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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
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!"
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!"
Friday, August 12, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
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)
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)
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Things That Go Bump - Or Getting Over The First Big Ouch
I am an exemplary disasterist. Yes, I know that's not a real word but it should be. I can, and regularly do, imagine in vivid detail both realistic and preposterous disastrous ends to any scenario. I am not a pessimist. I don't actually believe that these calamities will happen but my mind creates such vivid scenarios that I viscerally feel the sorrow or terror in my body. From plane crashes to cars running out of gas on desolate highways, being trapped in the desert without water to a bus jumping the curb and plowing into me, to the group of rowdy kids at the end of subway platform responding to my imaginary scolding with violence, there is no end to the ends. Since, I have had Owen these disaster daydreams have horrifically shifted to all the ways that harm could befall him.
For example, I am walking him in his stroller and I have not buckled him in (okay that part is often real) when a car plows into the stroller sending the car seat skyward and Owen flying out of it, landing on the pavement and. . well enough said. I hate myself for being so stupid to not to strap him in where the car seat might have saved him. Or. . I am with a bunch of friends driving down to the shore (this part is grounded in reality) when we stop at a rest stop to get some food and use the bathroom. Owen needs to nurse so I stay in the car by myself. (Have I mentioned it is night and the rest stop is rather desolate?) A man comes up to the open window and puts a gun against my head and tells me he wants the car. My mind races as to how I can make sure he takes the car and lets us go . . or at least Owen. Yeah, I know.
I prefer to ascribe this to being a writer and not to the fact that I might be mildly insane. They all start off rationally. Yet, somehow how will I drive several hours with a group of people and deal with nursing Owen ends up with a carjacking gunman outside of a rest stop McDonald's. But for all of these situations I can see everything so clearly - the blood on the pavement spilling from an open skull or Owen looking up at me innocently as he nurses as the metal of the gun hovers inches from my forehead, that they physically bring to me a halt.
But up until Saturday, the worst thing that has happened to Owen was my husband dropping Thai food on top of his head once while we were out eating which caused a fit of hysteria on Owen's part either because he realized what a crap deal he has been getting on breast milk or because it woke him from a nap and on mine for a myriad of reasons from wondering if he would ingest chilies and burn his throat to, well. . . write your own disaster ending.
At some point, I told Mitch that if he was ever responsible for Owen's death that I did not know if I could forgive him. He told me that made sense and that he probably would not be able to forgive me if the situations were reverses. I guess that's pretty normal, at least the reaction, if not the fact that we were discussing this ahead of time.
Which brings us to Saturday. Don't worry, there is no death in this story. If there was, I would not be blogging, I would be in a loony bin.
We were out at my mom's house on Long Island and I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. My mom and step-father had just gotten home from church and my husband had Owen in the backyard. Later he told me he had been showing Owen how beautiful the world was after a rain. I can imagine this as well. Mitch is so excited about showing his son the world. I picture him almost whispering into Owen's ear as if he was letting him in on a secret, describing the vibrant green of trees and grass, the smell of moist earth, and the sounds of birds announcing where the best worms were wiggling up from the ground. But at the time, I don't know any of this. I am focused on putting the finishing touches on some eggs, enjoying the contrast of the yellow mixed with the red and green of the vegetables when I hear Owen screaming. This is really no cause for alarm as this is something that Owen often does. In fact aside from peeing, it is the thing he is currently best at. My mom calls out my name a few times in a manner that seems more urgent than normal so I turn towards the sound. And it is then I see her come around the corner carrying a wailing Owen in her arms. Owen's head is covered in what looks like soot but even through that I spot what looks like a huge cut on his head. I honestly can not remember what happened next. I know adrenaline surged through my body as if the house was on fire and I started crying as I took Owen into my arms. I somehow piece together from my mom that Mitch fell while holding Owen and that Owen fell to the ground. She tells me that he fell on Mitch first before he hit the pavement. All I can hear is that he hit the ground. All I can see is the cut on his head and his face twisted in pain. And yes, the twisted in pain looks pretty much like the "I can't poop face" or the "I'm super exhausted face," but right now it's clearly a face filled with pain and the look of, 'but you are supposed to take care of me, how could you not take care of me?' I think my mom must have cleaned his head off while I am holding him because by the time I'm cuddling him to my chest and nursing him to a calm him the dirt is gone, Bacitracin is on his cut, and it should be clear that he will live.
