Hearts Everywhere

I'm in a [I don't work a corporate job] Style Slump

2011-03-22T09:18:00.000-04:00

Will someone please nominate me for What Not to Wear?

I have been in a major style rut for the last 18 months. When I first lost my job, with it also went the obligation to “dress up.” (But truthfully I wasn’t so upset about that.) Then I got pregnant – and for the nine months I spent hovering over or around a toilet, I wore nothing but maternity clothes in the form of oversized sweats.

So I was pregnant – that was my first excuse. Then I had the baby – and well, the wardrobe didn’t change. In fact, I am still wearing the SAME sweats I wore throughout my pregnancy (complete with paint stains and three inches too long) -- and not because I haven’t lost the weight. At this point in my life, elastic waistbands just trump the button/zipper combo. (OK so maybe there’s an extra five pounds lingering around the middle.)

I should note that I’m not a big shopper. Even if I did have money (of which I have less than zero), I spend the pennies on my kids, rather than on stupid clothes for myself. Especially since I don’t have to go to a “corporate job.” I’m the opposite of one of those women who has shoes and purses to match everything. My footwear is either flip-flop in the summer or Ugg boots in the winter. It’s these in-between seasons where my feet really struggle.

The way I get dressed in the morning would certainly make most Manhattan women cringe. I look over to the large, leather armchair next to my side of the bed (I knew it was a bad idea to put it there) and pluck whatever sweatpants and shirt from the stack, most already inside out and worn several times over. It is not usual that I would wear the exact same thing three days in a row to drive my son to school. I get away with this especially in the winter, where my over-sized jacket hides my embarrassing, draping schmatas. The parking lot attendant who works where I pick up my car has seen me in the black down jacket and furry boots for the last six months.

I wear make up rarely, even though it’s my only vanity vice. My hair care regimen consists of conditioning my long curly hair and typically putting it up within five minutes of showering. (Conditioner, for the record, is not a vanity product – but a necessity, without which, I would have a head full of frizzy dreads within a few days). The days I choose to wear my hair down are probably the same days I decide to wear make up. You know, events like date night, parent-teacher conference, or any other day where I’ll see another human that knows me by name (maybe that’s why I haven’t given my name to the parking attendant yet).

I do have some remnants of my old life. Translation: jeans with rhinestones around the belt; 3 colors of the same corduroy pants from the Gap; and at least two pairs of black pants – one extra wide and one extra tight. The Bebe satin “hot pants,” are also slightly splitting in the crotch area, but that does not stop me from wearing them. I have a pair of red cowboy boots that convince me I’m stylish and a few silk scarves that I used to wear as belts when I no longer needed them to hide the scar on my neck.

I don’t even carry a purse – or a diaper bag. I use a canvas tote from the Strand Book Store or a very deteriorated Vivienne Tam straw tote with embroidered butterflies on it (it has traveled the world with me since it weighs half an ounce.) Don’t let the fancy brand impress you; my aunt works for Vivienne and everything with the fancy label on it, came courtesy of my darling aunt’s good decisions during sample sales.

The ugly truth is nothing fits me like it used to. My body just changed. After my first baby (nine years ago next week), I put my pre-pregnancy jeans on within three weeks. This time, even though I was able to button my jeans (doing the famous jean squats and laying down on the bed to close them) – they resulted in a lovely muffin top.

Recently I had a revelation: maybe this is just my new body. I’m 36 years old, I've had another baby, and am clearly not interested in exercise that involves the free gym upstairs (that I’ve ignored for the entire time I’ve had access to it).

Maybe I can learn to love my new body … and buy some new clothes … in … gasp – a larger size?

Last week, in the 30-second elevator ride to the lobby, my mother and I continued our conversation about my body issues. We have had conversations like this for the greater part of three decades. I have been aware of body (and unhappy with it) for most of my life. Only now do I realize how ridiculous I’ve been. I let a little rendezvous with baby fat taint my entire perception of myself. A perpetual battle with my own brain and my eyes as a distorted mirror. I am every woman – fighting a battle of real life reflections against what we are shown as beautiful in the outside world. I digress.

Back to the elevator.

“I just don’t think it’s realistic to try to kill myself to get back into size zero clothing,” I told my mother. “It’s just ludicrous. I think I just fit into those pants when my thyroid was overactive.” I tried to justify it to myself. I loved using the thyroid excuse, when the truth was – even after they cut out half my metabolism – I was still wearing the same size clothing.

There was a third person in the elevator; a man in his 40s dressed in a standard Wall Street suit and loafers. He looked over at me, without trying to do the elevator eyes (he wouldn’t have seen much with me bundled up in my North Face Arctic Parka and clearly said, “A size zero is just too small. That’s just absurd.” He chuckled. I nodded with an, “I know, right?” to boot.

Having a baby girl has also shed some light on beauty and perceptions and the hyper-criticism that is taught and supported by our society.

When I wrote a short piece about how I view my body, my mother started crying. It broke her heart to know that her gorgeous daughter saw herself in such an ugly light. I scrutinized every inch of myself, looking only through a set of media-brainwashed glasses. I never considered how my words could sting her.

Now that I have a daughter, I understand my mother. Just like she predicted. (How long have you been waiting for that, mother dear?)

My 9-month-old’s baby pictures resemble mine to the degree that it’s frightening in a way that only genetic biology can be. At first I didn’t see it, but then there was a picture of my daughter that stopped me in my tracks. This familiar face was starting back at me – but how could the likeness be so remarkable? She was too beautiful to look like me.

How I’ve always criticized my baby pictures; scrutinizing them with the harshest judgmental eye. I was too chubby or too serious or my smile was too lop-sided. All of my baby pictures are black and white; my father shot and developed them in our bathtub in Kiev. I cherish these dearly – for the ingenuity it took to print them – and for the art they’ve become. These photojournalistic prints, with their curled corners, served as the springboard to my lifelong love of photography.

But instead of focusing on the captured moment; I just focused on the fact that I wasn’t a pretty baby.

Now I look at my Mackenzie Riley – certainly a cherub if I’ve ever imagined seeing one. She has these eyes that make people stop in their tracks; soulful, expressive, gorgeous. Her porcelain skin, her naturally rosy cheeks and her perfectly-shaped little lips (only one of which she likes to show since she sucks the bottom one).

I witnessed her coming to life and now I watch her grow. I feel her energy. Her gaze pierces my soul like a poem. She is what daughters are meant to teach you. She has given me the gift of new eyes; a renewed perspective.

I look at my pictures differently now. I realize that every picture is just a representative of one tiny moment in time – a split second immortalized and then we put it up for eternal critique – especially our own. Especially my own.

But even with my girl … I dress her up – much nicer than I do myself. I put the little barrettes in her hair and I tell her she’s pretty (whether we’re supposed to or not … if I don’t use it as a ‘compliment’ – is it still OK?).

So shouldn’t I give her a good example of a mom who takes care in herself and puts herself “together” – as my mom used to say: “Take yourself in your hands.” (Sounds better in Russian.)

In conclusion … if anyone wants to nominate me for What Not To Wear… here’s where to do it … and good luck getting a photo of me wearing my “outrageous fashion choices.”

Do You Baby Book?

2011-03-14T11:31:00.003-04:00

After my cousin had twins 4 months to the day after I had my baby girl, we were comparing gifts. Kind of like, “How many baby blankets? What’s the most hideous outfit?” Finally I ask, “How many baby books did you get?”

She says, “What do you mean “baby books?” You mean How to Expect: The First Years?”

No, I clarify, “Like a book for you to write down all the stuff. The firsts. First laugh, first foods, favorite toy. A place to put their piece of hair, footprints. Come on, you must know what I’m talking about. The kind of book you fill it in ...”

“Really?” She genuinely sounds surprised. “Who has time to do that shit? I have two newborns.”

“Andrew’s baby book has every little thing written in it,” I explain about my boyfriend's book. “It says when he did everything. For instance, we learned he started eating baby meat at 3 months old.”

So then I realized that maybe we’re just immigrant kids; maybe this is just an American thing.

I had something that I kept track for Jake, 9 years ago … but I did it haphazardly and hated it since it was so imperfect. I hated anything incomplete. I realize that of course, in retrospect, it’s better to have anything rather than nothing. I look over the notes I never typed and my scraps of paper and old receipts of his birthday at Chuck e Cheese.”

But now with my second baby, I guiltily confess that I haven’t written anything down. I got one baby book as a gift and I didn’t connect to it – all frilly and Precious Moments and not my style. [IDEA: hip, easy baby books – or what – even an ipod app.] Her dad started a list of milestones on my laptop; I made a short list of the words se says so far (mama, daddy, milk, Elmo, Big Bird, bear, up, baba [grandma in Russian], meow, moo, this, that, ball, duck, purple, blue, and a bunch of others.

I have a good friend from college who has been blogging since her daughter’s birth about 20 months ago. I’m flattered when she tells me I was her inspiration. I always went onto her site to check in on what her baby was doing because she was my friend and I wanted to know about her life – but I wondered, would people who didn’t know the baby also want to read it the particulars?

