-04:00

But you would be wrong.

Growing Up

2006-07-19T18:22:00.000-04:00

You think you are a good person, and then you get married. It’s impossible to be your best self every single day, and the cracks start to show. It becomes harder to let things go, and the history starts to pile up and haunt every argument. You stop finding fights about socks on the floor funny, even two days later. You abuse the notion of unconditional love, and you’re moodier, bitchier and pettier than you’d ever be to your friends. But he still loves you, because he took those vows and everything, and so it becomes even harder to stop letting it all hang out. How is it that the person you love the most gets the ugliest parts of you? You resolve to do better, to be better, because that’s what he deserves. But it’s more than you’ve ever had to be.

Then you become a mom. And now two lives rise and fall according to your moods. There’s this little person waiting to be shaped by you and the example you set. I noticed that the days I come home feeling rotten are my hardest, most tantrum-y days with Muffin. I’m sure she picks up on my vibe, that somehow she knows what I really want to do is sack on the couch and numb my mind with TV instead of playing with her.

Frustration is close to the surface too often. When it breaks through, I look to the people closest to me to assign blame. I figure out the silliest reasons to be mad. I’m remarkably petty. I don’t walk the walk of the person I’d like to be a lot of the time.

In the words of Jack Nicholson, Muffin and the Canuck make me want to be a better person. I need to be, because there's so much at stake. I hope I have it in me.

How old are you?

2006-07-17T21:56:00.000-04:00

One (twice)

Sunrise, Sunset (already)

2006-07-16T19:57:00.000-04:00

When Muffin was 7 months old, I let her fall off the bed. She was rolling well by then, but not that fast and usually not over and over. I was in the room with her, but I was distracted and running late, trying to get ready for a big night out with the Canuck. We had the overpriced babysitter lined up and everything. Digging through my underwear drawer frantically, I turned my back for too long and heard a horrible thump that I swear stopped my heart for a second.

In the end, she was fine. She had a bloody nose (I was sure it was her brain matter leaking out) and howled horribly for 20 minutes. She'd start to calm down, would see me sobbing, and then her waterworks would start again. But in the end, as I said, she was fine. I'm sure she doesn't even remember it.

But that was one of the worst nights of my life (which, perhaps, says a lot about the pretty lucky life I've lead). I felt so guilty that I wasn't watching her more closely. I was overwhelmed by panic that something would happen to her. All my new-parent fears about breaking her -- which were finally starting to fade away -- came back in a rush.

Now Muffin is 15 months old. The other day my neighbor R, who has a daughter a few months older than Muffin, was relating a story that involved her daughter standing on the couch. With R across the room. Standing, on a cushy, unstable surface several feet off the floor. With Mom too far away to catch her if she decided to take a nosedive. This was just a detail on the way to making an altogether unrelated point. But what I took away is that her daughter can be on the couch by herself without Mommy having a heart attack.

At the playground, I notice a difference between Muffin and the other kids. It's hard to compare, since she is so huge, but it appears that kids her age and even younger are going down the baby slide solo, ascending and descending stairs confidently, and of course walking. Muffin mainly sticks to the swings. The jungle gym gives me visions of broken arms and black eyes.

I guess I'm a hoverer. One of those helicopter moms in training. And that's a big problem, because now Muffin is obsessed with climbing. She manuevers in and out of her big plastic car. She races up stairs on her hands and knees when she get the rare opportunity. With a boost, she lumbers onto the couch and loves flopping on the pillows. Nothing makes her prouder than sitting like a big girl on one of our dining room chairs. She even tries to climb on the coffee table but thank goodness she can't reach yet.

I've got to steel myself: she's probably going to fall again, because that's how you learn, by making mistakes. I'll be there to kiss her boo-boos and dry her tears. Who's going to dry mine?

Connections

2006-07-14T18:43:00.000-04:00

Muffin is beginning to show a deeper understanding of the world. There’s something new almost every day, whether it’s a sound, a facial expression or sign that she understands much of what I’m saying or the way things work. I guess I better stop talking about selling her on eBay.