He wails for a while while nursing, his choking cry escaping from the sides of his mouth but quiets down quickly and starts to succumb to drowsiness. Usually I am thrilled at any indication of sleep but I panic and pull him off because we aren't sure if he has a concussion yet and don't want him to sleep. We examine his pupils, we gently palpitate his scalp, check the reflexes in this toes, try to coax a smile. Everything indicates he is fine. Bruised but fine. Wanting to be cuddled but fine.
But I can not believe he is fine. I ask my mother again and again how hard he fell and she tells me but it doesn't matter. I don't even realize until later that I did not even ask if Mitch was okay. I'd like to think I assumed that someone would have done something if he wasn't and also he was standing there, glaringly alive. I'm angry at him even while I am telling him not to worry, that accidents happen. Of course, at the time, I think that it wouldn't have happened to me. How could he have been so careless as to fall? I walked up and down those steps the day before so slowly and carefully that there could have been an earthquake and I would not have fallen. But of course, even if this was true, I could have as easily been responsible for something else. It was just an accident and objectively I know Mitch would lay down his life for Owen or I.
It's not the actual accident that upsets me though both Mitch and I are terrified all day to let Owen nap without watching him. Mitch spends a good ninety minutes watching Owen's chest rise and fall through his afternoon nap. It's not the actual accident that keeps stopping me still in the middle of the rest of the day's activities, it's the accident that could have been. Mitch falling forward instead of backwards or not being able to hold onto Owen. It is Owen's head split wide open, it is a million things that do not heal in a day, if ever. It is the things I write in my head, it is the hypothetical conversation that is suddenly not as hypothetical, it is the clear, strong rush of love in my body that wants to hold my baby flush against my skin, tucking him inside my rib-cage to protect him.
By night it is clear that Owen will be fine. It's also clear that Mitch and I will both take a little longer. "I feel like I won't forget this for a long time," I tell my mom. "You won't forget it ever," she says. "I still remember vividly every accident that I had with you."
I would not mind remembering this accident vividly. That would be easy. But it's not the picture of this accident that continues to stop me cold - it is the one that did not happen. But I know that that will fade a bit, in fact four days later it already has as I watch Owen laugh as he rolls over from left to right and back again, delighted in his new found power. I call Mitch on the phone to tell him how amazing it is and I know that we are all fine . . . for now. Knock wood.
For example, I am walking him in his stroller and I have not buckled him in (okay that part is often real) when a car plows into the stroller sending the car seat skyward and Owen flying out of it, landing on the pavement and. . well enough said. I hate myself for being so stupid to not to strap him in where the car seat might have saved him. Or. . I am with a bunch of friends driving down to the shore (this part is grounded in reality) when we stop at a rest stop to get some food and use the bathroom. Owen needs to nurse so I stay in the car by myself. (Have I mentioned it is night and the rest stop is rather desolate?) A man comes up to the open window and puts a gun against my head and tells me he wants the car. My mind races as to how I can make sure he takes the car and lets us go . . or at least Owen. Yeah, I know.
I prefer to ascribe this to being a writer and not to the fact that I might be mildly insane. They all start off rationally. Yet, somehow how will I drive several hours with a group of people and deal with nursing Owen ends up with a carjacking gunman outside of a rest stop McDonald's. But for all of these situations I can see everything so clearly - the blood on the pavement spilling from an open skull or Owen looking up at me innocently as he nurses as the metal of the gun hovers inches from my forehead, that they physically bring to me a halt.
But up until Saturday, the worst thing that has happened to Owen was my husband dropping Thai food on top of his head once while we were out eating which caused a fit of hysteria on Owen's part either because he realized what a crap deal he has been getting on breast milk or because it woke him from a nap and on mine for a myriad of reasons from wondering if he would ingest chilies and burn his throat to, well. . . write your own disaster ending.
At some point, I told Mitch that if he was ever responsible for Owen's death that I did not know if I could forgive him. He told me that made sense and that he probably would not be able to forgive me if the situations were reverses. I guess that's pretty normal, at least the reaction, if not the fact that we were discussing this ahead of time.
Which brings us to Saturday. Don't worry, there is no death in this story. If there was, I would not be blogging, I would be in a loony bin.