So recently I started visiting her blog for a different reason. Whenever my 9-month old (that just happened yesterday!) does something – or isn’t doing something for that matter – I go back to her blog and see what her baby was doing this time last year. This is her completely detailed virtual baby book that documents her daughter’s songs, words, skills, snacks. I was using it as a resource!

I, on the other hand, had a hard time remembering the exact time my daughter was born. (I was really tired.)

So am I a horrible mother? Does it mean I don’t love my daughter as much?

I have another friend that has a pile of papers, about 6” high with details of her son’s naps, feedings and notes from the daycare. Every minutia recorded.

I have nothing but fleeting memories.

I should definitely write more down – about her – and for her.

Dying My Hair

2011-03-08T06:38:00.000-05:00

Last week I decided it was finally time to color my hair. It had been months that the tufts of gray on my temples were bothering me. With the baby, I was always putting my hair up in a ponytail and the clown-like, white bunches weren’t funny anymore (no, they never really were).

Most people said they didn’t notice the gray – until I pointed it out, to which, they’d reply “Oh, huh. How about that? Well, it’s not so bad.” Or else they’d tell me how they’ve been dying their hair since they were 19.

I have never dyed my hair, unless you count the time I used Sun-in for the summer I went to the south of France. I was 15 years old and on my own for the first time. This was me being rebellious. I also ordered wine from restaurants since there was no drinking limit there. I guess that was even more defiant. The Sun-in turned my hair bright orange. It was not attractive, but for a girl who sported almost black hair for her whole life, the crayola-colored hued was kind of exciting.

By the time the orange finally grew out of my black, curly hair, I was graduating from high school – and since then, it’s become very prudish hair - sporting the same style and color for most of its life. But now the time had come to wash that gray right out of my hair.

I bought some natural hair dye and picked a dark auburn hair color. I figured it was as adventurous as I should get with my almost black hair. I picked a green box so it would help me psychologically pretend that this wasn't going to make my hair fall out. I made sure to pick a box that said, “No ammonia” and that it would wash out in 28 rinses. It also said it only took ten minutes.

I missed up the concoction and noticed that the goop looked rather purple. I suddenly visualized the older women who try to color their hair themselves and end up sporting a plum-colored coif for a month (the see-through kind). I followed the instructions and applied the glop all over my head with the rubber gloves and piled the purple-saturated black soapy hair on top of my scalp. It didn’t burn so that was a good sign. (Chris Rock’s Good Hair movie scarred me for life even though it was about black hair.)

I walked into the living room with the wet hair mess and the first thing my 8-year-old says is, “I guess you’ll be blogging about this.” (You see, he had also gotten accustomed to me blogging each night.)

“Maybe,” I told him as I shrugged and walked away, already thinking, “Duh, of course I’m going to blog this.” But to him, I say, “I’m not blogging every day anymore. It was just a one-month commitment.”

He then says, “So blog about how you won’t be blogging anymore.”

“That’s silly,” I tell him and silently gasp and shake my head at myself. Yeah, I do that. I blog about blogging and not blogging and blogging again … and here the 8-year-old was saying the hair dying was at least a story about something, rather than nothing.

We rallied back and forth, the 8-year-old and I. He generally has better come backs than I do; he already seems to use his male-dominated logic against my female-skewed emotion.

I washed the dye out of my hair after 15 minutes; I gave it 5 extra minutes for good luck – and because my mom told me the day before that she keeps it in for a whole hour. “We have very dark, thick hair,” she reminded me.

It took probably close to half an hour to get the water to rinse clean. That’s when they said to put conditioner on and leave that on for two minutes. The water in the bathtub was purple even after the conditioner rinse but I couldn't wait any longer; I was bored from being in there for so long.

Finally I emerged with wet sopping hair to see not much of a change; maybe a tinge of … purple in the light? What happened to the lovely auburn they promised on the box? I knew I shouldn’t have trusted the model’s hair color.

I blow-dryed my hair, determined to see the real color. I came out of the bathroom with big, frizzy, newly-colored hair … and I asked the boyfriend how it looked. “Well, it kind of has a shade of purple,” he says.

“What about the grays?” I ask, remembering the real goal of the exercise.

“Well, they kind of look copper. The ones that don’t still look gray, that is.”

“What?” All that and the gray didn’t even take?”

“I told you it would be better if I just colored them in with Sharpie,” the boyfriend answers touting the almighty male logic.

“That’s ridiculous,” I answer as I really wonder if that wouldn’t have made more sense.

“Why don’t we just cut them out close to the root,” he retaliates?

I think about this suggestion, wondering if it truly is a bad one; it seems to make sense. Who needs the half-broken silvery strands that wisp about above my ears?

I think about my friends who dutifully color and highlight their hair according to the calendar and I think to myself, "Please not me; I don't want to enter the hair coloring world. There's no way out!"

I've walked around with the purple-tinged, copper-wisped sides, hair for a week now. It doesn't bother me - it makes me feel a bit funky; an ode to crazier days in the east village, maybe. (Of course I never dyed my hair THEN.) I have a haircut appointment scheduled for March 23rd, when the hairdresser finally comes back from his two-month vacation to Hong Kong. I am going to do something different, I promise you. This purple hair is just a sign of things to come - my hair is ready to join the fast track to some adventure beyond "long bangs." Perhaps layers will rear their ugly faces ...

28 Days of Writing Followed By a Week of Nothing

2011-03-07T13:06:00.000-05:00

It’s been a full week since I’ve completed the NaBloPoMo challenge. I did it for the whole 28 days, just like I did two years ago. There were things I liked about the challenge – and obviously things that annoyed me.

Most of what annoyed me was that I found myself sitting at the laptop around 9:30pm every evening saying, “Shit, I have to blog” and then often pounding something out that was not at all what I would have blogged about had I not been “forced” to put something up. Most times I like to work on my pieces a bit before I publish them – but not in February. I would write ‘em up and push them out.

The other thing I didn't like about it was that it was only up for one day. Sometimes I wrote something longer or poignant, and more essay-like than blog-like and that would be buried within a day. Pieces like the one about Jake and the one about the Facebook twins. Good reads, but all got buried in the daily blogerific life.

My blog is not just a mommy blog (please no!) and not just a hearts blog (that sort of faded to the background). It's a documentation of my life - and the pursuit (and stories) of me bringing it to another place. Sometimes, a challenge like this, deters the greater goal in lieu of establishing some healthy blogging habits. (Or maybe not?)

What I liked about it was that at least I was sitting down to write SOMETHING – ANYTHING – every day. I was at least exercising the typing muscles – the rewarding process of converting “blank page” to “page with words.”

It’s interesting, though, that after 28 days of doing it – and taking a week off – I feel like I’m substantially missing something. Maybe it is because it was an eventful life week (dyed my hair; parent-teacher conferences; play date with the cousin twins; oh yeah – and a SURGERY) – or maybe it’s just when you start scratching the itch, it becomes itchier.

My novel that lives in my head is exploding from within me – but there seem to be so many things on my life To Do list, that I push that one away. It needs to come out – for sanity, for resolution, and mostly to say I tried. I could type all about living my dream, but unless I put it out there – for judgment (to be loved or hated) – I’m only living a fantasy.

I look back at my blog and I see a month of consistency followed by a week of vacancy. This is blogging, for what it’s worth. This is the commitment I made – if only to myself. But I have to value promises to myself just as much as to anyone else.

I’m back. Again. I feel like this is a déjà vu blog post (like this and this) – and I’ve only been gone a week. Nonetheless, there are things to catch up on … didn't I say SURGERY?!

Oscars 2011: My Take

2011-02-28T21:35:00.000-05:00

The Oscars tried to market to a younger audience – and they failed. The Academy Awards, as an institution, is not regarded as movie judges for the younger demographic. Hearing a movie is an Oscar-winner doesn’t draw them to the theatres; they are going to see the Twilight movies and the Harry Potter movies – and it doesn’t matter if any of them ever see a gold statue.

Anne Hathaway as a host was fathomable, but James Franco was just ridiculous. It was as if his agent offered him the gig and he didn’t want to do it – but they insisted on it. He seemed completely disinterested in the whole spectacle and his lackluster performance seemed to make Anne’s seem like she was trying too hard. There were moments when she was being sugary sweet and other times when it seemed like her true self showed (like when she high-5ed the PS 22 Chorus members after their performance). I would have rather seen more of the latter.

The Academy Awards is traditional Hollywood. It is respected by the generation that still remembers the foundation upon which the institution was based. But we are a few generations removed and it’s becoming more about how much money movies bring in rather than recognizing cinematic excellence.

The speeches were boring. Other than Melissa Leo who dropped the F-bomb, fewer winners are giving tear-jerker speeches. They get on the podium and rattle off a laundry list of names that don’t mean anything; it’s like pay back. “When I win the Oscar, dude, I’ll thank you on stage.” You have your stage for 30-seconds; I just wish they would use that time to say something more poignant.

On the upside, I enjoyed watching Anne Hathaway’s wardrobe changes. Like a slowed down version of Katherine Hiegel’s scene in 27 Dresses, she conducted herself like a lady of grace, and wore her gowns and coordinating hair styles beautifully.

Billy Crystal earned his applause. At that point in the evening, I think everyone was secretly hoping he was coming in to takeover. When he said he was going to fast forward to the best picture award, I was excited. Unfortunately he was kidding.