She’s beginning to recognize objects by qualities and transfer those qualities to other things to define them. She tries to comb her hair with the bottle brush. At the grocery store, anything round is “ball.” Squash and lemons are “nana,” since they are yellow like a banana. Anything vaguely electronic – remote, camera, can opener – she holds up to her ear like a phone.

One of our daily activities is to inventory her body parts. She shows me where her hair, nose, ears, mouth, toes, belly and knees are. Today she about knocked me out when I asked her to show me her eyes, and she batted her eyelashes furiously, like a silent movie starlet.

She’s known “no” for some time, although it’s still hit-or-miss if she’ll listen to it. But now she’s learned that she can say no by nodding her head, and that I understand and will usually respect her feelings. It’s actually exhilarating, having her convey her lack of desire by doing something other than fussing. The only problem is that she doesn't know "yes" yet, so she'll nod no when what she really means is yes. Sometimes no means no, sometimes no means yes, and sometimes Mommy's head hurts.

Also new: initiating peek-a-boo

Ode to my Baby Daddy

2006-07-12T22:50:00.000-04:00

I have been giving the Canuck the gears lately because of his resistance to The Program. Evolved over the 15 months we have been taking care of Muffin, The Program's three guiding principles are thinking ahead to anticipate problems before they happen, tidying up as you go along, and doing as much as you can while Muffin's sleeping since she has a way of sucking up all the attention in the room when she's awake.

The Program's Section B: Travel specifies that packing should be done no later than the night before, and lists should be made and checked, so you don't wind up forgetting, say, the rubber piece that prevents the sippy cup from leaking all over the diaper bag, the party dress Muffin was going to wear to my dad's 60th birthday party, or her favorite pop-up book that can distract her from storming the cockpit during the 2-hour flight to Chicago.

The Program works. And sometimes I get a little Tom Cruise about it. And yet you, babe, remain glib. GLIB!

But, did I mention that the Canuck made the aforementioned flight with Muffin on his own? Because I was in Des Moines on business, he traveled with Muffin to Chicago so I would not have to fly back to New York only to turn around and fly back to the Midwest the next morning. He even suggested it. Anyone who's traveled alone with a toddler can tell you, not only are you a pack mule carrying a car seat, stroller, and diaper bag, along with the baby, you must be a one-man carnival of funny sounds and faces in order to keep the kid entertained.

I'm not one for giving dads extra credit for doing the down and dirty work of parenting. It's not "babysitting" when it's your own child, and dads shouldn't get any gold stars simply for changing diapers or making a bottle.

But the Canuck is an amazing dad, no matter whose standards you use. He’s the parent who will stroke Muffin's head endlessly when she’s having trouble sleeping. He’s got energy for the more physical aspects of parenting, he’s always up for the challenge of an outing, and he has a quiet confidence about his parenting skills that makes him far more consistent than I am. If I weren’t around, Muffin’s o-3 month clothes would still be in her drawers, there would be fewer vegetables in her diet, and her toys would grow roots into the floor. But without him, I’d be swallowed up by the chaos that comes with the toddler territory.

I used to have a picture in my mind of who I might spend my life with, what he might look like, what qualities he might have. Often it was Pacey from Dawson’s Creek. Now the picture is this: My gangly husband folded awkwardly into our small tub, his legs curled around Muffin, rinsing her hair carefully so she doesn’t get water in her eyes. I couldn’t ask for much more.

Back to Reality

2006-07-05T21:29:00.000-04:00

We spent a long weekend up north observing Canada Day (Did you know Canadian Budweiser is totally better than American Bud – true story!) and having a grand time at my mother-in-law's lake house.

Muffin is the only grandchild on that side and as a result, she gets treated like a celebrity by the entire family. You know those riders where stars insist on ridiculous perks like chocolate fountains and bouquets of while lillies? I don't know who Muffin has working for her, but at Grandma's house she has a kiddie pool, a play tent, a castle with moat, a real live dog, a constant stream of gifts, unlimited bubbles, strawberry ice cream, cookies for breakfast and the attention of everyone in the room at almost all times. At Grandma's house, she's happy (and she knows it), piggies are always going to market, and every thing she does, including breathing, merits applause.

