Our Very First Commercial - Or How We Sold Out For A Bag Of Licorice

I'm pretty sure that Owen is the cutest baby in the world.  Well, maybe not the world, but at least in New York City.  I fully expect baby model scouts to approach us at all times and ask for Owen to sign up with them.  And not those creepy people who might approach you in the mall and tell you you should be a model and all you need to get started is $1000 which you will most likely get back, well never.  No, I expect the bonafide, "you oughta be in pictures" approach.

To be fair to myself, this is based on cold, hard fact, not just the delusions and hubris of a first-time mother.  People often stop us on the street and tell me that Owen could be the Gerber baby, that he is in fact the ideal, or platonic form of baby. . just saying. . . But so far, no contracts, despite our walking slowly by movie sets and coffee shops where advertising scouts probably hang out scouting for the "Next Little Big Thing."  (FOX please take note, this could be your next great competition show. Little Babies, Big Dreams.)

And then, finally on Tuesday it happened!  We were discovered.  Well, or at least we were there.

I was sitting in Washington Square Park with a friend and her baby, trying to have a play date.  Her baby was only mildly co-operating because he is HALF of Owen's age and this means a lot in baby land.  At some point this does not mean as much.  No one in fact would be shocked because my husband is a whole three months older than me but when three months is your entire life, it seems to matter.  And then, we were approached by a film crew.  I saw them walking towards us with a look of determination in their eyes.  I would like to imagine they were thinking, "We have to run and get to that remarkable baby before anyone else."  More likely they were thinking, "We have to run and get to those women before they see us coming and run away."

"So, you two are mothers right?"  they asked.  Part of me was tempted to say, "Nope, baby thieves," but who knows if CPS has a very elaborate undercover agent system in place to make sure I'm still not shaking my baby, so we just nod.

"Well, you are ideal people to be in our licorice commercial," they say.  "Would you like to be in a commercial?"

"No," my friend interjects.

"Are you sure?" he asks, "You are perfect."

"No," she says. "Seriously, go away."

But, the fact is I would very much like to be in a commercial but about twenty pounds ago when I still had time to actually lint-roll the cat hair of my clothes. "I haven't brushed my hair in two days," I say, noticing that nowhere among the crew is a make-up person. But, I am bored and feel like this is something to fill my day.  At the very least it's more interesting than changing a diaper.

 "You look great," says the liar/director. "All you have to say is, 'Once you get a taste of it, I just can't get enough of my Darrell Lea.' Only catch is you have to do it in an Australian accent. Can you do an Australian accent?"

"I can mimic one if I hear it,"  I say.  "But you know, what you just did, was a pretty awful Australian accent?"

"I know," he says, "but I'm sure you can do better."

"What's our model fee?" I ask as my friend looks like she would rather shoot them, than shoot a commercial.

"You get to keep the licorice," he says, holding up a bag. "It's really good licorice."

"Does it count towards his SAG card?" I ask, just to be annoying because, well motherhood is sometimes boring, and this is amusing me.

"No," he says, not amused.  "We're pretty low-budget here, just trying to pay our mortgages."

"What about my mortgage?" I ask. "I've been un-employed since November."

"It's easy," he says, and feeds me the line again.

"This isn't Candid Camera?"  I ask and they assure me it is not. "Well, how about I just make my baby say the line?" I suggest, apparently willing to exploit Owen.  "Look," I say, holding him up, "this will be much funnier and he is quite photogenic." I hold him in front of my face and deliver the line in a very mediocre Australian accent.

"That's actually wonderful," the director says and the whole crew agrees. They make me do another take and film it.  "He looks great on camera," the director says and the whole crew looks and agrees.  "Now, can you do it one more time but make his mouth move?"   It's at this point that I'm pretty sure that the man has never had a kid.  I think he has been watching too many e-trade baby commercials and thinks it's just magic.  I  want to point out that it's probably done in editing and if not those e-trade babies are at least twice Owen's age and in baby land. . well, you know.

"Probably not," I say but we try another take.  I don't know if his mouth moves because he's facing away from me but they seem overjoyed.  Then then have me sign the model release form for Owen.  Owen keeps grabbing the pen which makes it hard for me to write and they seem to be getting impatient.  I want to point out that we just shot a commercial for free but instead I slow down and read the entire release.  "Just to be clear," I ask, you can only use this for this commercial right?  I'm not granting you a release to use his image for anything else?"  (See I only partially exploit Owen, I am no spring chicken, I know how to protect him from the seedy underworld of media exploitation.)

"No," they say.  "It's just for this commercial.  It will only be on the interwebs."   I want to point out that it's really wrong to pluralize the slang interweb, as the fact that it is all connected makes it a web so really can't be pluralized but I let it go.

They hand us a bag of licorice and two coupons.  "It's really good," director man says.  "You can buy it at Whole Foods."  And as fast as they came into our lives, off they went.

So, who knows if this commercial will ever see the light of day.  Last time some commando camera crew tried to film me I never saw it again.  They said they were from the news and filmed me washing my car in my cut-off shorts and a tank top.  (This was about 30 pounds and fifteen years ago.)  I did find it odd that they were driving a black van and had no identification so I said no.  Also, they didn't even have the decency to offer me candy.