We were out at my mom's house on Long Island and I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. My mom and step-father had just gotten home from church and my husband had Owen in the backyard. Later he told me he had been showing Owen how beautiful the world was after a rain. I can imagine this as well. Mitch is so excited about showing his son the world. I picture him almost whispering into Owen's ear as if he was letting him in on a secret, describing the vibrant green of trees and grass, the smell of moist earth, and the sounds of birds announcing where the best worms were wiggling up from the ground. But at the time, I don't know any of this. I am focused on putting the finishing touches on some eggs, enjoying the contrast of the yellow mixed with the red and green of the vegetables when I hear Owen screaming. This is really no cause for alarm as this is something that Owen often does. In fact aside from peeing, it is the thing he is currently best at. My mom calls out my name a few times in a manner that seems more urgent than normal so I turn towards the sound. And it is then I see her come around the corner carrying a wailing Owen in her arms. Owen's head is covered in what looks like soot but even through that I spot what looks like a huge cut on his head. I honestly can not remember what happened next. I know adrenaline surged through my body as if the house was on fire and I started crying as I took Owen into my arms. I somehow piece together from my mom that Mitch fell while holding Owen and that Owen fell to the ground. She tells me that he fell on Mitch first before he hit the pavement. All I can hear is that he hit the ground. All I can see is the cut on his head and his face twisted in pain. And yes, the twisted in pain looks pretty much like the "I can't poop face" or the "I'm super exhausted face," but right now it's clearly a face filled with pain and the look of, 'but you are supposed to take care of me, how could you not take care of me?' I think my mom must have cleaned his head off while I am holding him because by the time I'm cuddling him to my chest and nursing him to a calm him the dirt is gone, Bacitracin is on his cut, and it should be clear that he will live.
He wails for a while while nursing, his choking cry escaping from the sides of his mouth but quiets down quickly and starts to succumb to drowsiness. Usually I am thrilled at any indication of sleep but I panic and pull him off because we aren't sure if he has a concussion yet and don't want him to sleep. We examine his pupils, we gently palpitate his scalp, check the reflexes in this toes, try to coax a smile. Everything indicates he is fine. Bruised but fine. Wanting to be cuddled but fine.
But I can not believe he is fine. I ask my mother again and again how hard he fell and she tells me but it doesn't matter. I don't even realize until later that I did not even ask if Mitch was okay. I'd like to think I assumed that someone would have done something if he wasn't and also he was standing there, glaringly alive. I'm angry at him even while I am telling him not to worry, that accidents happen. Of course, at the time, I think that it wouldn't have happened to me. How could he have been so careless as to fall? I walked up and down those steps the day before so slowly and carefully that there could have been an earthquake and I would not have fallen. But of course, even if this was true, I could have as easily been responsible for something else. It was just an accident and objectively I know Mitch would lay down his life for Owen or I.
It's not the actual accident that upsets me though both Mitch and I are terrified all day to let Owen nap without watching him. Mitch spends a good ninety minutes watching Owen's chest rise and fall through his afternoon nap. It's not the actual accident that keeps stopping me still in the middle of the rest of the day's activities, it's the accident that could have been. Mitch falling forward instead of backwards or not being able to hold onto Owen. It is Owen's head split wide open, it is a million things that do not heal in a day, if ever. It is the things I write in my head, it is the hypothetical conversation that is suddenly not as hypothetical, it is the clear, strong rush of love in my body that wants to hold my baby flush against my skin, tucking him inside my rib-cage to protect him.
By night it is clear that Owen will be fine. It's also clear that Mitch and I will both take a little longer. "I feel like I won't forget this for a long time," I tell my mom. "You won't forget it ever," she says. "I still remember vividly every accident that I had with you."
I would not mind remembering this accident vividly. That would be easy. But it's not the picture of this accident that continues to stop me cold - it is the one that did not happen. But I know that that will fade a bit, in fact four days later it already has as I watch Owen laugh as he rolls over from left to right and back again, delighted in his new found power. I call Mitch on the phone to tell him how amazing it is and I know that we are all fine . . . for now. Knock wood.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Breakdown On The C Train - Or Why I Don't Want Strangers To Think I'm An Awful Mommy
I have been wanting to go back to my chiropractor since Owen was born but the sixty some odd blocks between my house and his office seem insurmountable. For one, there are no elevators on the subway stop on my end which means that taking a stroller is a no-go and their hours never seemed to coincide with with Owen's happy awake time. But yesterday, Owen had an early nap and it seemed like there was a perfect window to head up there. So I strapped him in the ergo and headed out the door. After a block when it seemed like he shifted from his initial, "Oh God, what are you doing to me!!!" caterwauling, into the comfortable rhythm of our walk I called and said, "Do you happen to have an appointment in half an hour for someone who may or may not make it there?" When you have a cantankerous infant, making it out the door is really no guarantee that you will actually make it to your destination.