We left Monday morning. Monday evening found us eating dinner at a depressing Cracker Barrel somewhere in Pennsylvania. She looked at me like, God, Mom, this is so not ice cream as I fed her a dinner of cooked carrots and yogurt. Scanning the room desperately looking for someone to notice her, she did adorable things but got nothing except the same old muted validation from Mom and Dad. Didn't anyone know who she was??

Finally, she just started applauding for herself.

How many days until Canadian Thanksgiving?

First ice cream cone ever!

Yay for Muffin! Again!

This little piggie went to Canada...

It's exhausting being the life of the party.

To see more photos from Canada Day, click here.

The Terrible Ones

2006-07-05T21:03:00.000-04:00

I’m reminded of a nursery rhyme my mother used to tell me:

Once there was a little girl with a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was very very good
But when she was bad, she was horrid

Where did my sweet little girl go? She’s still there, mostly, but the lag of language skills behind the desire to grab that serrated knife/that crystal bowl/that sensitive skin under my arm NOW NOW NOW has turned my angel into the occasional holy terror. She arches her back, throw herself on the ground (with no regard for what she might smack her head on), drums her feet on the floor and screams so loudly I wonder if my neighbors will call DCFS.

As is so often the case, I am caught having no idea what a Grown-Up Parent Person should do in these situations. I’ve read a few books – ok, ok, maybe just the relevant passages – on the topic, but every one I open offers me a different philosophy. I’ve also been pumping every parent I know for the magic technique that will diffuse this bomb but get answers like, every child is different so you have to figure out what works for you. That’s code for: I don’t know either.

My lack of a plan makes for some mixed messages. Recently, Muffin was incensed because I would not let her pull all of the condiments out of the refrigerator door. As the wailing began, I carried her over to some books and sat down on the floor to try the Distraction Technique. She was not to be fooled into silly book-reading when there were hot sauce bottles waiting to be licked and thrown, so the back arching began. I caught her head just before it hit the ground and then commenced with the Empathy Technique. I told her that I understood she was frustrated and that I just wanted to keep her safe. She swatted my hand away and increased the volume. Next up: The Ignoring It Technique. I went into my bedroom (which is about 5 feet away) and tried to compose myself. She was still crying, and her sobs were starting to sound more hurt than petulant. I was starting to get a lump in my throat myself.

After about a minute, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed her blanket and scooped her up. She instantly buried her head in my neck and started rubbing her face with the satin edge. The tears stopped. I swayed back and forth and kissed her forehead as she struggled to catch her breath. This tantrum was blessedly over, but I still had no idea how I was going to cope with the next one.

So I’m taking a poll. What should I do the next time she melts down?

A. Close the door and drink wine in the bathroom until it's over.
B. Just give her what she wants. A little hot sauce in the eye and then she’ll learn.
C. Hand her off to the Canuck. I birthed her (did I mention the emergency C-section?), so it's only fair that he discipline her.
D. Sell her on eBay. She’s super-cute; I bet I could get a good price.
E. Take a deep breath, keep her from getting a concussion, and just try to do the best I can.

Update: Operation Happy Bath

2006-07-04T22:30:00.000-04:00

Well, it took several baths with Mom or Dad, a lot of bubbles and approximately 1,574 wind-ups of the swimming frog bath toy, but I'm proud to say mission accomplished. She even says "bath" now.

Rock Star Aunties

2006-06-26T23:02:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend we traveled to Chicago, where my family is from. We were in town for a wedding and also for my dad's 60th birthday party. It's always wonderfully chaotic to get the whole brood together, and I love giving Muffin a chance to spend time with her grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.

As it turns out, her aunts got a unique opportunity to, um, get to know her inner workings.

On Saturday morning, we headed to the wedding, and left Muffin in the care of the family. Everyone was very busy getting ready for my dad's party that night but they took good care of her, feeding her a hearty lunch and getting her down for her afternoon nap. At first, they could hear Muffin happily babbling away but soon that gave way to hard sobs. A check on her revealed that she had thrown up a colorful mix of the cantaloupe, banana and Croque Monsieur she'd had for lunch. It was all over the sheets, on her special blanket, on her clothes and in her hair.