So, look for us on the interwebS.  I'm sure Owen will be genius though I don't know how everyone who sees it will track us down for more work.  I guess I'll have to go about it the hard way and keep stalking movie sets.



Owen with his paycheck.

Owen's First Cat Scan and Our First Encounter With Social Services

I am playing with Owen on the floor when Mitch comes home.  He picks Owen up and says, "What's this bump on his head?"  "What bump?"  I ask, because I did not notice any bump.  To be fair to me, Owen has a very large head with fabulous contours so a bump is not easily noticeable.  He is in fact 97 percentile in head size and 25% in height and weight.  Having a rather large head myself, I'm glad they stop measuring heads at some point in your life.

I take Owen back from Mitch to examine his head.  There is in fact a LARGE bump on his head, that is soft and squishy to the touch, much like it is filled with blood.  I have no idea how this happened.  Turns out Mitch does.  Apparently they were playing while we were on vacation in Palm Springs and Owen wiggled out of his arms and smacked his head on the marble counter top in the bathroom.  He cried for about five minutes and then seemed fine so Mitch forgot about it and moved on.  Part of me wants to zero in on the fact that head injuries really should be mentioned even if they seem to be minor but that's a conversation for later. For now I have other priorities so I do what any mother would do here - freak out.

I call my sister and ask her if she has any advice.  My sister works in a hospital so I assume she knows all things medical though she is in fact not a doctor.  Well, she is a doctor but in bio-medical engineering and medical physics which does not give her the knowledge to tell me if my son is about to die from a bump on his head.  She also has two kids which gives her an edge.  She does her best to help me regain calm. (see how handy it is) though it does not work that well.  I debate with Mitch what I should do.  He thinks Owen seems fine so I might as well wait until Owen's doctor appointment which happens to be tomorrow.  I then do what one should not do - Google.  I go onto Dr. Sears's site because I figure if I am going to go to the internet for research I should at least narrow my fear scope.  I don't want to end up with someone's personal diary about the demise of their child.  Under head injuries, it says that hematomas can develop up to 4 days after an injury which is about what it is now.  It also says a few more things that lead me to call Owen's doctor right away.

Since it is night time, I have to leave a message with the service who then relays it to Owen's doctor who calls me back in about two minutes.  After my explanation she asks where the bump is.  I tell her, an inch above the ear.  "Go to the ER," she says.  "Anywhere else I would say, don't worry about it, but in that area we always send people.  There are some major arteries there and it. . "  Well the rest of it does not really matter because I start to pack a bag while I am still on the phone.  I add extra diapers, a jacket, and our un-eaten take out dinner, Vietnamese sandwiches and two ears of corn covered in coconut-mayo dressing.   Then we go out to catch a cab.  We debate if we should take the car seat and stroller but I can't imagine trying to maneuver in it around a crowded ER.  Also, it is raining and it's easier just to put him in the Ergo carrier and go.

We go out to the street and of course there are no cabs to be found.  I stand staring at St. Vincent's Hospital which is about a block away and stands dark and shuttered in the rain.  It has been empty for over a year and there is no hospital in our neighborhood anymore.  It makes me angry that we could have already been in the ER when I am still trying to flag down a cab.  I watch cab after cab go by until finally one stops.

between the rain, the traffic, and my growing fear, the ride to the hospital takes forever.  When the cab driver drops off off, I think I tip him 50% on the ride.  I am so thankful he stopped and it seems like good karma somehow to tip a lot on your way into the hospital to make sure your baby is okay.

When we go in, we realize we are dropped off at the wrong location.  Right hospital but it is not the ER wing. We ask for the ER and the man near the front desk asks, "Is it for the baby?"  "Yes," I say, and before I can move, he starts whisking us through an elaborate series of corridors, elevators and back ways until we somehow wind up in the ER.  I am thankful enough to kiss him but it also terrifies me somehow, as if there is more urgency than I thought.

Soon enough we get to the ER and my first thought is that if my son does not have a skull fracture that he might still leave with a disease.  All of the seats are taken and no one offers their seat.  I guess this makes sense because no one chooses to be at the ER at 8:00 on a rainy Tuesday evening.  Still, there are a few people who look like they could have waited.  I once gave up my seat in a clinic for a women with a baby when I had cut half my finger off with a cuisinart. . of course she didn't take it.  Probably because I had already bled on it but still.

Good news is we don't actually have to wait that long.  Long enough that we do get a seat and solve a puzzle or two on Wheel of Fortune which is comforting because this is actually what we would be doing at home.  Except at home we would be eating our Bahn-Mi sandwiches but there is something about the thought about pulling out a pork belly sandwich in an ER that makes me want to remain very very very hungry.

At some point, they call our name and we move from one room to another, to another.  People ask us what happened, we tell them.  They take his vitals, which appear to be fine.  They examine his head, which appears to not be fine. Still, the doctor does not think anything is really wrong, or is this the impression I get.  We are moved from a room to a little curtained partition, basically a curtain around a bed.  There is barely room for the three of us in there when two of us are on the bed.  I think how different this looks from all the ER shows.  A camera couldn't even follow someone in the lane in front of us.  Mitch and I are getting hungry but still not desperate enough to eat while the woman in the curtain next door is speaking about bed pans and blood samples.  Finally the doctor comes back in and says after talking to my pediatrician, they think that we need to have a cat scan to make sure there is no fracture and/or internal bleeding.