I did indeed make it. So big deal, it only took me three months to get there. My body was in desperate need of adjustment. After pretty much every part of my body was moved back into place, Owen was in urgent need of feeding again. So I fed him, in a chair with excellent lumbar support, promised to return again sometime in the next year, and headed for home.
As I stepped out the door, I was greeted by a deliciously pleasant breeze, a treat after several days of excessive humidity and heat. I hate heat. My body is made for Spring and Fall. It resists extremes. And apparently my little guy has inherited a hate for heat because if I take him out when it is too hot, he inevitably turns into a ball of tortured rage, reacting to the sun much like a Gremlin when you sprinkle water on them. One moment he he is cute and cuddly and the next. . well you saw the film. (Well, if you are old like me you saw it.) But the day was beautiful, so I decided to walk. I figured even conservatively I had at least an hour. So I could stroll for about thirty minutes, get on the subway wherever I was, and have AMPLE time to get home to feed the succubus again.
I was wrong.
After about thirty minutes Owen woke up screaming bloody murder. He was not fooled by the breeze. He was hot, and annoyed. If you do not know the mechanics of the Ergo, it is one of the many carriers wherein your baby is cuddled up against your chest, held there by fabric. They are supposed to love this: being close to you, hearing your heart-beat like they did in the womb, smelling your wonderful mommy smell. But the downside is there is basically zero air circulation between you and them, and when it's summer what this means is overheating and sweat. And let's face it, in the womb, there is a pool, and in Manhattan, there is concrete, metal, and steam grating.
So Owen starts screaming. I figure if I get him in the subway he will cool down, calm down, and we will get home where our air conditioned apartment awaits. It won't be that bad.
I was wrong.
We get into the subway, he continues to scream. Actually at this point he is screaming so hard he is choking and shaking and looks for all purposes like he is one step away from death. I try to undo the Ergo and give him a little air, while trying not to drop him on the subway platform where if the fall to the hard concrete does not kill him, surely the warm germ cesspool will, attacking his not yet three month immune system.
The air does not calm him. I try to see if I can manage to nurse him, while clutching onto my unbuckled Ergo, and hiding behind a pole at the end of the platform. I finally maneuver his mouth somewhere near my nipple by hunching over and hauling him up. This is clearly not what he wants. The train comes and I get on it, not realizing I have left both of the hooks to my nursing tank undone. .whatever. I get on the subway and stand for a minute until someone finally offers my their seat. And all the while I am offering a running commentary to Owen. And I realize part of the commentary is for Owen and part of the commentary is for my circumstantial audience. It is for all the people out there who are undoubtedly judging me for having this screaming baby who I must be abusing or something because why else would he sound like I am forcing him to watch Sarah Palin's " Wild Alaska" on repeat? So I say things like, "Oh honey, we'll be home soon. Oh, you're having a hard day. Oh, I love you." And it's not like I don't mean this (though there are moments I have loved him more), or that I would not be talking to him if I was at home on my own, but I acutely aware of my audience. It is the same thing when I'm speed-walking down the street with him in his stroller as he screams from is assuredly horrible gnawing hunger because I'm just not up to nursing him standing up outside of some Duane Reade. So I tell him, and everyone else within earshot, "We'll be home soon honey. You'll get milkies in a minute my love." (yes, I sometimes say milkies, what of it?)
I know that everyone knows that babies cry but there is something about the continual publicness of it in New York City that makes you feel like you are always' mommy on stage' if you are being judged for a reality show. But I am the clip that makes people revel in a stage of Schadenfreude instead of hope and elation. Thus, the running commentary is my way of making everyone realize that I am a contestant with talent who is just having a bad day rather than the one who really just should have realized that, "so you think you can dance?" wasn't an off-hand rhetorical question.