Now of course Muffin has spit up zillions of times and even thrown up a little too. But it sounds like I have never been witness to this kind of partially digested carnage. Both my sister and sister-in-law have babies of their own, but this broke new records of grossness. And my sister, like me, has fear of the vomit and will do just about anything in order to not be near it.

And yet they gave Muffin a bath (no easy feat -- see below), washed her hair, lotioned her up, put her in clean clothes, gave her hugs, sang her songs, and made her feel safe until I got home.

The most amazing part is that both of them told me that one of their favorite parts of the weekend was the day they spent with Muffin, getting to know the little personality that is emerging. They love her, puke and all. And she loves them too.

Operation Happy Bath

2006-06-26T23:00:00.000-04:00

Muffin has recently become terrified of the bath. She's always been a little fish splashing around in our deep kitchen sink but all of a sudden she seems to think we are trying to drown her.

Since we'd need to start a bath detraumatization program anyway, I figured we might as well transition her to the big tub. The image of her in the kitchen sink is such a modern-day Norman Rockwell milieu, I was a little reluctant to let it go. But our girl is growing up and getting too big for the sink. Also, it strikes me that the spot where we scrub her butt and the spot where we clean our dishes should not be the same spot.

Muffin has since birth been deeply apprehensive of the tub's shower curtain. I don't know if it was just the tacky syncronized-swimmer motif, or the harsh sound of the metal shower rings, but she is reduced to tears if she gets within a few feet. So out with the old and in with a zen white cotton curtain and quiet plastic rings. It's so spa-like in there now she's going to expect a fluffy white robe and cucumber water. I also purchased a slew of rubber ducks, wind-up toys and funny-faced beakers to entice her further. I have my no-tears shampoo ready. Let's hope it lives up to its name.

Mother to Daughter

2006-06-20T22:57:00.000-04:00

I hope to impart much parental wisdom to Muffin as she grows up. Now that I am a mom I am very sage and understand everything about everything.

I want to teach her that she can be whatever she wants when she grows up and no one should ever tell her she can't. I want to teach her that it's okay to be different. I want to explain to her that it's more important to be kind than to be right. I want to show her how to love her body, whatever shape it may be. I want to convey to her that she can love whoever she wants (man, woman, black, brown, purple, Republican), and her father and I will adore and support her no matter what.

I also hope to pass along the important life lesson that accessories can make the outfit. So far I think I'm doing a pretty good job.

Boobs Talking About Boobs

2006-06-16T20:51:00.000-04:00

Man, am I worked up.

This new government campaign on breastfeeding (and the New York Times article that discusses it) makes me want throw myself prostrate on the floor, windmill my legs furiously and howl at the injustice of it all (that’s how we show frustration in my house). The government is sponsoring a new awareness campaign that compares not breastfeeding your child for at least six months to smoking while pregnant. They also compare it to riding a mechanical bull while with child.

Breastfeeding did not work for me. (TMI and excessive talking about myself ahead: beware!) As soon as I was stitched up and got to hold Muffin for the first time, I put her at my breast. The nurse on duty took one look at the situation, and very helpfully told me breastfeeding was not going to work for me. Apparently, I was supposed to be wearing breast shells during the last weeks of pregnancy to make my nipples more pronounced and baby mouth-ready. Hello, couldn’t someone tell me these things?? To tell you the truth, I don’t know that I would have actually worn them that much anyway. I worked right up until I went into labor, and I can’t imagine the impression I would have made in my office walking around with pronounced nipple falsies.

But back to the story. Things got better. The hospital’s amazing lactation consultant (I called her the Breast Whisperer) came by the next day and helped us figure things out. It was hard each time, but while I was in the hospital I did manage to breastfeed. And a number of my husband’s friends got a good look at my knockers, which once my milk came in, were truly a sight to behold.

Then five days later, we went home. And it all went to shit.