When they are ready to us, we take Owen over to the cat scan machine.  As we wait in the hallway outside of the cat scan room, I slump against the wall and start to cry. I can not imagine my little baby in that big machine.  I had a cat scan once and had to meditate through the whole process because it was so intimidating,  and now my poor little guy is going to be there all by himself.  I think I mutter something like, "my baby, not my little baby."  Mitch tries to comfort me and I have only one moment where I want to blame him, to say something awful but inside I know that nothing I say will bring me any comfort and it will just always be out there in space so I let him hug Owen and I in a tight little circle.

They won't let me stay in the room.  They wrap Owen in a lead swaddle and drape an apron over Mitch. Mitch holds a pacifier in Owen's mouth who is oddly, not crying.  In fact he seems to be the calmest he has been since he was born. I, on the other hand, am held together by dissolving stitches.  I stand outside of the room and cry again.

It is over in seconds. Then there is more waiting.

Finally the doctor comes back.  The fact that it takes so long gives me a sense of relief.  I assume if there was really something wrong with him that people would come faster.  Dr. H comes back and tells us that Owen does indeed have a skull fracture.  A hairline fracture running horizontally across his skull.  "Their heads are basically like eggshells," he tell us, "these are really very common. It should heal with no problem."

I am still trying to process that he has a skull fracture.  The good news is there is no bleeding inside the brain, nothing requiring surgery.  But before they let us go, they want us to wait for a neuro-surgeon consultation.  I think it is at this point we eat our sandwiches.  We still can't stomach the corn on the cob.

I call my mom and dad.  I update a group of mom friends on line and read with comfort their responses and prayer, wishes for Owen to be okay.  Most of them, I only know from online but they are the only friends I reach out to right now.  Well, them, and two friends in Brooklyn who I ask to say a prayer for us.  I am not really an ask for prayers person but I do it and I know they are the type of people who will actually pray for Owen and it feels good.

I go to the bathroom more to just get away for a moment than for anything else.  I get lost and end up somewhere I shouldn't be but I find a cleaner bathroom.  When I come back, I see a man standing in front of Mitch asking questions.  When I get closer I can see that he has a clipboard that says social services.

I walk up and say hello and he sort of smiles back at me.  And then he asks me why it took me so long to bring my child into the ER.  I ask him what he means and he says, "Why did it take you four days to seek treatment?"  My mind starts racing because the implication seems to be that a good parent would not have taken this long.  I stay calm though and answer that he had no symptoms before then.  I want to sound like a responsible parent without seeming like I am trying to sound like a responsible parent which is what I would be doing if I was not a responsible parent.  It feels like trying to tell someone you are not drunk when you are in fact not drunk but people think you are drunk.  I go for the approach that any Law and Order episode would teach you - give the facts but don't go out of your way to explain why you are innocent.  "As soon as we noticed the swelling, I called my pedicatrician,"  I say, pointing out how I immediately sought a professional opinion.  "We have our 6 month check-up tomorrow," I say, "but I was too worried to wait, so I wanted to ask her if I should go to the ER."  I hope this also points out that we indeed have regular appointments.  I want to say, " I AM A GOOD MOM! I TOOK HIM TO THE ER WITH A COLD LAST WEEK.  I ROCK HIM WHEN HE CRIES AND CRIES AND FEED HIM AND LOVE HIM AND SING TO HIM AND KISS HIM AND BREASTFEED AND CO-SLEEP AND GO TO MOMMY AND ME YOGA AND THE PARK AND EVEN EAT ORGANIC BERRIES SO NOTHING GETS IN MY MILK AND I LOVE MY BABY AND I MAY SING ABOUT SHAKING MY BABY BUT I NEVER EVER EVER HAVE"  but I figure this makes me seem a little crazy.

Social Services man asks more questions.  He asks what we do for work and I say I am out of work and then immediately think I should have just said I am a stay at home mom because out of work people are probably more stressed and . . . breathe, breathe.  He asks what I did before that.  I make my job sound very intellectual and professional.  I am very calm and succinct on the outside.  Inside I am still a lunatic.  He asks if Owen has had any injuries before.  I say, "No," then inside of my head think.  SHIT THAT'S A LIE.  MITCH FELL WITH HIM BEFORE BUT THAT IS TOTALLY NORMAL TOTALLY AN ACCIDENT BUT YOU WOULD THINK TWO TIMES IS NOT AND EVEN MY ANGRY MOMMY SELF KNOWS MITCH IS THE BEST DADDY IN THE WORLD AND WE LOVE OUR BABY AND GO AWAY PEOPLE PLEASE  Finally he does go away.

Finally neuro-surgeon people get out of their surgery, come by and do a few tests on Owen and then say they think he will be fine.  Social Services man is with them and listens as neurosurgeon man asks a lot of the same questions about our jobs, our lives, etc.  I wonders if Social Services man thinks we will confess something else to the doctor that we would not to him.  I do have to say the doctor is pretty slick about it and if I had anything to spill, I might.  Something about the way he asks questions, while examining Owen, as if they were just chit-chat, like, "It's a rainy night huh?  Well, he seems to have equal reactions bi-laterally which is a good sign? What do you do for a living?  So, do you often throw your kid against the wall?"