And several of my new mom friends admitted they do the same thing, that they feel they have to offer color commentary or their children's breakdowns. And I wonder why we do this. I don't really care so much about the outside world. It's not like I have him at the opera or something where the whole environment really contraindicates a crying baby.. it's the subway for crying out loud - a place of general rudeness, noise, stench etc. People have sex on the subway without apologizing, people go to the bathroom, eat buckets of chicken, clip their fingernails, listen to really loud music, preach about the evils of almost anything. I once had a man tell me I looked like a Jew and he was sorry I was going to hell, and another man preach about the evils of miscegenation (yes in 2011) while swaying over my my group of friends, two couples of which were inter-racial. So do I really have to apologize just because my baby is over-heated and over-tired and happens to be screaming at the top of his lungs? And the answer is of course not. What I need to do is get over being worried about other people judging if I am a good mom or not.
And I'm sure, a therapist would tell me that it's really me judging me but luckily I'm too busy to make it there on the subway so I don't need to self-reflect too much. Maybe in another three months .
I did indeed make it. So big deal, it only took me three months to get there. My body was in desperate need of adjustment. After pretty much every part of my body was moved back into place, Owen was in urgent need of feeding again. So I fed him, in a chair with excellent lumbar support, promised to return again sometime in the next year, and headed for home.
As I stepped out the door, I was greeted by a deliciously pleasant breeze, a treat after several days of excessive humidity and heat. I hate heat. My body is made for Spring and Fall. It resists extremes. And apparently my little guy has inherited a hate for heat because if I take him out when it is too hot, he inevitably turns into a ball of tortured rage, reacting to the sun much like a Gremlin when you sprinkle water on them. One moment he he is cute and cuddly and the next. . well you saw the film. (Well, if you are old like me you saw it.) But the day was beautiful, so I decided to walk. I figured even conservatively I had at least an hour. So I could stroll for about thirty minutes, get on the subway wherever I was, and have AMPLE time to get home to feed the succubus again.
I was wrong.
After about thirty minutes Owen woke up screaming bloody murder. He was not fooled by the breeze. He was hot, and annoyed. If you do not know the mechanics of the Ergo, it is one of the many carriers wherein your baby is cuddled up against your chest, held there by fabric. They are supposed to love this: being close to you, hearing your heart-beat like they did in the womb, smelling your wonderful mommy smell. But the downside is there is basically zero air circulation between you and them, and when it's summer what this means is overheating and sweat. And let's face it, in the womb, there is a pool, and in Manhattan, there is concrete, metal, and steam grating.
So Owen starts screaming. I figure if I get him in the subway he will cool down, calm down, and we will get home where our air conditioned apartment awaits. It won't be that bad.
I was wrong.
We get into the subway, he continues to scream. Actually at this point he is screaming so hard he is choking and shaking and looks for all purposes like he is one step away from death. I try to undo the Ergo and give him a little air, while trying not to drop him on the subway platform where if the fall to the hard concrete does not kill him, surely the warm germ cesspool will, attacking his not yet three month immune system.
The air does not calm him. I try to see if I can manage to nurse him, while clutching onto my unbuckled Ergo, and hiding behind a pole at the end of the platform. I finally maneuver his mouth somewhere near my nipple by hunching over and hauling him up. This is clearly not what he wants. The train comes and I get on it, not realizing I have left both of the hooks to my nursing tank undone. .whatever. I get on the subway and stand for a minute until someone finally offers my their seat. And all the while I am offering a running commentary to Owen. And I realize part of the commentary is for Owen and part of the commentary is for my circumstantial audience. It is for all the people out there who are undoubtedly judging me for having this screaming baby who I must be abusing or something because why else would he sound like I am forcing him to watch Sarah Palin's " Wild Alaska" on repeat? So I say things like, "Oh honey, we'll be home soon. Oh, you're having a hard day. Oh, I love you." And it's not like I don't mean this (though there are moments I have loved him more), or that I would not be talking to him if I was at home on my own, but I acutely aware of my audience. It is the same thing when I'm speed-walking down the street with him in his stroller as he screams from is assuredly horrible gnawing hunger because I'm just not up to nursing him standing up outside of some Duane Reade. So I tell him, and everyone else within earshot, "We'll be home soon honey. You'll get milkies in a minute my love." (yes, I sometimes say milkies, what of it?)