Muffin would not latch. In fact, she would arch her back and scream when I tried to feed her. So I pumped and we fed her with a finger-feeder syringe so as to prevent nipple confusion. I had a lactation consultant come to my apartment – twice – and we made a little bit of progress. But Muffin would only nurse from one side, and only with a nipple shield that kept slipping off. I did tongue exercises with her, as the consultant had recommended. We broke the finger feeder and embarked on a crazed scavenger hunt of the neighborhood drugstores trying to find another before she got hungry again. My hands got so sore from plunging the syringe at a steady rate so as to not gag her with milk. I came down with mastitis -- twice. We kept breaking the damn syringes. I dreaded feeding Muffin, which meant days mostly full of worry, since she ate every 2-3 hours. We tried and tried and tried and it just wasn’t getting better. Her anatomy just did not seem to fit with mine.

So we broke down and gave Muffin a bottle and I started pumping regularly. She took right to it, and I began enjoying feeding time. I’d continue to put her at the breast at least once a day, but she never seemed to get very much before falling asleep. I couldn’t do much to keep her awake; the oxytocin made me narcoleptic, and I’d be nodding off too in minutes.

Pumping was stressful and painful. I often pumped out blood with the breastmilk. It was hard to find 30 minutes 3-4 times a day when the baby didn’t need to be held and I wasn't doing her laundry/showering/trying to eat. And oh, how I grew tired of washing all those tiny plastic pieces.

But I found a way. And really, I was lucky; I had a good supply, so I could get away with pumping less often than most women.

I went back to work when Muffin was 3 months old. I dragged that 10-pound pump an hour on the subway each way, giving me a nagging pain in my back. I dutifully hit the pumping room on another floor several times a day and tried not to feel weird when I’d encounter co-workers with my hands full of still-warm boob juice.

But a month later, I was done. I was done with the sore back, done with spending half of my already short work day trying to find time when the pumping room was free, tired of strapping on the cones or torture when I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep, and tired of panicking that Muffin wouldn’t have enough milk for the day, tired of being resentful instead of just enjoying my daughter. Despite all this, it really was agonizing making the decision to give up.

But once I did, I gotta tell you, it was such a relief. Muffin took to formula no problem. She got her first tooth two weeks later, and I comforted myself with the fact that maybe I would have had to quit anyway.

I tried. Hard. I hope I gave it my best. Muffin had a lot of colds this winter, and I do wonder if she’d have a stronger immune system if I’d kept at it longer. Of course, crawling around on the floor, where people’s shoes tramp in dirt and germs, might have contributed too. Licking the wheels of her stroller cannot have helped either.

I think there are moms, like me, who just can’t make it work. They have a low supply or their babies won’t latch. These moms don’t need anyone making them feel worse. We feel badly enough already, thank you very much.

Then there are moms who don't have all the resources at their disposal that I do. They might not give birth in hospitals that offer solid breastfeeding support. They can’t afford fancy home lactation consultants. They might have jobs that don’t offer maternity leave so they’re back at work as soon as they’re able. The price of a breast pump ($200+) might be too steep, and besides their workplaces don’t offer a private place or the breaks necessary to pump anyway. They don't deserve to be shamed.

And I don't either.

Self-feeding Lesson #157

2006-06-15T22:07:00.000-04:00

I don't think she's getting it.

Yeah, babe, cancel the reservation at Per Se. That food's too expensive for her to waste on her hair.

For the three people who care about such things (hi, Mom)

2006-06-14T21:17:00.000-04:00

Muffin says 11 words now.

1 and 2. What’s that? (totally counts as two, pronounced wasat?)
3. Duck (recently added the k at the end after saying duh duh duh forever)
4. Woof Woof
5. Dog (might have really been saying duck but we’ll take it)
6. Mama (sometimes she says mom, which makes my heart beat faster both because I am so proud to be her mom, but also because mom=people who wear tapered jeans and sensible shoes, and oh god, I have been buying more comfortable shoes lately!)
7. Dada (says way more than mama, which is just plain ungrateful)
8. Banana (pronounced nana and such an obsession that we must have bananas in the house at all times)
9. Window (pronounced do-do)
10. Ball (her spin on it is bawoo)
11. Bubble (this is her very best word and she says it perfectly)

Although she doesn’t say the accompanying words yet, she does a karate chop hi wave, and a double-handed bye-bye. She can identify her feet, her belly and her nose.