Finally, he leaves.  Dr. H comes back again, sets us up with a follow-up appointment with the neuro-surgeon to make sure Owen's skull has healed and finally we pack up to go home.   Dr. H is great.  He is calm, he smiles, laughs, assures us that Owen will still be a genius if he would have been a genius in the first place.  Our nurse is wonderful too.

My dad has come to drive us home and it is a blessed relief to climb into his car instead of trying to hail a cab home.  I am exhausted, physically and mentally but so, so happy to be going home with my family all in one piece, even of some of the pieces, mental and physical will take a little time to heal completely.

Why You Don't Take A Baby on Vacation When It is 115

We were headed to Palm Springs for a friend's 40th birthday party and were already having misgivings about going.  When we booked this trip we neglected to look up the weather and a few days ago learned it would be roughly 118 degrees with a low of 104.  Still, the trip was starting out better than our last one where we almost missed our flight.  We were at the airport early enough to buy water and coffee and change a diaper so things were looking good.  I had recently bought Owen a small maraca and while we were waiting to board I was shaking it for him and dancing around singing, "Shake, shake, shake.  Shake, shake, shake, shaker your baby, shake your baby," to the tune of 'shake your booty.'  

"You can't do that," my husband said to me, appalled.  "To Child Protective Services, that's the equivalent of making a bomb threat in the airport."  I wanted to point out that we were in an airport and he had just said bomb threat but I am trying to be nicer.  I did point out that I highly doubted that there were undercover CPS agents casing the waiting area by the gate and I'm also pretty sure that the people who do in fact shake their babies don't sing about before they do it.  They more likely do it in a fit of rage or frustration much like I experienced four months ago.  (For anyone who did not read that post  I DID NOT EVER SHAKE MY BABY.  I just wanted to.)

But stopped shaking the maraca and singing.  Not to be nice but because I am as easily bored by myself as Owen is and it was also time to board.  Owen was actually great on the plane.  Our second leg, a short jaunt from Vegas to Palm Springs was a little anxiety producing. The plane was roughly the size of a Smart Car and our ride felt like we were on the Spin Cycle of a washing machine from 1930.  I was pretty sure that holding Owen in my lap was a bad idea because at every other bump I was pretty sure the man in front of me was going to end up catching him, or dropping him.  I kept watching the flight attendant's face for panic (which is a trick a pilot friend of mine taught me - don't worry until you see fear in their eyes) but she seemed calm so I tried to remain calm.  (As an aside, I am bothered by the fact that usually when people say 'remain calm' that they are no longer calm.  People should really say 'regain calm'.   But that's a different blog.)   So, I regained calm, we landed safely and I thought the worst of the journey was over.

That's when I got off the plane and stepped into an oven - at 11:00 AM.

It was at this moment that I realized that this trip was going to be a challenge.  I don't really enjoy heat - even this it's not really as hot because there is no humidity stop lying to me it's still 119 heat.'  But Owen enjoys heat even less than I do.  Maybe because at 15 pounds and existing entirely on breast milk and the occasional spoon of banana, he can de-hydrate about as fast as a puddle in the Sahara.  And he has skin just slightly paler than the skin of my Albino sister-in-law's 1 year old. That's right - I said paler.

But, after almost having a meltdown while we waited an hour and a half for the hotel to get our room ready, I regained calm once I go into the air conditioning of our room - and there we stayed until the sun went down and it cooled off to a frigid 108.  Then finally we ventured out to meet our friends.

Aside from us, only one other couple had a kid and he was a hearty four year old who could survive without things like naps and an air-conditioned hut.  So for everyone else, the poolside misters, shade, and frozen alcoholic drinks made it easy to hang out for most of the day.  (Okay not easy - a lot of people gave up at 1:00 and headed for the safety of their rooms - but easier)  But for us, our schedule was very different.  We were out by the pool at about 7 AM where we got to go swimming until 9:00 and then we went back to the hotel room where Mitch and I basically took turns watching Owen while the other person went out.   It made for a hard vacation.

One day, we went with a few other folks to ride the aerial tram high above Palm Springs.  It was something that everyone recommended doing but one of the major draws for all of us was it was rumored to be twenty degrees cooler up on the top.  This sounded amazing.  We could be with other people, be out during the day, and have a panoramic view of. . well, the desert.  What I was not told, was that the elevation change was actually so drastic that it would cause Owen's ears to pop so he cried the entire way up on the tram.  I tried to shift him in the carrier to nurse him but in between the awkwardness of the carrier and the fact that the tram floor was constantly moving around in the circle, I had no choice but to let him cry and try to comfort him the best I could.   The good news is it was much cooler on the top and Owen slept happily through the entire visit.

On the way back to the hotel, we also stopped at In-And-Out Burger, my very first time.  Owen was awake for this.  He did cry in the car but magically stopped when I shook the maraca to, " If you like Pina Coladas," when it came on the radio.  That, and ABBA's 'Fernando'were the only things that seemed to calm him.  (Look, I am not responsible for his taste in music.)

Evenings were a challenge.  In between our perpetual exhaustion, Owen's early bed-time/waking time, and my breastfeeding, gone are the days of drinking until 1:00 and rising at 10:00.  Even on the night that Mitch offered to stay with Owen so I could go out, I was so tired, that I came back after ninety minutes. One night while Mitch stayed out, he ate by the pool while I ate a black bean burger in the dark, afraid to make noise or turn on a light that would wake Owen, feeling around for morsels of food on my plate as if I were blind, but without the finesse of someone who is actually blind.