I loved Kirk Douglas, although at points I felt a bit nervous for him, and wished he had some subtitles.

Finally, loved the P.S. 22 chorus – not just because they were from the borough where I spent my adolescence, but because their teacher was the only one who brought tears to my eyes last night. He could teach a thing or two to the Academy-or the Governors or whomever. “You have to feel it,” he tells the children “and then you open your mouth. That’s what makes it beautiful.” He’s right. No one at the Oscars was feeling it, and though they are Hollywood’s most elite, they seemed less beautiful.

Anniversary Night Recap

2011-02-27T10:52:00.000-05:00

It was the perfect night - as we knew it would be. The evening was exactly what this couple needed to celebrate their 6-year-anniversary. After careful consideration, we decided on an evening that was typical for us. We went to our usual sushi place in Union Square - and instead of going to see King's Speech, even though I knew it would win the Oscar, we walked. And walked some more - for almost 3 hours.

It was a quintessential winter evening, and what we wanted, more than anything, was to be together among the streets of New York City. Like many nights before. Like many nights to come. We meandered through Union Square and down to the East Village and the Lower East Side. We stopped in some random bars and decided not to stay in any, preferring to walk arm-in-arm through the bustling Saturday night streets.

We had to get home by midnight, so we walked in 11:59pm - not a minute sooner. We were smiling, having just celebrated [US] perfectly.

Six Years Ago Today

2011-02-26T16:27:00.001-05:00

Even though we sometimes sneer at other people's Facebook status when they sound like romantic, corny saps - we both posted something in today's status. I think it says it all - even if we did say it to each other in witness of hundreds of people, most of whom only exist as "friends" on the virtual 'book.

This holiday, as special as it is, is celebrated by only him and I.

ME:
6 years ago the stars were lined up in the most perfect way - and my life turned onto the greatest road I never knew existed. Thank you, Love, for the 6 best years of my life.

HIM:
My G- You have taught me how good love can be. I can't believe how fast 6 years went by--anxiously awaiting doing it all over again, today, tomorrow and the rest of my life. I imagine decades from now, waking up and still smiling when I see your face laying next to mine. I love you more each day. Happy Anniversary!

Six Years Ago Tomorrow

2011-02-25T23:01:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow will be six years since the day I met my love. We've spoken about it for the last few weeks - "can you believe it's six years since the day that changed our lives forever?"

We wanted to go to a nice dinner; my sister is babysitting - but none of the restaurants that made the "best of" lists seemed to get either of us excited. Somehow the food was trying to upstage the occasion. We just wanted to be together - out in the streets of New York City - walking, eating, laughing - experiencing our city together. New York City has always been our romantic backdrop and our soundtrack; we just wanted to dive back into it.

After careful consideration and great recommendations, we decided to celebrate by going on a regular date - one just like the many that made up our six years. We're going to have sushi and see The King's Speech. It's the last of the Oscar movies that we really wanted to see before the Award Show on Sunday. Our usual Oscar tradition involves seeing all of the candidates before the show - but with the baby and limited babysitting, we only saw about half (Inception is on our CD shelf opened, but unwatched).

Like all writers, I write in my head all day long, and especially at night when I'm falling asleep and in the shower. There are things I write in my head and never write down - and other things that form in my head for months before I finally write them down. I've known that my anniversary was coming up - and have thought about writing a blog post worthy of the occasion.

But the day is tomorrow and yet the words don't seem ready. I wait for a unique spark to start what I want to express into words - but words just jumble up into invisible romantic thought bubbles above my head. I've said it all before. On past anniversaries; on birthdays; even on Valentine's Day. I wanted to think of something unique to say - but I just wasn't born a country singer.

How many times can I tell him that he changed my life? That he saved my life altogether? How many times can I tell him that he not only escorted me to a place of light and love, but did so often with a screaming bitch pulling his arm backwards. How can I tell him that he always saw the man behind the clown just like he always saw the girl behind the woman. How can I thank him for the laughter?

Our whole relationship has often been surreal, it's no wonder our life together is exactly the piece of art we created. But I am in awe daily at the place to which we've gotten. I'm proud of our commitment and our passion; I'm proud of our growth and our creation. The future is exciting rather than frightening.

The other day we were having a serious conversation with my 8-year-old and I told him that what I wish for him, other than a healthy life, is for him to find love like I have. Because choosing your partner in life is the most important decision you will make.

It's not like my life began when we met six years ago - that's just when the best years of my life began. The days that went on fast-forward when all I wanted was to hit pause. Six years ago was the day I found the droplet of hope that made me believe in being in love. To say he was the rainbow after the rain is a cliche; he was more like the crayons that filled in the lines to my flat world. When complete love enters your life, it's like you enter a new dimension, where life is better, sweeter, happier. It's just like you found your missing piece ... and you can roll!

Love is Life

2011-02-24T23:44:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I sit down to write when I have a few minutes in between the running here or there. Many times I think I'm going to have enough time to write something comprehensive, but often times I have a paragraph or two written in a Word document - and keep it open for days. More times than not, I forget where I was going with any particular random page.

Here's something I wrote last weekend that never went anywhere but is a Polaroid of a weekend out of my life, winter 2011. Maybe I was just in a romantic mood - this Saturday will be my boyfriend and our 6th anniversary of the day we met. We're excited to celebrate - we're in a good place. (Can you tell?)

A snapshot from a moment that I thought would be longer:

Shh. Do you hear that? The sound of the clock ticking only matched my keys typing. The “men” are having a Lego battle in a room 40 feet away. The babe sleeps nearer to them than to me. I am alone with the laptop, a cup of coffee and a toasted bagel. Everything is just as it should be and it’s eerily frightening.

These are the moments that I have to pinch myself and remind myself it’s real. This is MY life – the one I created – and it’s beautiful. We live in an awesome apartment that’s unusually large for Manhattan, but we pay for in space, we lose in light. The brightest it gets in here resembles dusk. It’s hard for a sun-lover like me – but I’d happily give up a lifetime of light for the kind we make in our family.

It sounds hoaky to those that are cynical or not in love – but to those that feel it – or have felt it and lived it – it is life at its finest. I often say Love is Life.

Babies React to the Optimum Triple Play Commercials

2011-02-23T22:15:00.010-05:00

We've recently noticed that our 8-month-old has a fascination with the Optimum Online Triple Play TV commercial. It comes on often during the Today show. They change the commercial every so often - so there have been many renditions - but the jingle stays the same. It's very annoying, yet catchy - it may even make jingle history. The marketing strategy seems to be over-saturation during a short time.

My baby would drop anything she was doing if she heard the commercial come on. She would stop eating, playing, drinking - and hypnotically turn towards the TV. Sometimes she just goes into a trance; other times she laughs, claps or bounces to the music. We think it's hilarious and I thought it would make for a cute blog post - the commercial - not the girl watching the commercial. (Although now that is to come...)

I went on YouTube to find the commercial so I can link to it in this post and when I searched "Optimum Online Triple Play Commercial," I noticed several baby videos.

I was curious - is this a thing? Are all babies hypnotized by this commercial? Is this - as my boyfriend coined - "The Pide Piper of Commercials?" What kind of brainwashing have these marketing masterminds created - and why are they targeting babies?

The draw seems to be the music - since all the babies are reacting to different visuals, with the same jingle. The phone number: 877-399-4448 is the part that seems to be the most annoying - Google it and you'll see tons of folks complaining about it.

I wonder - have I stumbled upon some kind of baby voodoo magic?

Does anyone else have babies who have this reaction? Or any reaction to this commercial at all? Would love to hear feedback!

Here are some of the videos from YouTube that shows different babies reacting to the commercials:

The Baby Girl and Her Barrettes

2011-02-22T22:29:00.000-05:00

I never imagined what it would be like to have a little girl. When I was pregnant the first time 9 years ago I knew from the minute I got pregnant it was a boy - not because we had a sonogram to tell us - and not because my belly looked like a boy - but because I just knew that I would be a boy mommy. I wasn't very girly. I don't like to shop (insert gasp here); I don't like shoes or purses, and I never played with Barbie. I mean I'm not a tomboy since I never really took to sports - but I'm more of a pragmatic girl.

The only two girly things about me is the long, curly hair and my love of make up.

Last June, as they cut me open to pull out my baby, and they told me it's a girl - I was suddenly flooded with images of pink frillyness. I was sure that MY GIRL would not be a girly girl. She would wear cool clothes and never, ever play with Barbie. I mean, how could she - she was MY daughter.

But alas, the girl came out with thick, dark hair and gorgeous eyes and suddenly the girly girl in ME emerged. Who knew? (Well, the boyfriend knew. He will tell you so proudly.)

Now at 8 months old the baby girl already has hair that goes into her eyes and curls all along the back of her neck. After she wakes up in the morning, we have to comb her frizzy hair out - already I have to find hair product for an 8-month-old?! (I kid only partially.)

But it's a daily amazement how much the girl transforms me. I like to dress her up, unlike the dolls with which I never played. A "little Galochka," my parents call her sometimes - even though I look and see her daddy looking back at me.