Her language skills are advancing so quickly that sometimes I can’t keep up. A few weeks ago, I noticed all day she’d say do-do-do-do. My mom and I would tease her, who’s a do-do? Are you a do-do?? Looks like we’re the do-dos, Mom. One morning I came into her room to find her standing in her crib and pointing at the window. Do-do. Duh.

So I’m learning. Now she holds up my shoes and says, za-za-za. I’m trying to really listen and figure out what she could be saying. The only thing that comes to mind is zapatos, but I’m pretty sure that’s not it.

I read that you are supposed to use the correct word when you speak to your child, instead of the cutesy baby version. I’m trying but I slip all the time. Her words are perfect just as they are. As much as I’m excited for her to grow up and communicate even better, I'll miss do-do when it's gone.

UPDATE: Make that 12. Tonight she told the nanny bye. Actually she said bye bye bye. God, do I really play *N Sync that much?

Why I can live with someone who poops in her own pants

2006-06-10T22:36:00.000-04:00

Muffin's smile absolutely slays her father and I. She does not just grin, she opens her mouth so wide, with such delight, that I wonder if her head will split open and collapse on itself. When she bestows one of these smiles upon you, it's as if you have just said the funniest thing in the entire history of funny things, and for a moment, nothing can ever be wrong.

Should I stay (at home) or should I go (back to work)?

2006-06-10T22:14:00.000-04:00

I am reading The Mommy Wars. The title is a bit sensationalist; there’s no mom-off here (Oh, your son walked at 7 months and counts to ten in Spanish? Well, my little one knows 50 signs and was potty-trained by one! Pow pow!) No one openly criticizes anyone else. Each of the contributors writes about how she came to the decision to work – or not to work – when she had kids.

It’s a good thing it’s not truly a war, as I wouldn’t be sure whose colors to wear. As I am reading the book, I am astonished to find that I am essentially agreeing with everything everyone says. I can relate to the mom who feels it's an unnecessary sacrifice to give up your career goals for kids and that she's a good role model for her daughter by working. I see what she means when one mom explains that the book she never wrote was a small sacrifice to pay for getting to know her children so intimately over the years as she's been at home. How can I be this divided when I went back to work full-time when Muffin was 12 weeks old? I am awfully wishy-washy for someone who pays more than $500 a week in childcare.

Here is what I do know:

If I stayed home with Muffin, I would get bored, eat a lot, watch too much TV, and would get a little depressed.

I believe I would be very jealous of my husband if I didn’t work, and I would resent the imbalance in our parenting.

I will never know exactly what goes on all day with Muffin unless I am there. I will never know whether what she does with her nanny is more or less educational/fun/stimulating/safe/character-building than what would be occurring if I were there.

I love her more than any caregiver ever could.

A happy mommy is a better mommy.

Muffin’s face lights up when she sees her nanny. I like that I am not the only person she will go to.

I think your kids should be the most important thing in your life. Good decisions mean putting your kids' needs before your own.

It would feel strange and uncomfortable to spend money when I didn’t help to make it.

If I stayed home, I would feel morally beyond reproach instead of worrying that I am selfish.

It can get extremely stressful having such a delicate balance. There are moments where it feels the whole set-up could go off the rails at any moment.

The pieces don’t fit. There is no perfect or even near perfect solution. It’s dawning on me, a year after I went back to work, that I am deeply conflicted about this. I don’t know for sure if I am doing right by my kid, and that’s a terrible feeling.

Mother's Day: A Photo Essay

2006-06-05T22:51:00.000-04:00

Yes, I know Mother's Day was three weeks ago. I'm a little behind. (Next up: Christmas 2004 in pictures!)

The Canuck got up with Muffin and let me sleep in. I had been telling people that I didn't think I even could sleep in anymore, but I made a liar of myself by snoozing peacefully until 9am. When I finally got up, somehow the Canuck had managed to whip up this gourmet breakfast with a toddler under foot. He's all about the presentation.