Overall, we still had a good time.  We got to see fabulous friends, share some good meals (even a few together with those friends) but nothing was easy. And what is the scariest part is that people say that travelling with babies is the easiest travel you will ever have with kids.  But maybe, this doesn't count when you are trying to take your baby to a Bacchanal Feast in the desert.  Maybe that's easier when they are older, like twenty-one.

Owen's First Papparazzi - Or How We Crashed A Girl Scout Party

Saturday was supposed to be a small party for my mom and step-father's twentieth anniversary, though my mom claims it was not a party since they were just having all the kids over.  I say since "all the kids" plus partners and offspring totals roughly twenty-one people, it was a party, or should have been.  Hurricane Irene had other plans.  Sometime on Friday, they called it off.  I think they were less scared of the storm than the possibility of having to keep that party rolling for five-ten days.  But Owen and I decided to head out on Friday anyway.  We had a car, and the day off so figured we could head back in on Saturday and weather the storm at home but we might as well go visit first.

We got out to Long Island fine and after a quick pit stop in the house, we went down to their community pool.  My mom and step-father live in  a community of about twenty houses that share a pool so it's pretty private, especially during the week.  Friday, though, there was a girl scout party down at the pool.  It was pretty small, about seven girls and one boy.  I don't know if he was an honorary girl scout or just happened to be there and figured why not join the party.  They were all about ten years old.  

Owen and I got into the water with my mom and proceeded to swim around.  Now, I may be biased but Owen is really  cute baby.  And he was particularly cute in the pool because he was having so much fun.  He was trying his best to swim, kicking his arms and legs and even once putting his face in the water to blow a bubble.  Okay the last part is a lie.  I put his face in the water by accident and he didn't really blow a bubble, but he did sputter a little bit and did not cry.  Then we played a game where I would go under the water and pop out and say hello.  (don't worry grandma was holding him) He adored this and laughed and laughed.  

It is at this point that the mob circled us, floating closer with their inflatable rubber duckies, and alligators.  The   first one to make friends was the boy asked his name, then said "that is one cute baby."  "Thanks," I said. "Does he fart a lot," he asked. "A lot of babies fart a lot."  "I guess so, " I said. "Depending on what you consider a lot."  I thought about telling him that my husband farted more but figured that wasn't appropriate.

Then came the girls who were as loud as they were friendly.  They peppered us with questions like reporters making Anthony Weiner jokes. How old is he? Is this his first time swimming?  What color are his eyes?  He is a cute baby? Does he like the water?  Does he fart a lot. (Yes, that was a different person.)  I have a baby at home.  All she does is sleep.  Me too.  Mine farts a lot.  Hey, Owen, look at me!  Hey, Owen, want to borrow my duck? Owen, I like your eyes.  He can use the duck while I'm in the pool but he can't keep it.  If he could really swim he could keep it. HI OWEN! HI OWEN! OWEN OWEN OWEN!

They really could not get enough of him.  Everywhere we went in the pool, they followed as if Owen was Justin Beiber.  Eventually we got out of the pool and their screams for Owen reached fever pitch.  They swam to the side of the pool, calling his name.  It gave me a glimpse of what celebrities must feel like.  We could not get away.  We had left the pool and still they hounded us.  I saw one climbing out of the pool, still attached to an inflatable crocodile and thought to myself that they would stop at nothing.

"Is that is towel? Is he getting back in?  Does he like to suntan? OWEN OWEN OWEN.  Hey Owen, bye Owen! Look at the duck Owen? Can you see the duck? Look at the crocodile Owen! OH HE'S SMILING!!"

I retreated as far into the shade as I could.  I changed him and wondered if I could nurse with a hoard of children watching me, well watching Owen but I came as an uninteresting part of the package.  Luckily, I did not have to go into hiding because it was at this moment that Pizza arrived and as interesting as Owen was, apparently pizza was even better.

GOODBYE OWEN!  WE WILL SEE YOU LATER! BYE. OOOOOOOWEN.  The screams trailed off as the pizza went in.

Suddenly, it was quiet again and we went back to our relative obscurity, much like many a reality TV contestant after a few seasons.   That was probably the most exhilarating and frightening moment of the whole weekend.

Heavens To Miss Betsy - Why Gymboree May Not Be For Me

The other day we took a free preview class at Gymboree.  We used fake ID to get Owen into the 6-10 month class because he is only five months, well five months and three days to be fair.  But one of our mom/baby friends was going and the people at Gymboree said as long as Owen could reach for things we were okay.

We almost didn't make it.  Fifteen minutes before class Owen was still sleeping and at this stage of the game I wouldn't wake Owen if Oprah was giving out free cars on the corner. . well, maybe.  But at the last minute he woke up and after a quick compromise feed we ran off to Gymboree!!!  We made it exactly on time and ran into our friends at the door.

When we walked, we were greeted by a cheery voice across the room that brightly said, "Oh good, you're here.  I was worried you weren't coming! I was wondering where you where!!! " This was news to me as up to a ten minutes ago, I didn't even know that I was coming.  Word must travel fast. in Gymboree land.   When we went to sign the woman entered Owen's name wrong before correcting it.  "Oh, rats,"  I said, "Now our plan to come back and take a free class under a false name won't work."