Recently I decided that I needed to buy her barrettes. We've gotten some over-the-top bow contraptions as gifts, but I don't think that's very fitting of a hip New York City baby. (I was one of those Russian babies that had bows from 4-months-old and have plenty of vintage black-and-white photos to prove it.)

My cousin suggested I make some headbands myself - and I probably will - but in the meantime, I had a flashback to my first American barrettes. The plastic ones in various colors with a simple snap that held baby's fine hair. Many of my friends didn't remember them or didn't know what I was referencing. Were these immigrant barrettes only?

On a recent toothpaste run to the drug store, I passed by the hair aisle and Eureka - I found them. Goody Sassy Barrettes - for my sassy baby girl. They are perfect - for "piggies," as I call them and a lovely side-swept bang look - and as a bonus, a box of 24 comes in every girly color. Goody, goody gumdrops!

When Will the Facebook Twins Row, Row, Row Away?

2011-02-21T15:07:00.000-05:00

Last week I caught the encore presentation of the Piers Morgan interview with Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss, the infamous Facebook twins. When I first started listening to the brothers, they actually seemed honest and sincere. They were selling their story and I was buying it. I knew they were a pair of over-privileged chaps whose intellectual property truly was stolen and as an “idea woman” myself, I could only imagine how stinging it would be for someone else to gain credit (fame, billions and notoriety) for my brainchild.

Now I won’t use the Social Network’s “fictionalized story” upon which to base my opinion; I understand that the movie just gave me a skeleton for an approximate scenario. The real story, as told by the Winklevoss twins, portrays Mark Zuckerberg in an even uglier light. However, the more the twins kept talking, the more they talked themselves into a corner. They used business school jargon sprinkled with Harvard confetti to try to portray halos over their heads.

For those that don’t know the story …

While at Harvard, the twins found out about Zuckerberg’s technical genius and approached him to be a “partner” in building out the site they envisioned. When Zuckerberg first found out their plan for “HarvardConnection,” (the name they intended for the site, later called ConnectU), he asked them how it was different from the already-thriving sites like MySpace and Friendster. The twins explained that it would be the “Harvard.edu” address. The brilliance in their idea was that it kept the site exclusive.

Harvard preaches the importance of working together in teams – and like obedient Harvard soldiers, the twins enlisted the help of the genius to implement the plan they couldn’t bring to fruition on their own. These Olympic rowers were only used to giving orders.

Zuckerberg agreed to design the site – but duplicitously took their idea, revised it, programmed it and launched it. All while, he was stalling the twins, telling them that he was “working on it.” Instead he used that time to launch his own site, “The Facebook.”

Seemingly Zuckerberg skipped the Business and Ethics class. Shocker … not like we live in a country that’s led by unethical politicians and capitalist pigs. (Judgmental, aren’t I? Well, they put themselves on the podium for arbitration.)

Fast forward to 2008.

Facebook agreed to a settlement with the Winklevoss brothers, which resolved claims that Zuckerberg stole the idea for his social-networking website from them. They agreed to a settlement of $65 million in stock and cash.

Two years later, the Winklevosses started the process of appealing the settlement, which is still ongoing. They are accusing Zuckerberg and Facebook of, “misrepresented the value of the equity component of the settlement,” and stating that Zuckerberg hid electronic communications between himself and others that could prove the original allegations brought against him were true.

In other words, now that they realized that Facebook is worth more money, they want a bigger cut.

Now I understand an idea is an idea. I have dozens of ideas all day. I write them in my little notebook with the hologram of a lion on it and call it a day. Some days I go back and read through them; many times I tell friends about it. Sometimes they tell me it’s a great idea, but if at any one time I saw that someone actually went and developed an idea I only spoke about – who is the idiot? Me for giving away an idea or them for actually realizing it’s a good idea and executing it.

This world will always be full of those that are thinkers and those that are doers. There is room and a need for both kinds of people in the world. But it’s such a disservice to fellow humans that these brothers, otherwise bread to be strong, patriotic, honorable men have fallen to the same temptations of Wall Street. Instead of using their education and opportunities to create something helpful to common (or disadvantaged) man, they are parading their cause. A couple of spoiled brats crying to the world for justice.

During the Morgans interview, the twins relentlessly kept insisting the Zuckerberg is doing it for the money – but they, on the other hand, are doing it for JUSTICE. Seriously? Would they be happy if Zuckerberg admitted that he took their original idea and didn’t give them any money? I don’t think so.

They sounded preposterous. One of the twins went on a convoluted, well-rehearsed tirade about justice while the other twin admitted they just wanted the money they originally were demanding ($125 million, although they didn’t give the actual figure to Morgan). Really? Will that make you privileged guys shut up and go away?

They want more money because they see what it’s become … but they also want the notoriety. They want to be on the cover of Time Magazine as people of the year. They want to be acknowledged as the Facebook creators.

Only they aren’t. They had a seed, that unplanted and unnourished, was nothing but potential.

Now that the site has flourished, they feel badly and want more and more. Men and their power. These are the type of men that command others to fight wars. These white-blooded Americans would never get their own hands dirty.

By the end of the interview, I thought they were repulsive human begins. Sitting there in their fancy suits, spitting out their bullshit and completely delusional. They are living in a world so different from the rest of us. Egypt and the entire Middle East is in chaos; there are wars and famine and sickness in the world and these two fortunate assholes are sitting here on national TV saying that $65 million is just not enough.

The twins say this new lawsuit has no guarantees. Maybe they’ll get less, they even said. It’s a serious risk, they said.

They should be ashamed of themselves and America should be ashamed of them. We are a culture that considers men like this as part of our elite; these are the supposed future leaders of the world. The innovators, the geniuses.

I am completely disenchanted with this Harvard snobbery. In the movie, they portray the boys going to the President of Harvard and “telling on” Zuckerberg.” The administrator dismissed them as a couple of boys scorned that another took their idea and actually ran with it. (What does Harvard care which alumni gets the credit?)

What are they doing now other than trying to shake down Zuckerberg for more cash? Training for the London 2012 Olympic Games, of course. They’re rowers and that’s their main focus now. Win for America? How are they making the world a better place?

So do the bros use Facebook? Of course they do. Both proud users of biggest time-suck created by our generation. “Technically we’re using our idea,” they say. Good thing they already had that Harvard.edu address so they were allowed to join. Oh wait, Zuckerberg changed that. Facebook is home to 500 million users – because Zuckerberg allowed everyone to join – not just those with the prestigious ivy league email address.

While they continue to tisk, tisk at Zuckerberg and accuse him of being a money whore, he continues to pledge money and donate to various organizations. He lives modestly, wearing sweatshirts. He doesn’t fit their all-American vision of what Harvard grads or MBAs should look like.

The Winklevoss Twins, as they’ll forever be known want more than their fifteen minutes. They want lasting notoriety. They want the power. They want credit. They want more and more money. They exist in a ego-driven world in the clouds above us. Please let them float away.

I Heart Cheburashka

2011-02-20T22:15:00.000-05:00

It took me years to be proud of being Russian. (Growing up in American during the Cold War will do that to a girl.) I came to this country over 30 years ago when I was just shy of 5 years old. I remember very little from the “old country,” but few things still give me a great sense of nostalgia.

As I’ve grown older and have children of my own, I am drawn to more Russian things, movies, songs and long to have more Russian friends. When I went to a cousin’s birthday party this past weekend and saw that all of their friends were Russian, I had a pang of jealousy. They seemed to be hanging out with “their people.” I wondered if when I was younger I felt like such an outsider because I lived in a neighborhood that (at that time) had few Russians. I didn’t grow up in Little Russia – a.k.a. Brighton Beach – or anywhere in Brooklyn for that matter.

There are several things that bring me that false sense of homesickness – a term that really doesn’t fit the feeling. I don’t wish to live there, but I get a warmth inside when I see the following things:

•    Matryoshka dolls
•    A certain vanilla ice cream that I remember having after I got my ears pierced when I was three.
•    Alla Pugacheva songs
•    CHEBURASHKA!!!

I remember watching Cheburashka when I was a tyke, but more than that, I remember the song from the cartoon that my father used to sing to me. The song will always bring me back to my daddy singing it to me. I hear his voice and I see his face and I am 8 years old and he is happy and there is innocence. When my half-brother turned 5, I made him a painting where I wrote all the words to the song (it’s a happy birthday tune). Yesterday, at the birthday party, I noticed my cousin had a stuffed animal of the side character from the cartoon. When you pushed him, he also sang the happy birthday song. I almost cried – I wanted the toy RIGHT NOW.

When my 8-year-old was born, someone gave me a Cheburashka CD that I played for him in hopes that hearing the language and the songs would, later in life, draw out some pang of wistfulness.

It’s interesting how I’m raising a new generation and watching them grow up in front of my eyes in a culture different than my first one. For my children English is their first language and peanut butter and jelly is a normal kids’ food. I grew up drinking tea for breakfast and eating caviar on a regular basis – and not because we were rich. My kids will never feel this longing – but I will try to give them little doses when I can…

Here’s a clip of how Cheburashka begins:

… And here’s a clip of the Birthday song:

… And the toys:

Cheburashka

Crocodile Gena

A very cool t-shirt

... and an even cuter one for the babes.