Breakfast was a big hit. I don't know who loved it more -- me or Muffin. We elected not to do side-by-side reaction shots since only one of us looks cute in the morning without makeup.

Since she's been so busy knocking down block towers, banging on Tupperware and pointing out the ceiling fan to anyone who will listen, Muffin plum forgot to get her mom a Mother's Day gift. She tries to charm her way out of this gaffe by being incredibly cute. It works.

To please her mommy on Mother's Day, Muffin decides to teach herself how to read. That is not enough of a challenge for a child of her intellect, so she also teaches herself how to read upside down. It turns out Good Night, Moon makes a lot more sense when you read it that way.

Finally, Muffin figures out the most fitting tribute to her mom: she reorganizes her shoe closet.

You know this boogie is for real

2006-06-05T22:37:00.000-04:00

I am trying to teach Muffin to dance. When I get home from work each day, I crank up the iPod with our theme song: Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat.” I love this song because it reminds me of the gleefully corny dance performance in “Centerstage” as well as the so-dorky-they’re-cool moves of Napolean Dynamite. As the synthesizer starts, I wiggle my hips exaggeratedly to get Muffin’s attention. Then I whisk her up with a flourish (I try to time it with the swell of the music), and we bop around the living room and the kitchen. She grins, holds on tight and makes the “heh heeeeh” sounds that are her strange way of giggling. As we ramp up to the chorus, I support her head, spin in a circle, and then dip her dramatically as Jay Kay sings, “Dance! Nothin left for me to do but dance!” I follow the same routine each day, and yet every time she squeals at the unexpected delight of feeling weightless. It’s funny to me that she can be scared of the sound of packing tape but have no fear about falling. I guess she trusts me.

I think my efforts are paying off. I notice that now she smiles and wags her little butt when she hears the opening bars of our song. Now that she’s starting to stand without holding on to anything, she's totally ready for jazz hands.

The C Club

2006-05-30T21:50:00.000-04:00

It's rumored that both Gwen Stefani and Angelina Jolie both had C-sections. I also had a C-section when my daughter Muffin was born 13 months ago.

I didn't plan to have a C-section, and I haven't totally made my peace with the fact that that was the way things turned out. I'm sad to have been cheated the movie style birth, where the baby's gently placed on my chest as I beam radiantly, my husband snips the umbilical cord proudly, and I say something maternal yet sassy, like, "So now that you're here, can we discuss, what was up with all that reflux?"

Instead, I heard Muffin's first cry from a distance, and I had to pump the doctor and the Canuck for details about what she looked like. I didn't hold her until a half hour after she was born. It wasn't horrible, it just wasn't how I imagined it. I mean, I've been putting up with these child-bearing hips for years, all for naught. I feel like a bit of a failure for not getting the baby out the old-fashioned way.

But! Now I realize C-sections are totally sexy! Gorgeous humanitarians and kick-ass rockers get them! In fact, let's rename them C-sexions!

I've amused myself all day by thinking of the days after Muffin's birth and imagining a postpartum Angie and Gwen. Apparently the benchmark of abdominal surgery success is making sure food can pass through your system properly, so every nurse or doctor that comes into the room during the 5-day hospital stay inquires if you've passed gas or had a bowel movement. I was in a teaching hospital, so parades of medical students were privy to my gastrointestinal struggles. Has Angie been farting up a storm? Has Gwen pooped that first painful poop? Has it been noted on their charts? If only US Weekly could get their hands on that for Stars: They're Just Like Us!

The other less-than-lovely aspect of the C-section is the crotch pouch. I've lost the pregnancy weight, but what remains is a thick band of scar tissue between my hip bones that refuses to respond to sit-ups, crunches or begging. My OB says it's normal after a C-section and there's not much you can do about it. I guess I'll have to see if Gwen can still wear those belly shirts in concert or if Angelina needs Spanx to look smooth under her St. John's knits. I like the idea that the crotch pouch knows no boundaries of fabulosity.

The good news is that if I ever run into either, I've got my ice breaker ready. Before long, we'll be sipping international coffees, cuddling our babies and kvetching about our men. I bet Brad leaves his shoes under the coffee table too.