"Aw, you wouldn't want to do that, would you?"  the woman said.  "That would be like taking money from us! And we need our money."  I am tempted to point out that the use of the word "we" here is a bit creepy and that if I actually wanted to do that, I probably wouldn't have warned her and while I may have been unemployed since November I hope I am never actually reduced to the point of moving around the city having Owen take free trials of Gymboree classes under pseudonyms.  "Well,"  I say back, " I have been unemployed since November so I just might."  And then I laugh to let her know that I'm not serious.  And then she offers advice on finding a job.  Okay, so aside from the use of "we" she is really, really nice.

I should have just stayed at the front desk chatting with A________ but our fearless class leader is still waving us over and jumping up and down with excitement so we move over to the mat where we join a few other baby/caregiver pairs.  Our class leader is young, blond, and exceedingly cheerful.  "Good morning boys and girls," she exclaims. "My name is Miss Betsy and welcome to Gymboree!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I am not sure if it is the use of the label 'Miss' or the effervescent tone of voice that makes me think of the Mickey Mouse Club if it took place at a Scientology seminar.   "Are you ready to play?" she asks.  "Gymbo the clown wants to say hello to everyone!"   Okay, as an aside, I regularly talk to Owen in a tone of voice I thought would never come out of my mouth and use improper words such as "milks"  in the context of "Does Owen want some milks?"  or worse "milkies" but this voice is SO cheerful it makes me want to grab Gymbo from her and beat her over the head.  But I think, she can't keep this up for an hour.

But she does.

To be fair to both Gymboree and Miss Betsy, the class itself was pretty good.  There are tons of toys and things to play with, brightly colored materials, songs, movement, interaction but I just CAN'T get passed two things - the creepy cheer and the way that Gymbo (Jimbo?) pops up everywhere.  There is Gymbo on a stick, three foot Gymbo, Gymbo on the wall.  It is creepy, pervasive branding that really whispers, "Drink the Kool-Aid, Drink the Kool-Aid."   I start to think, maybe it's just me when I turn to my friend who mouths, "I can't take it! Help!"  

Ten minutes before the end, Owen and I slip into a quiet corner to nurse, partially because he seems to be hungry and partially because Gymbo on a stick is giving kisses to all the kids and I'm not sure I want Owen's first non-familial kiss to be a clown on a stick, especially as Miss Betsy just told everyone that Gymbo was over thirty years old.

I want to like Gymboree, I do but I don't.  Maybe when Owen is a little bit older (and I don't just mean a month) and he can really get something out of the activities but I really think that I need just a slightly more cynical play class.  And, as my cousin pointed out, I DO realize that what seems over the top for adults can be perfect for babies' development, something here was just too much.  I have pretended I was a tree and a cobra in mommy and me yoga classes, I have stomped and swung in mommy and me movement classes but here I draw the line.   It's hard because while for me, Miss Betsy just seemed like a Southern, failed musical theater major turned cult leader, I suspect she is really good at her job.  She was enthusiastic and kind and could really carry a tune but in the end, Gymboree is not for me.

Since taking the class I have actually talked to several parents who had the same experience, and say their friends have told them the same thing which made me feel moderately less judgmental.  I'll never say that I won't go back to Gymboree, after all some days alone get very, very long but I might try a lot of other places first.  Also, at $179.00 a month for a weekly class AND a $50 enrollment fee (which they would have waived if I signed up on the spot of course) it's a little pricey for settling.  For that, I could probably buy a few more things for my living room and recruit a few baby friends and have my own version.  The only thing I would have to do is design my own doll. . What would I call it?  Perhaps, "Heather-O!"

Obama Stole My Parking Spot - Or Why Not To Have A Car in the City

We don't usually keep our car in the city because we can't afford a garage and we don't use it enough that it makes sense to fight the alternate side parking.  Alternate side of the street parking is painful to the average person but with a baby trying to move a car into a new spot without a meltdown is like trying to run through a casino without breathing in smoke. But the last few weeks we have been using it on a regular basis and have not had a chance to return it to my father's home in Connecticut where it lives rent free when not in use.

Usually, when we are unable to move the car to the 'right side of the street' the night before, my husband will take the car to a garage in the morning for the early bird special.  If you are in before ten and out by six you have to fork over a mere fourteen dollars, a veritable bargain in Manhattan.  But yesterday, I thought to myself, why waste money on a garage when I am in fact free all day.  And, why not take advantage of the car in the city and drive over to my chiropractor on the Upper West Side, get a much needed adjustment, drive back, slip into a spot, and move on with my day?  It sounded like a plan.  Well, as you know even the best laid plans.. .. and this one did not come close to making the top ten list.

It started off remarkably, Owen was a delight in the car, there was virtually no traffic, and I found a spot outside of my chiropractor's office.  I was adjusted and even took time to sit in the massage chair as I nursed Owen who seemed to appreciate the second hand vibration aside from a brief choking moment as he tried to swallow as the rollers moved under my chest.  Apparently I was the first ever to breast feed in their massage chair which pleased me.  Next, we got back in the car, zipped home (what again, no traffic?) and arrived back at my street with a happily sleeping baby.  Perfect! So even if it took me thirty minutes to find a spot, Owen could have a nap.  In fact, it might be ideal if it took me a while.  What a perfect chance to practice looking at a bad thing in a good light.  An chiropractic adjustment and a chance to improve my spiritual awareness all in one day.  What a bonanza of blessings life can bring when you open to the universe!