I know that everyone knows that babies cry but there is something about the continual publicness of it in New York City that makes you feel like you are always' mommy on stage' if you are being judged for a reality show. But I am the clip that makes people revel in a stage of Schadenfreude instead of hope and elation. Thus, the running commentary is my way of making everyone realize that I am a contestant with talent who is just having a bad day rather than the one who really just should have realized that, "so you think you can dance?" wasn't an off-hand rhetorical question.
And several of my new mom friends admitted they do the same thing, that they feel they have to offer color commentary or their children's breakdowns. And I wonder why we do this. I don't really care so much about the outside world. It's not like I have him at the opera or something where the whole environment really contraindicates a crying baby.. it's the subway for crying out loud - a place of general rudeness, noise, stench etc. People have sex on the subway without apologizing, people go to the bathroom, eat buckets of chicken, clip their fingernails, listen to really loud music, preach about the evils of almost anything. I once had a man tell me I looked like a Jew and he was sorry I was going to hell, and another man preach about the evils of miscegenation (yes in 2011) while swaying over my my group of friends, two couples of which were inter-racial. So do I really have to apologize just because my baby is over-heated and over-tired and happens to be screaming at the top of his lungs? And the answer is of course not. What I need to do is get over being worried about other people judging if I am a good mom or not.
And I'm sure, a therapist would tell me that it's really me judging me but luckily I'm too busy to make it there on the subway so I don't need to self-reflect too much. Maybe in another three months .
Friday, May 27, 2011
Mommy Cam/Nanny Cam - Or How To Fire Yourself
A few days ago there was an segment on the news about the many ways to spy on your nanny. From nanny-cams ton an online site in NYC where people take pictures of nannies doing "inapropriate things" and post them so parents can scan them in case their nanny was caught in the act of doing egregious things to the children in their care.
Now, having gone to a liberal arts college in the 90's I am programmed to be "fight for the rights" of the worker/nanny and yet I also completely empathize with the mother who wants to make sure her child is in the right hands. When I went to that developmental movement class from the last post there were two care-givers there with children. One of them was basically the Mary Poppins of nannies, well possibly Mary Poppins meets Piaget. She was engaged, asked questions, practiced on her child, shared in detail the developmental milestones of the kid. Basically she was like a very involved mother, well in some ways better than most of the other new mothers there because she evidently knew what she was doing and let's be honest, the rest of us are still kind of in the trial and error stage. She was the "Top Chef Master" equivalent to my "Let's turn whatever is in the refrigerator into a one-pot wonder." Not that those one-pot wonders aren't delicious and filled with heart but they sometimes lack some technical knife skills or a recipe/plan.
And then there was the other nanny. I don't know if she was tired, having a bad day, or really just mediocre, but she spent the entire class texting, even when her ward army-crawled over to my immobile babe and tried to claw his eyeballs out with saliva-drenched fingers and then promptly spit-up up on our swaddle. And for those of you not schooled in the mommy and baby events, laying down the swaddle in front of you pretty much creates a territorial spot of sanctity. It is the baby equivalent of pissing on your section of the rug. It is the layer of germ protection, sleep inducer, baby comforter. . well you get the picture. And even then, bad nanny didn't move, so, I did carting my baby and swaddle to the other side of the circle as the kid went after his next target.
And this is when I had the us vs them moment. I thought - my god I wonder if her the mother knows how bad her nanny is. And furthermore I understood that if I knew who that mother was, I would tell her. GASP! I recognized within myself the potential to be a nanny-tattler.
The aforementioned news segment said that nearly 100% of people who install nanny cams fire their nannies within 24 hours because they are so horrified. Now I do realize that these numbers are probably fairly unscientific. In the first place, probably few people who have Mary Piaget Poppins who bother to install a nanny cam and second I'm pretty sure anyone responsible for watching a colicky infant for 14 hours straight would have at least one "fire-worthy" moment a day.
And today - if someone was "nanny-camming" me, I'm pretty sure I would have been canned. This is roughly what they would have seen.
7-7:30 breast feeds baby while watching Sister Wives on-demand. (okay ignore the fact that it would be weird if your nanny was actually breast feeding your child since the whole wet-nurse thing went out a few decades ago not to mention the fact that no one should be watching Sister Wives at 7 AM -we'll let these go)
7:30-8:30 plays with baby, does some great yoga exercises, encouraging tummy time with the techniques learned in developmental movement class while watching Good Morning America. Now potentially there is room for nanny failure since one should focus completely on the baby and not divide one's attention between the baby and the screen but to be fair Lady Gaga was on GMA and any employer should be sympathetic to that.