Condom Joke

2011-02-19T22:13:00.000-05:00

We met some nice Russian folks today at a cousin's birthday party (living the Year of the Family) and one of them told me a funny joke. (I modified it slightly.) Here goes:

A man walks into a drug store with his adolescent son. They happen to walk by the condom display, and the boy asks, "What are these, Dad?"

The man matter-of-factly replies, "Those are called condoms, son. Men use them to have safe sex."

"Oh I see," replied the boys pensively. "Yes, I've heard of that in health class at school."

He looks over the display and picks up a package of three and asks, "Why are there three in this package."

The dad replies, "Those are for high-school boys. One for Friday, one for Saturday, and one for Sunday."

"Cool!" says the boy. He notices a pack of six and asks "Then who are these for?"

"Those are for college men," the dad answers, "Two for Friday, two for Saturday, and two for Sunday."

"WOW!" exclaimed the boy. "Then who uses these?" he asks, picking up a 12-pack.

With a sigh, the dad replied, "Those are for married men. One for January, one for February, one for March..."

Central Park, Carnegie Deli, Times Square

2011-02-18T21:36:00.000-05:00

On this first spring-like day in 2011, we meandered through my favorite place in NYC: Central Park. It was 67 degrees and all the leftover blizzard snow created muddy pathways, but it was gorgeous. Couples lingered on benches eating lunch; runners circled the reservoir, and we strolled our 8-month-old under the still-bare trees.

After a few hours, we made our way downtown and decided to have an early dinner at Carnegie Deli. The boyfriend was in the mood for a classic pastrami on rye and I thought a matzoh ball soup would be fantastic. WRONG!

At first we were delighted that they actually allowed us to park our stroller near our table since the baby girl was sleeping under the canopy. (Usually many Manhattan restaurants don't let us do that since they claim it is a fire hazard.) I read through the menu to see if there was another non-meat option and even tasted their tuna salad, which I decided against since it was celery and mayo heavy. I knew the prices were high, but I still had slight sticker shock ($9 for a bowl of soup; about $19 for the pastrami). We ordered within a few minutes and they brought over a bowl of sour and half-sour pickles. So far, so good.

I went to the bathroom, down the old decrepit staircase. The woman's room had a sign that said "Pardon our appearance during construction." Incidentally, I didn't see any much-needed renovations happening. There were two stalls and both were filthy, in biologically inappropriate ways. Normally I would dismiss this - but thought it was a bit inappropriate that a "classic" restaurant that has no problem keeping up with inflation didn't keep up their latrines.

I came back to find our food had arrived. Such quick service!

To their credit, the bowl of soup was enormous and the matzoh balls were the size of baseballs. I was excited for my first taste. I cut the huge ball with my spoon and the texture seemed promising; the taste, however, was an entirely different story. They were flavorless; just a mush of texture and the chicken broth tasted nothing of chicken. I wondered why the broth was thick and such a dark yellow color. I took one slurp and made my tasting face, quickly followed by my yuck face. I tried another spoonful but that was all I needed to discern that this wasn't even made out of chicken; it tasted like artificial bouillion cube soup. I prefer Campbell's.

I called the waiter over and told him the soup didn't taste right. He said he would talk to the manager. I told him to bring him over!

A minute later he comes over and says, no problem - would I like anything else? I told him I wouldn't. Then he said I was right. The soup was awful. The previously cold waiter turned warm as he confided in me. He said he tasted it and it had no chicken in it; he agreed that it was atrocious.

According to the boyfriend, the pastrami sandwich was mediocre at best. It was not as good as he remembered in the 80s, but the bathrooms were definitely still the same.

The highlight of the Deli was that we saw Geddy Lee, the lead vocalist, bassist and keyboardist from Rush. We tried telling several waiters that he was someone famous – and don’t they want his photo to add to their celebrity-photo wallpapered walls – but in broken English, they all told us they don’t do that anymore. As we were leaving, the musician’s wife came over and told us our daughter was gorgeous.

We ended up walking to the train through Times Square. This was the first time that the baby girl was alert enough to really appreciate the lights. She loved it, turning her head like an owl in every direction to try to see it all. Her parents, numb to the lights from a lifetime of seeing them, were mesmerized by her reactions.

Overall a glorious day – just skip the Carnegie Deli. For the best matzoh ball soup – I say Second Avenue Deli all the way!

The Dentist: Part 2

2011-02-17T21:58:00.001-05:00

The preview of spring today and tomorrow is well appreciated; sunshine is much needed since I don't believe in taking Vitamin D supplements. Today I didn't get to enjoy it as much as I would have liked - since I had Part Two of the dentist.

I've decided that I really dislike the receptionist at the dentist's office - enough so that I may never go back.

I called to tell them I MAY be 10 minutes late and her answer: "OK, but can't you try to come on time?"

"Yes," I tell her. "I am trying to come on time, but I have a baby and have to pass her off to her daddy and he's at work. It's ten minutes and I'm giving you the courtesy of calling to say I MAY be late. Yesterday you made me wait 30 minutes after I came on time. I didn't say anything. I don't think it's too much to ask. I've been a patient for almost a decade."

"OK," she says again. "But please try to come at 5. I will tell the lab technician to wait for you for 10 minutes. But only 10 minutes." I had no idea what the lab technician had to do with anything. He made the tooth in the morning and had left already.

At this point I was mostly angry because she was being so STUPID. Her words were coming out but they made no sense. Was she serious? I am coming in for a $1,500 veneer and she's telling me I can't be 10 minutes late? I felt steam coming from my ears.

When I passed the baby off to daddy, I ran the 15 blocks through Midtown to make it to the dentist's office. I didn't want to walk around another day with an overly-sensitive tooth stump. I walked in the office at 5:03pm. There were several people in the waiting room and what seemed like a chaotic office at closing time. There were still plenty of patients in the various rooms. I waited at least 10 minutes before they took me in and another 20 minutes before the dentist came in to work on me.

I told the compassionate dental assistant from yesterday that I thought the receptionist was a bitch. I recounted the phone conversation to her. At first she said, "Oh my God, she said THAT?" Then she tried to excuse her by saying she was foreign. Oh OK - so foreign is now an acceptable excuse for lousy customer service?

The tooth fix went on without much of a hitch. He blew some air on it, there was lots of drooling, some cement and an ultra-violet light and presto - my perfect smile is back again. For that, I'm grateful for modern dentistry.

PHOTO NOTE: Thanks to Gray, the BF's brother-in-law, for this heart cookie. I figured a cookie was a perfect picture after you get your teeth fixed. Or not.

The Broken Tooth

2011-02-16T22:55:00.001-05:00

I can’t believe I’ve become a dentist hater. I used to love my childhood dentist, Ira. (We were on a first name basis.) He filled my first cavities in America – all with the help of the snoopy nose, a.k.a. gas. Of course I liked the dentist – he got me high from the time I was 8 years old. He would engage me in conversations about my non-existent boyfriends. For the two decades that I went to this same dentist, I didn’t have any more cavities.

I was so proud of MY dentist. I got him a speaking gig at my elementary school, P.S. 220. Even early on I was Dental Pimping. (From dentist to clowns … so are the pimping days of my lives.) We had a whole-school assembly when Ira came to the school. He gave out toothbrushes and floss and showed us a plaque demo.

But today is a different day and this is a different dentist. I’ve been going to this dentist for about 7 years – he’s OK. I used to think he was better than he actually is; now he’s just another tooth butcher.

Today I sat at the dentist’s office because I broke my tooth about a month ago. It had broke once before three years ago and he put some bonding on it and it held up … until it broke again. He said I needed a veneer. This would be a two-day process - one day to prepare the tooth and the next day to put it on.

I was nervous but tried to remain calm. I brought him pictures of my new baby and he feigned interest as he flipped through the photo book.

First step was to drill down my tooth to a stump (or more like a baby tooth among the grown-up teeth). I saw the dental assistant put the syringe on the stainless steel tray and wondered who it was for since clearly they didn’t mention that I would need a SHOT – only drilling.

Apparently you have to get numb before the drilling.

“Oh no, I hate the novocaine,” I told him. “Lets try it without the anesthesia.”

“Well I can probably get all the drilling done in three minutes,” he said and began the noise that would only be tolerable if it was also making ink on my skin.

He drilled for what seemed like three minutes, but I was wincing. I tried relaxation exercises; I was breathing deeply and visualizing the beach in Tulum. I thought of James Frey in A Million Little Pieces and how we went through some major dental work without drugs. Then I realized that his “memoir” was partially embellished.

After a minute of drilling, the dentist stopped and I was glad.

“I guess I need the anesthesia,” I told him. I felt weak. In Russia both my parents had all their dental work with little or no anesthetic. Here I was not being able to withstand three minutes of drilling.

He gave me the painful shot as I winced into the leather chair that still smelled like Windex from the cleaning before me. A tear uncontrollably fell from my the corner of my eye.

He drilled for another two minutes and he was done. Then I had to bite down on something that felt and smelled like silly putty. I had to stay biting for 5 minutes. Of course at this point the dentist left the room and I was left with the assistant.