And then I started to notice that many of the streets around my house were blocked off with huge blue signs stating, "NO PARKING THURSDAY - NYPD!"  From somewhere in the back of my sleep deprived mind, I remembered hearing that Obama was coming to the city today and people should avoid driving.  Could that be why so many blocks were closed?  I never thought he would be coming to the West Village.  Rumor has it that there are some folks around here who are pretty pissed about DOMA among other failed campaign promises so I thought he might stick to the Upper East Side.

Either way, this was not good news.  I drove around for about fifteen minutes and saw nothing, not even one of those 'this could have been a spot if those a-holes had parked better spot.' And then I turned on to my block and saw A SPOT!  "Hurrah", I whispered to myself because Owen was still sleeping.  Parking Karma is in effect.  And then I saw a man standing in the spot.  Damn - a spot saver! I thought briefly about pretending I did not see him and running him over but he was about 6' 2" and was making direct eye contact with me.  I rolled down my window and asked if I could park and he said, no, his friend down the block in front of the hydrant was backing up.  I fluttered my eyes and said, "Oh, I was hoping to park before my little baby woke up and starts to scream."  He did not bite. "I've been driving around for about thirty minutes and when he wakes up, I'm dead."  He did not bite.  I sighed and pulled out.

I drove for another twenty minutes in an ever-widening journey around the neighborhood.  And then - Owen woke up.

Some babies wake up from naps happy and smiling, well rested and ready to play.  Owen wakes up like he is being dragged out of the womb again with electrical forceps.  I tried to reassure him from the front seat that I was doing my best to find a spot but he didn't seem to believe me.  I drove around for another ten minutes as his screams intensified. I drove down my block a few times and watched the man who took my spot move from sitting in his car, to sitting on a stoop near his car, to eating a donut while sitting on a stoop near his car.  For some reason this infuriated me.  Finally, desperate, I pull over in front of the hydrant to take Owen out for a bit.  When I free him from the car, he sobs and gasps and he calms himself down, draping his arms around my neck and sighing.  It's like he took a course from a Jewish mother.  I know this is just an exercise in torture because we can't stay like this.  Eventually I will have to put him back in the car and by eventually I mean in the next five minutes.  I am supposed to meet a contractor in my apartment at that time and I can see that he is already standing across the street. Luckily he has two kids of his own and is more than sympathetic.  I put Owen back in, drive past my building and offer him my keys.  He sees Owen screaming and says he will stop by after his other meeting.  Thank you.  Thank you.

I drive around again and after a few more futile minutes I notice a man sitting in his car.  I roll my window down to ask him if he's leaving.  He says no.  I sigh and say, "Can I pay you to leave?" He laughs.  I pull a twenty out of my pocket and say, "No, I'm serious."  He doesn't even bat an eye.  I do realize at this point that I was willing to pay more for a street spot than I would have for the original garage but I am desperate.  Also, I only had a dollar aside from the twenty and even my desperately cheapskate self can tell you you can't bribe anyone with a dollar anymore.

At this point, I decide I have no choice but to park in a metered spot.  This will of course just mean that I have to feed it every hour on the hour, or long enough to get back in the car and start this whole process over again but I am out of options.  I am done, Owen is done, and I still have this meeting to get to.  So, I pull around the block again and MIRACULOUSLY there is a spot, right behind the spot that that man stole from me over an hour ago.   I pull in faster than the winner of the Indy 500 and have Owen out of the car in under two minutes.

He is still screaming.  As, I rock him in my arms, the man who originally held the spot for his friend walks by.  He sees me and stops.  He is clearly finishing up a workout (yes it was really that long.)

"Did you just park?" he asks.  "Did it take you that whole time."  I want to ask him if he really can't tell from the haggard look on my face and Owen's screams but I just say, "Yes. It really took me that long."

"I felt bad after you left," he says. " I was saving it for that guy who works for me and after you drove away I thought maybe I should have given it to you."  I want to point out that as far as I can tell that guy who works for him has had two cigarettes, finished a pot of coffee, eaten a donut and a sandwich but has yet to actually work but I restrain myself.  I also want to point out that he was supposed to feel bad for me, but before  I left but who knows, he might come in handy another day.

So, what I would like tell the City of New York is that if the city can suspend Alternate Side of the Street Parking for the feast of Saint Catherine of Yonkers then they really should suspend it when they close down twenty blocks so Obama can eat dinner at the Waverly Inn at a $72,000 a head dinner.

We did try to go see Obama later that evening. I don't actually hold him personally responsible and think it would have been great to see him in person.  Also, I was hoping Owen might get a hug or a photo op.  Secretly, I was hoping that in said photo-op Owen might poo on Obama. It's not because I don't like him.  I voted for him and will do so again because despite a few failed campaign promises, he's doing a pretty good job, and well being President is probably almost as hard as being a stay at home mom. But it really would be a great party line for Owen to be able to say that when he was a baby he pooed on the President.  Probably only Sasha and Malia can say that and well, he wasn't the President when they were babies. Sad to say, we didn't even get close.  And we were all asleep before they opened up the streets and we could move the car to a new spot.