8:30-9:15 baby naps. . none of your business what I was doing here. .oh wait, it would have been caught on nanny cam. . fine. I ate breakfast and checked facebook
9:15-10:00. . baby nursing .. . (blah blah - nothing interesting here fast forward the tape)
9:45-10:45. we play, dance around the room, go look at ourselves in the mirror
10:45 - 2:00 I'm not going to break-down this timeline further because it is all a part of the hysteria section and the minutes become a blur. . a very, very slow blur, but a blur nonetheless.
Baby goes into the swing for a nap, I vacuum to lull him to sleep (look a nanny who cleans bonus!) He does not fall asleep but is calm so I go to the bathroom. While there, I get mesmerized by the mirror, examining all the baby weight I have not managed to slough off through the "miracle of breast-feeding" (I'm pretty sure this would be considered 'ignoring a child' in nanny-cam world but probably still not fire-worthy.) The baby starts to cry. I leave my reflection in the mirror, pick him up, rock him, dance him around, re-swaddle him, burp him, change his diaper. He is having none of it and is now screaming so loud he's choking and turning red. I put the vacuum back on with one toe so I don't put him down. He screams more. I feed him again, he starts to spasm and grunt and cry WHILE his mouth is attached to my breast. I decide to go for a walk. Now the nanny cam could not follow me here but if it could it would see him momentarily calm down and then start to scream again. I pick up my phone to text my friend to not to meet me at the park because our mission is being aborted (yes while the baby is crying) and I'm sure someone would be taking a picture of me to post on 'nannywatch' if I didn't look so, well, white. I pick him out of the stroller, put him in his carrier and walk the stroller back with one hand while jiggling him up and down and patting his back. We get home, he eats again, and he is STILL crying. It is at this point that I kind-of-sort-of scream at the baby. It wasn't a full scream but it was surely a "fire-worthy" scream that went something like "PLEASE BABY, PLEASE STOP CRYING. . OH GOD I JUST NEED A MOMENT!!! PLEASE STOP!!!" Okay, so it was a scream. Not a 'god what a worthless piece of cr*p baby you are (shake-shake) moment' but a 'God I sure am glad my bad mommy/nanny moment was not caught on tape moment. Note to my husband: If you ever put a nanny cam in our apartment I will divorce you. I promise for the most part I am a wonderful, loving, giggle inducing, creative mom.
So I am torn between having sympathy/empathy for nannies and also understanding that when you leave your kid with someone it is hard not to want hold them to higher standards than yourself, meaning I would probably fire her if she was me. And this is not self-judging, As indicated, I think that I am doing a bang-up job. But looking at a tape of anyone doing their job over the course of sixty hours would probably lead them to being fired. So we'll see. For now there will be no nanny-cam because of course there is no nanny, and probably unless I win the lotto, never will be one. But if I do have a nanny, well, I guess I'll have to wait and see.
Now, having gone to a liberal arts college in the 90's I am programmed to be "fight for the rights" of the worker/nanny and yet I also completely empathize with the mother who wants to make sure her child is in the right hands. When I went to that developmental movement class from the last post there were two care-givers there with children. One of them was basically the Mary Poppins of nannies, well possibly Mary Poppins meets Piaget. She was engaged, asked questions, practiced on her child, shared in detail the developmental milestones of the kid. Basically she was like a very involved mother, well in some ways better than most of the other new mothers there because she evidently knew what she was doing and let's be honest, the rest of us are still kind of in the trial and error stage. She was the "Top Chef Master" equivalent to my "Let's turn whatever is in the refrigerator into a one-pot wonder." Not that those one-pot wonders aren't delicious and filled with heart but they sometimes lack some technical knife skills or a recipe/plan.
And then there was the other nanny. I don't know if she was tired, having a bad day, or really just mediocre, but she spent the entire class texting, even when her ward army-crawled over to my immobile babe and tried to claw his eyeballs out with saliva-drenched fingers and then promptly spit-up up on our swaddle. And for those of you not schooled in the mommy and baby events, laying down the swaddle in front of you pretty much creates a territorial spot of sanctity. It is the baby equivalent of pissing on your section of the rug. It is the layer of germ protection, sleep inducer, baby comforter. . well you get the picture. And even then, bad nanny didn't move, so, I did carting my baby and swaddle to the other side of the circle as the kid went after his next target.