I started drooling profusely on my blue bib but I couldn’t ask for a tissue since my mouth was putty gagged. She said I could text her – but she meant I could write down what I wanted to say. So she gave me a paper towel and a pen so I could write down that I needed a tissue.

Then the lab technician who makes the veneers came in so he can “match” my tooth. “B1,” he said confidently, pulling out one of the fake teeth from the portable row of multicolored fake teeth. I took it and held it up to my stump tooth to see if it matched my other teeth. I was skeptical.

“Are you sure this is the right color?” I ask this gray-haired technician, who had upper teeth that were clearly dentures or veneers in bright white and lower teeth that were heavily yellowed.

He was certain and tried to convince me. The dental assistant with the bloody tooth tattoo tried to reassure me. “He’s been doing this for 50 years,” she giggled.

“But he couldn’t even match his own teeth,” I told her.

“What does that have to do with anything,” she asked. "He only makes the teeth."

“Yeah, but if I was a make-up artist and you came to me to do your make up and my face was a hot mess, would you want me doing your face?”

“You have a point,” the assistant gave it to me.

The dentist came in later and looked at the B1 fake tooth. He pulled it out of the row and held it up to my tooth. My lip was completely numb and the dentist kept telling me to smile. I thought I was, but realized I looked like a stroke victim. I wasn’t sold on the B1. Neither was the dentist.

He said he needed a second opinion. He called in the other dentist. She said it was too light – I definitely needed the A1. I looked at the A1 under my paralyzed lip and agreed the grayer version of porcelin was better.

I go back tomorrow at 5pm to get it cemented on.

Today Was One of Those Days

2011-02-15T22:13:00.001-05:00

Today was one of those days when I was extra tired. My feet felt heavier, my arms hung lower and my eyelids downright drooped. Luckily the sunshine made the driving to and from Riverdale easier. We went to bed extraordinarily late last night. We pretended that we didn’t have a baby that will wake us at 6:00am and we pretended that I wouldn’t have to get out of bed. We pretended it was how it used to be and we weren’t snoozing until after 2:30am. That used to be our regular bed time. Now it was like parental torture.

Today was one of those days when I was glad I don’t have a corporate job where I have to be “on.” I used to come to work on 3 hours of sleep and pseudo-function through the day. I remember the days when it felt like someone else owned my time. Those were the days when I cherished every minute because they were so fleeting – but also the days when I would get angry if I ever had to wait in line, when I was always running. I was always running and I like slowed down so much better.

Today was one of those days when I sat down to blog “because I said I would” and not because there was anything special I had to say. I have tons of open documents – at least 3 dozen – that need editing and refining and then they’ll be ready for publishing. But today I’m just doing it because I said I would.

Today was the day after a Valentine’s I’ll always remember, when spring teased us and we ate sushi and had Prosecco. Today was a day I saw my mom and we reminisced about our life when we first came to America – seemingly a lifetime ago. Today was a day we all sat around and ate dinner together – Mexican night. I am so grateful for today.

It was a day that could easily have floated by as just another snowflake in the storm, but instead I took a minute and wrote it down. If only for a blog.

(Note: Photo is of 3-part family painting of a heart. Each of us made one part of it.)

For all the Valentine’s Day Haters

2011-02-14T13:05:00.002-05:00

Many of people hate Valentine’s Day – and I’m sure there are plenty of reasons.

Here are some you may have heard:

“It’s a Hallmark-created holiday to fuel the economy.”

“I don’t need a holiday to tell my honey how much I love him. I love him every day.”

“It’s a holiday to make us single people feel bad.”

“It’s too much pressure and it all falls on the guy – why isn’t there a reciprocated holiday for the guy where he gets steak and a blow job?”

And from the Jews in my life – I’ve even heard this one:

“I don’t celebrate because it’s a holiday based on SAINT Valentine.” (Yes this is usually the same group that doesn’t celebrate Halloween. Why? Because Halloween stems from All Hallows Eve, which is the evening before All Saints Day, a Christian Celebration.)

Here’s my take on it.

Our culture has created many Hallmark holidays. The same people who use that excuse for Valentine’s Day have no problem celebrating Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. You should be an equal opportunity Hallmark-holiday heater.

No, you don’t need a holiday to tell your darlings how much you love them. Of course you should tell them every day – or any moment you feel it. But I think the deeper meaning of the holiday (if you can use deeper and Valentine’s in the same sentence without a giggle) – is to take a time out to celebrate the love in your life. It’s just a cultural justification to do some PDA (Public Displays of Affection.) Why not use the excuse to make out in public, indulge in a great meal and remember to have sex (for those of you who need a reminder?!?!)

Appropriately Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day commercials hit it right on the head this year. “It’s not for saying I love you. It’s for saying I love us. I love who we are together.” Their tag line is “Life is a Special Occasion.”

And truly – it is. There is so much ugliness, war, sickness in the world – that if Hallmark wants to lead everyone in a love fest for a day – why not? What’s a little love spreading going to hurt?

It’s like New Year’s Eve – for couples. A reason to party legitimately. Or St. Patrick’s Day, for that matter – celebrated by Irish and non-Irish drunks alike. (Incidentally there are Thanksgiving haters too. Should you give thanks one day a year?)

But the argument that it’s a holiday designed to make singles feel bad is like saying that women who don’t have children (too young, too old, don’t want them, lost them…) should hate Mother’s Day.

The argument that it falls on the man is somewhat annoying. It’s true that society deems it slightly more of the male responsibility – but that is our society’s tribute to traditional courting – and it rarely shows its proud head anymore. It’s an ode to the way things used to be, perhaps cliché romance – but romance nonetheless. But a man doesn’t have to fall into the teddy bears, roses and chocolates trap just like he doesn’t have to buy into the tie cliché for Father’s Day.

In terms of a reciprocal holiday - there is Steak and BJ Day. I would wish for all the men out there that they find a lover that thinks a steak and a blow job is their idea of a good time too. (Well – maybe not the steak – there are way too many women vegetarians nowadays – but they still have to eat their man's meat.)

But, I agree that it’s become too commercial. Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day – all of it. Is Hallmark setting your calendar for love declarations? Show your honey how much you love them in February, your mother in March, your father in June?

Am I celebrating? No, not really … but mostly because he thinks “it’s a Hallmark holiday – and he doesn’t need a holiday to tell me he loves me – he loves me everyday.”

(Yet every year – even though we don’t celebrate – he comes home with something.)

Happy Valentine’s Day – to the Lovers and the Haters.

To my lover, my partner, my best friend – I promise a life of nights filled with broken dishes. I love you every day.

AMENDMENT: He came home with flowers.

Heart Rocks

2011-02-13T23:32:00.000-05:00

In August 2008 on our way home from our first trip to Maine, we stopped in Newport, Rhode Island. While stopping at a beach along the Cliff Walk, we ran into a woman looking for heart-shaped rocks along the predominantly-pebbled beach. It seemed like the perfect idea for someone who authors a blog called Hearts Everywhere. Thus the hobby was born. I've been collecting them through life and travels. I write the date and where I found it. They live in the bathroom that used to be just mine before it became just mine and the baby's. The girls' room.

The rock that started the collection.

Making Challah

2011-02-12T19:35:00.000-05:00

French toast is one of my specialties, so when my sister said she was coming for brunch on Saturday, it was a no-brainer. I make my French Toast ONLY out of challah bread. Usually, though, I buy the bread. This time, when I realized that the Fresh Direct challah rolls were going to cost me $10 worth of bread, I thought, can't I just make it? Millions of Jewish women have been making it for hundreds of years ... can't I join the collective baking history?

I found this easy recipe/tutorial on You-Tube. (The comments that focused on the bread, rather than the girl, were promising enough.)

The challah making process was quite involved - but mostly because you have to let it rise for 2 hours the first time and then again for at least another hour after you already braid it. The whole process took about 5 hours, although most of that time was waiting.

Here are some pictures of what the challah transformation looked like ...

It was delicious and the consequent French Toast was amazing!

Cleaning Day - Ode to Toy Story 2

2011-02-11T19:25:00.000-05:00

Today was cleaning day. In its honor, I am posting one of my favorite animated movie clips - from Toy Story 2. Where Woody gets restored to perfect.

Now who wouldn't want a magic man like this one knocking on your door to bring everything back to new?

Having Faith in Life

2011-02-10T13:00:00.006-05:00

I went backwards in life with my money making. Now that I’m in my 30’s, I live very much hand-to-mouth, relying on the man in my life for much financial support. This was not so in my 20’s, when I was making a steady paycheck and spending whatever I wanted on almost anything I wanted (within reason, of course). I don’t buy for myself now – nothing really. Once every few months I get a mani/pedi with my sister for $20 and eat pasta that night because I feel guilty that I spent that money on myself.

It’s weird – but I don’t worry so much about money. In a phone conversation with my mother, she was telling me she gets nervous since she doesn’t have a job. The savings account is dwindling down and she’s frightened. I’m different. Sometimes I have a breakdown when I check my bank account – but mostly I try not to look at the numbers [READ: zeroes]. I just have faith.

I don’t believe in God, per se, but I do believe in the greater power in life. I believe in the circle and that life will provide when it needs to. Any one day is a day that can change our lives – in that, I have faith. Every day I check my email and my mail and think something will come that will change my life. An offer, an opportunity, a check?!