So this morning, we put the car in the garage.

First In Flight - The End of An Era

The year before I gave birth to Owen I flew 70,000 miles for work. Well, I actually flew a lot more than that, but that was my number on my airline of choice.  I lost my job in November and beyond the regular devastation was the crushing fact that after my last work trip I was a mere 4,000 miles short of achieving platinum status.  I have been gold for years but due to the fact I fly on several airlines I always seem to fall just short of platinum.  I actually considered taking a final trip on my own to reach my lofty goal before realizing that my status wouldn't really reap me as many benefits in my living room or on the playground at Washington Square Park as it does when you fly every week.  Sadly, there are no upgrades on the subway.

I had a love/hate relationship with travelling for work.  I often missed activities with friends but really loved going to so many places I would never have gone before.  True, many of those places I would never choose to go again but something can be said for getting to travel to Huron, South Dakota where I met a student named "Super White"  who was in fact not anything close to super white, or Garden City Kansas, where we stopped a training to walk outside and watch a just-born baby giraffe learn to walk.  And I crowed with joy as I reached high status at hotels, car rental places, and more.  I am the woman who watched the movie "Up In the Air" and as George Clooney's character broke into the high school gym nudged by husband and triumphantly whispered, "He's using a Hilton Honors Gold Card."   It was indeed a badge of honor to pick the fastest line at the airport and being able to get my suitcase, computer, LCD projector, and carry-on through security faster than the average person with just a purse.  I could take off my shoes with one hand, unzip a case with another and finish my water with the third.  .well, you get the point.

So I realize that the first travelling with a baby would be a test of sorts.  I know that it would have to be a little more difficult but really, I'm a bit of a pro, it's really no more challenging that negotiating an extra bag.    I still have access to the Elite Access line and spent the week before preparing some zingy come-back lines for any business travelers who questioned my right to be there.  And  I do realize there is something wrong with the fact that I prepare come-backs ahead of time but that is another blog. How much harder could it be? What extra stuff do I have?  A car seat? A stroller?  A diaper bag?  Some breast milk? And yes, I deliberately put five ounces in that bottle just to be cantankerous.  It's my right. And, I'm prepared to drink it if I have to prove it's not a liquid explosive, though I have come to realize that non-mothers are oddly terrified of breast milk so it's not a likely scenario.

I come to the line with a plan and I execute it fairly flawlessly, tossing bags onto the belt with the alacrity and grace of a Platinum Traveler but then I get to the stoller/car seat combo.  I once saw a man break down and cry from trying to break down a stroller through security.  After trying unsuccessfully to collapse it for close to five minutes, he started banging it against the belt while begging the TSA to just let him walk it through with the stroller opened while his two children ran back and forth through the metal detector shrieking.  I would have helped but at this point I was pre-baby and had as little chance of success as I do at those damn spatial relations tests where I have to figure out what this drawing would look like when folded.  Finally an obvious mother swooped down and helped him and he actually hugged her whimpering, " I kept trying to figure out how I would explain to my wife that I left the stroller at the airport."

So, I am prepared for the stroller fight but all in all, it is pretty anti-climactic. Granted, I did spend a few hours opening and closing the stroller the night before, lifting it from floor to table, as if it were the security belt. (Hum the Rocky theme here if you will.)  I hand Owen to my husband, zip out the car seat, fold up the frame, and done.  I am not quite as fast as normal but all in all, people should be impressed.  I really think that I have earned at least a small round of applause but nothing comes.  I want to shout, "Come-on people, I did that faster than the average mid-western tourist, can I get some love? "

I take Owen back and walk through security.  We don't beep as I was extra careful to take all of the change, cell phones, and keys out of Owen's diaper and sigh a big sigh of relief.   In fact that I am so proud and relieved that I forget there is another side to this security thing and this side I do all wrong.

When the car seat comes through, I put Owen in (safety first) and then place the car seat on the belt.  I notice my stuff still in the machine but don't reach for it because I know not to put my hand in the machine because after all, this is not my first rodeo.  So, I try to put on my shoes while keeping one hand on the car seat, and packing up my diaper bag with the other.  I am mildly disappointed there was no breast milk confrontation but I'm willing to cut my losses and run for the gate.  And then I grow impatient - what is the hold up on this line?  The belt is not moving so I can't get the rest of my bags.  Isn't this supposed to be the frequent traveler line? And why does everyone seem to be looking at me?  If they want to praise me, they should not be shy.  If they want to apologize for questioning why I was in the Elite Access line because it is so apparent that I must be someone who was JUST shy of platinum status, why, they should feel free to go ahead and do so.

And then I realize, the belt is not moving because my baby is on the belt.  And if the belt did move, well, probably the baby would have fallen off.  Suddenly, I don't feel so frequent traveler cool.  I take the car seat off the belt, and magically it starts to move again.  I slink to the end, where my husband and I re-assemble everything and head towards our gate where they are already boarding.  On the way, we pass Starbucks, and my husbands mouths, "Please!"  but I know there is no way we are going to handle the next hurdle with coffee in our hands.  And now we are going to have to navigate gate checking the stroller, over-head compartments, plane aisles and I have to be on my game and hot liquids are not a part of this plan.


(to be continued)