And this is when I had the us vs them moment. I thought - my god I wonder if her the mother knows how bad her nanny is. And furthermore I understood that if I knew who that mother was, I would tell her. GASP! I recognized within myself the potential to be a nanny-tattler.
The aforementioned news segment said that nearly 100% of people who install nanny cams fire their nannies within 24 hours because they are so horrified. Now I do realize that these numbers are probably fairly unscientific. In the first place, probably few people who have Mary Piaget Poppins who bother to install a nanny cam and second I'm pretty sure anyone responsible for watching a colicky infant for 14 hours straight would have at least one "fire-worthy" moment a day.
And today - if someone was "nanny-camming" me, I'm pretty sure I would have been canned. This is roughly what they would have seen.
7-7:30 breast feeds baby while watching Sister Wives on-demand. (okay ignore the fact that it would be weird if your nanny was actually breast feeding your child since the whole wet-nurse thing went out a few decades ago not to mention the fact that no one should be watching Sister Wives at 7 AM -we'll let these go)
7:30-8:30 plays with baby, does some great yoga exercises, encouraging tummy time with the techniques learned in developmental movement class while watching Good Morning America. Now potentially there is room for nanny failure since one should focus completely on the baby and not divide one's attention between the baby and the screen but to be fair Lady Gaga was on GMA and any employer should be sympathetic to that.
8:30-9:15 baby naps. . none of your business what I was doing here. .oh wait, it would have been caught on nanny cam. . fine. I ate breakfast and checked facebook
9:15-10:00. . baby nursing .. . (blah blah - nothing interesting here fast forward the tape)
9:45-10:45. we play, dance around the room, go look at ourselves in the mirror
10:45 - 2:00 I'm not going to break-down this timeline further because it is all a part of the hysteria section and the minutes become a blur. . a very, very slow blur, but a blur nonetheless.
Baby goes into the swing for a nap, I vacuum to lull him to sleep (look a nanny who cleans bonus!) He does not fall asleep but is calm so I go to the bathroom. While there, I get mesmerized by the mirror, examining all the baby weight I have not managed to slough off through the "miracle of breast-feeding" (I'm pretty sure this would be considered 'ignoring a child' in nanny-cam world but probably still not fire-worthy.) The baby starts to cry. I leave my reflection in the mirror, pick him up, rock him, dance him around, re-swaddle him, burp him, change his diaper. He is having none of it and is now screaming so loud he's choking and turning red. I put the vacuum back on with one toe so I don't put him down. He screams more. I feed him again, he starts to spasm and grunt and cry WHILE his mouth is attached to my breast. I decide to go for a walk. Now the nanny cam could not follow me here but if it could it would see him momentarily calm down and then start to scream again. I pick up my phone to text my friend to not to meet me at the park because our mission is being aborted (yes while the baby is crying) and I'm sure someone would be taking a picture of me to post on 'nannywatch' if I didn't look so, well, white. I pick him out of the stroller, put him in his carrier and walk the stroller back with one hand while jiggling him up and down and patting his back. We get home, he eats again, and he is STILL crying. It is at this point that I kind-of-sort-of scream at the baby. It wasn't a full scream but it was surely a "fire-worthy" scream that went something like "PLEASE BABY, PLEASE STOP CRYING. . OH GOD I JUST NEED A MOMENT!!! PLEASE STOP!!!" Okay, so it was a scream. Not a 'god what a worthless piece of cr*p baby you are (shake-shake) moment' but a 'God I sure am glad my bad mommy/nanny moment was not caught on tape moment. Note to my husband: If you ever put a nanny cam in our apartment I will divorce you. I promise for the most part I am a wonderful, loving, giggle inducing, creative mom.
So I am torn between having sympathy/empathy for nannies and also understanding that when you leave your kid with someone it is hard not to want hold them to higher standards than yourself, meaning I would probably fire her if she was me. And this is not self-judging, As indicated, I think that I am doing a bang-up job. But looking at a tape of anyone doing their job over the course of sixty hours would probably lead them to being fired. So we'll see. For now there will be no nanny-cam because of course there is no nanny, and probably unless I win the lotto, never will be one. But if I do have a nanny, well, I guess I'll have to wait and see.
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