Yesterday I caught the end of the movie, Cast Away on a snow day afternoon. Tom Hanks' character, in his penultimate monologue in the movie, tells a friend how he almost gave up hope, but that the next morning the tide brought in a broken port-a-potty that he later used to make a boat and get off the island. "You never know what the tide will bring in," he says. (Amen, I thought.)

There have been challenging times in my life – and certainly times when money has been tough, but it has seemed to me that whenever the numbers have shown themselves to be so low, whenever I have felt financially hopeless, life has intervened with help.

Recently a job opportunity presented itself to me – back to the corporate world – and I was once again taunted with a regular paycheck. It felt like a familiar crossroads. Should I jump at the opportunity to ease my daily financial hardship or do I continue to struggle monetarily, but persist in making my dreams come true? Do I throw away 13 years of corporate experience in hopes of striking it “not broke” on a virtually unlaunched, self-fulfilling writing career?

I’m a grown up with adult responsibilities and two kiddos who call me mom. My dream is to write stories, take photos and travel the world. My boyfriend is my partner, my daughter’s amazing daddy, my biggest cheerleader and my bestest friend – and he is in my inspiration daily – for creating the life I want to live. He has faith – not only in life – and love – but also in ME. He believes that I can do it.

When I joke about whether I was destined for greatness, he answers affirmatively – and seriously. “Of course you are.” (No wonder my parents like him.)

As for today, I hope and I dream. Some days I truly believe that it will happen. I live everyday regretting nothing and sucking every ounce of deliciousness out of it because these days will not last for long. Life is all about transition; its only constant is change.

Every few months I have a day when I wake up and I declare, “I will sell this house today” a la Annette Bening’s character in American Beauty. I always sell it when I declare it. I guess the day is soon approaching when "I will sell this house today" will become I will sell this story, I will sell this book. Because isn’t the famous saying, “If I write it, they will read it?”

Making Friends on the Subway

2011-02-09T22:05:00.002-05:00

From Hearts Everywhere

I was on my way home from a doctor’s appointment, headed Downtown on the express green train. I was seatless, clenching to the disgusting oily pole, my purple nails blatantly at the eye level of the two women squished in the bench below me. I tried to focus on my book, but the conversation of the two women was too loud.

“Can I take this to Canal Street,” asks the younger one, an urban Fashionista in training.

“I thought this stopped there, but I don’t see it on the map. You have to transfer to the local, I think.” She was a thin blonde with straggly hair and sounded a bit manic, but her eyes were focused enough. She kept saying the same thing in different ways but she seemed lonely rather than crazy.

The Fashionista wanted to know if she could walk.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of far. I think it stops at Canal and Center. Where do you want to go?” The blonde started interrogating her.

She told her she wanted to go in the neighborhood where they sell the fake purses.

At this point I chimed in. I told her to get off at Brooklyn Bridge (next stop) and walk. It was 15 minutes max. Satisfied with my solution, she went back to fiddle through her People Magazine.

But the other women kept talking to me - and fast. Later on when I got home and told my boyfriend about this interaction, he immediately coined her as THAT kind of woman. The kind that will latch onto me. I have a Weirdo magnetism, he reminds me.

“I love your nail polish,” the bleached blonde transitioned the conversation.

“Thanks,” I told her. “I actually don’t like it, though. My boyfriend got it for me.”

“Oh, so you put it on to ‘please him’?” She assumed, and did the quote marks in the air for emphasis.

“Oh no,” I explained. It was the only color I had in the house and last night my very old manicure got the best of me and I had to redo them.”

“Well I love them!” She continued. “What are you reading?”

“Bukowski. Ham on Rye.”

“Is it good? I love him. I loved Barfly. Mickey Rourke was in that, wasn't he? Faye Dunaway was amazing! Did you see it? I love Faye Dunaway. Are you a writer?”

She poked me where I was weak.

“Yes, I’m a writer.” I smiled proudly.

“Me too,” she says. “I’m originally from San Diego, you know a California girl but I’ve lived here 10 years and I’m a New Yorker now. I just love it. I’m a stand-up comedienne and a writer.” She certainly had the speaking speed of a New Yorker.

“So have you read Bukowski?” I came back to topic.

She told me she hadn’t. (Didn't she just say she loved him?) I told her I recommend Women and The Post Office. We chatted the whole way from Union Square to Wall Street.

Her pointer finger was wrapped in a bandage. She told me her window almost amputated it this past weekend. Sixteen stitches and she was meeting a lawyer on Wall Street. It was her landlord’s fault, she insisted because the window wasn’t installed correctly.

She loved Faye Dunaway, she kept bringing it back around to the classic actress. Had I seen “Mommy Dearest?” Of course I had. It was a cult movie – did I know that? Who did I think was better? She said that her sister and her often argued about who was more interesting. Was it Faye Dunaway or Joan Crawford, the woman she portrayed? We jointly quoted “No more wire hangers” and laughed about it.

She used to work in media, the comedienne/writer whispered. "I was BIG in that world," she explained, "but no longer. I make a little money doing the comedy thing but I mostly live on my savings. The recession has been hard on me, but I'm happy. I'm living my American dream. I'm so glad I don't have to get up in the morning anymore or rush to get to work."

Me too, I told her. But I have kids I told her. She said congratulations.

When the train stopped at Wall Street she gave me her card. It was one of those flimsy ones you can get for free at Vista Print. It was mauve with a generic butterfly picture in a circle. It had her name, cell phone and email address on it. I noticed the Website looked rather long, but when I looked closer I realized it was absurd. Without revealing it, it was something like: www.realwebsite./profile/AB/73-2B/ac.htm

I thought that seemed odd - but gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was just not Internet savvy.

“Where are you from?” she asked as we were getting off the train.

I told her I was from here.

“You’re way too friendly to be a New Yorker. Are you on Facebook?” she screamed as she trailed up the stairs behind me.

“Yes,” I told her. Luckily I didn’t give her my name or my Website.

“FACE ME,” she screamed and turned onto Broadway, walking away from me.

When I got home I recounted the story and we pulled up the wacky Web address.

What we found was Internet chaos attached to this unique woman that some may label as being crazy – but not because she spoke quickly or was a bit quirky. She was completely delusional. She had about 10 blog-type sites attached to her profile and most of them were unprofessional, desperate and completely Hallmark. Her main cause seemed to be Internet fraud and in proving her innocence.

Her professional resume was a series of Assistant jobs, which were, to her credit, mostly at reputable media companies, but she didn't hold any one job longer than a year.

Between her various egoistic splashes on the Internet, there was very little writing. There were scattered inspirational quotes and chicken-cross-the-road type jokes. It was very clumsy, adolescent and repetitive. She kept referring to herself in the third person and many of her paragraphs were composed of sentences which all began with her name.

It looked a little like this:

Jane Doe is amazing. Jane Doe is a writer and living her dream. Jane Doe is a stand-up comedian. Jane Doe is reliable. Jane Doe loves God and happiness and New York City and TRUTH.

My boyfriend and I spent a few minutes bouncing around these “unconventional” (and I say that with quote marks in the air) sites before laughing out loud at the preposterousness.

“I told you she was THAT type of woman,” the boyfriend says.

And here I thought I made a new friend.

Celebrating 8 Months with Pizza (Is There a Better Way?)

2011-02-08T21:01:00.000-05:00

Mackenzie turned 8 months old today and to celebrate, she got up an hour early - but compensated with a late nap. After returning from my drive to pick up Jake at school in Riverdale I found the girl still sleeping at 5pm. Strange for someone who goes to bed around 6:30pm. I was excited at the prospect at dinner out with the whole family.

I suggested we all go to John's when she wakes up. It's my favorite pizza place in Manhattan and I've been going there regularly since high school. My best friend and I used to take the Staten Island ferry and then the 1 train to Christopher Street and indulge. It was always such a schlep, but it was always worth it.

Anticipating her waking, I got the diaper bag ready. I even put make up on for the first time in weeks. (This from a girl who used to not leave her apt without makeup.) Daddy decided that the Baby Bjorn carrier hurt his back too much so we had to switch the entire set up to the Ergo Baby carrier. Then we had to bundle up the baby in the outfit she doesn't love so much. Finally when everyone was properly over dressed and huddling by the door, we decided to get rid of the four Fresh Direct boxes clogging the doorway.

I was the last one out of the apartment, making sure the lights were off and the door was locked.

On the 1 train uptown, I thought about how privileged I was to live in this great city. I lived a short subway ride away from the best pizza and I could spontaneously decide to make it happen. Sitting on the subway next to my 8-year-old son, I looked around. My love was next to me, our baby strapped onto him. His fingers made their way to mine. I smiled and thought, "I know how lucky I am. I am so thankful for this moment."

I felt like our little family was beaming and everyone was staring at us on the subway, thinking "Oh how darling." It felt like a happiness spot light was shining on us.

When we emerged on Christopher Street, the windy evening was biting, but Jake suggested he and I skip down 7th Avenue on our way to Bleecker Street. I obliged happily, thinking what kind of mom doesn't love a good skip along the avenue with her boy?

As we were trotting, I felt so liberated - free, even. I hadn't felt so carefree in a while, with the early week to-do's dancing between the lists in my head. It was invigorating.

We got to John's and took a window booth. Mackenzie got to sit in her first restaurant high chair. I went to go wash my hands and suggested daddy feed the baby some solids while we wait for the pizza. He was happy to do it, he said. Where was the diaper bag?

Oh. Shit.

The diaper bag.

It sits on the bench by the front door.

So no solids and no milk. No pacifier. No change of clothes or no fresh diapers. No toy distractions. Just a high chair.

This explained the free feeling. So weightless I felt. Duh.

She started rubbing her eyes and yawning a few minutes in - but the girl sat like a champ, behaving as though it was her throne. We asked for the ends from the loaf of bread and she gnawed on those stale baguette ends for most of the hour we ate there. (She had no idea what she was missing; the pizza was phenomenal.)

My heart was beating a little faster than usual. I felt a bit guilty and a bit nervous about an impending breakdown. But it never came. We chatted and she flirted with anyone and everyone by batting those eyes and fake laughing.

I'd say 8 months of Motherhood 2.0 is damn fine.

A Girl Raising a Boy: What I Want for My Son

2011-02-07T10:15:00.000-05:00

I’m a girl whose raising a boy. He’s six now; I’m 34. How can I control the programming for a gender for which I hold no code?

I want to sculpt him into a good man. I want to make him tough enough to take the punches and emotional enough to cry when they hurt. I want him to be aware of his happiness first but also be aware of the interaction with the world. Don’t look down as you walk through life. Take the route through the park instead. Stop and watch the sunset. Pick up that rock and write the date on it.

I want him to know that anything is possible. I want him to think that he can make that anything happen. I want him never to doubt my unconditional love because I don’t doubt his. I want him to feel that love is life – it is the flavor and the spice.

It takes him longer to color than other kids. My son is a perfectionist and I take full blame. I know that he’ll be carrying that burden through his life.

He can read books 3 grades above him, but he beats himself up about the coloring. “Sometimes I get outside the lines,” he says.

“It’s OK to color outside the lines sometimes,”I reassure him.

“Isn’t that breaking the rules?” he asks.

“It’s creating your own rules. It’s being unique. You are the one that said it's important to be unique,” I reminded him. “Unique over perfect.”

He taught me that. Of course it’s easy for him; he’s pretty unique and pretty perfect.

I tell him to let ladies first. I tell him to hold the doors. Am I growing a sexist creature? Or a polite one?

Sometimes I think I’m too grown up with him. It’s his fault; he made the first move. He was reciting the alphabet at 16 months. He knew the name of every single Thomas train from Thomas the Tank Engine. There are hundreds and they all look the same. What was I to think?

Last year I told him there was no Santa Claus. That’s probably mean, but I’m Jewish so I kind of felt entitled. His reaction was “Duh!”

This year he told me he believed in Santa Claus. But not one Santa Claus. “That’s impossible,” he said. “How could he get from New York to Africa in one night?”

“I don’t think Santa makes it to Africa,” I disappointed him.

“Well I think there are lots of different Santa Clauses that all look different. Like there’s an Indian one and an African one. There’s even women ones.”

“OK,” I gave in. Not sure why he’s hung up on an African Santa. I know he’s bullshitting me anyway.

One time he engaged me in a half hour lecture on the mysterious life that existed in his brain. There were 3 secret parts that comprised the secret life: Imagination, Invention and Creation. Each part had a unique function, of course. When I asked about the difference between Invention and Creation, he launched into a lecture about how being creative and implementing an idea mandated two different compartments of the mind. I couldn’t argue otherwise. He had me going for a while and then finally, as in letting me down easy, he said “You know this is all pretend, right?”

Yeah, sure, I thought.

After he told me he DID believe in Santa Claus, he told me that he DIDN’T believe in God. This didn’t surprise me. I’m an Agnostic [cynical] Jew who wasn’t raised with faith. I was raised to believe in Science. If you prove it, I will believe you. By choosing to not preach religion to my son, I also robbed him of belief in a greater power (other than Jedi’s). He is happy to collect Chanukah presents and Christmas presents and believe in an African Santa Claus.

These kind of huge child rearing screw ups are definitely ones I deserve to be blamed for later. I didn’t want to preach what I didn’t feel.

He recently told me that he doesn’t like music at school. I was surprised since he’s got a great sense of hearing and he loves listening to music, even if it’s Guitar Hero heavy metal.

“They’re baby songs,” he said. “I like rock.”

“You have good taste,” I told him. “You still behave in music class, right” I ask doubtfully.

“Yeah,” he resounds.

He’s compassionate. I’m not sure how I taught him that but I’m glad he got it. He’ll offer to help people carrying bags on the street. He holds the elevator door when others are hitting door close. He offers up his piggy bank funds for any national disaster. But then again, he is a boy who doesn’t live materialistically unfulfilled. He gets almost whatever he wants (within reason).

I’m divorced and I co-parent. Really co-parent. We split my son down the week. Sundays through Wednesdays with me, Wednesday nights through every other Saturday with the ex-husband. We both have maintained flexible working schedules so that our son essentially has two full-time parents. Aside from relatives, he’s never had a babysitter.

I was tucking him into bed on a Tuesday night. We just finished the goodnight song – John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy. He sings along to the “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans” line. That’s my favorite quote. It’s so obvious, it’s like calling sugar sweet.

“I hate Wednesdays,” I pouted. “I’ll miss you.”

“I hate them too,” he chimes in; more empathetic than truthful.

“No you won’t,” I remind him. “You’re going to your dad’s. You love it there.”

It’s been four years since we’ve been co-parenting. People comment on our technique consistently. Teachers, other parents, riders on the bus – curious and opinionated.

But since I consider myself a virtual part-time parent, I feel like I have to be an extra good parent. Like doing extra credit. Like going to office hours. Going the extra mile to get the A.

But I worry. For all parts political and kind, all loving and considerate of him, he has in him this not-so-mysterious love of guns, battles, explosions and all things with good guys and bad guys. Like it’s that simple. Good guy – live, bad guy – die. Very black and white; very 6 years old. “They” tell me it’s normal for boys to be this way. But still, I worry.

What does my brilliant son want to be when he grows up? I genuinely don’t care as long as he’s happy. I will never guilt him because of his potential. If I see him happy, I feel proud. But still, the worrying bomb is ticking inside.

When his father took him to the Auto Show, the only thing he was interested in was the Marines Infomercial and the tanks. Last year he wanted to be a Ninja when he grew up. This year in a project where they had to create a superhero animal, he created an Army Crab.

He builds Lego models for 15 year olds. Why not an architect? He imagines it and then he creates it – so logically. He uses both sides of his brain. An architect seems like the perfect career; can’t he Ninja on the side? Kind of like Batman. He can dream up some underground Ninja Galaxy with lightsabers and then he can build it and conduct his Ninja business as a hobby – for shits and giggles rather than for the paycheck. I guess he doesn’t think about the paycheck yet. I hope he holds onto that.

Children have their brains set on intake mode; that’s what they’re programmed to do at this point. The rest of their life is about the output.

Over time our brains morph in consistency from silly putty to a porous rock. It can still absorb information, but it’s a lot harder going in; a lot less malleable. There’s a reason for the old dog, new tricks saying. But children have a gift for imagination. They let their brains expand and stretch. They are not bound by grown up limitations.

He can stare at a single page from a Lego catalog for hours. Entire battles emerge off the page with shooting cannons, skeletons and robotic flying creatures. There’s dialog, there’s conflict, there’s resolution. Maybe he’s a filmmaker. Filmmaker is good. Let him make war movies. Let him work with George Lucas and make Stars Wars Episodes 34 – 89.

So yes I worry. It comes part and parcel of the motherhood thing; a buy one, get the other for free. But every day I try to worry less. Every day he amazes me. I spent my life trying to be as good as he is now. He has integrity, values, connection to emotion, confidence.

You’re born with the same eyes you have all your life. They don’t grow. He had these huge eyes when he was a baby. They enormous brown eyes with eyelashes like a giraffe. I could stare at him blink – and he always stared back. He saw directly through my heart as only he could. I’ve often thought he was born an old soul; he was so serious as a baby. I would do a whole circus routine to get a smile out of him. It was like he was born above it all. Like he had lived through it all already and known that the good part was coming.

From the time he was old enough to talk, he has been teaching me how good it really is. Early one gray morning, the coldest day so far of the year, I walked like a grump, while he, chipper as ever, walked with a skip in his step. Literally, skipping every other step. “I love this weather,” he says. I know he does. He loves the cold. I hate it.

We walk to the bus stop and it’s freezing on the corner. He wants to sit on the fence so I let him. We’re across the street from Central Park, it’s late fall and the trees are half bare and half late fall colors. The vibrancy has now moved from the treetops to create an autumnal carpet of leaves on the cold, hard dirt.

My son looks up at the tree directly across the street. “Mommy, the leaves on the tree across the street are so yellow it looks like the sunshine is pouring out from them.” I smile and take a deep delicious breath. I look at him and am reminded – he is life’s good part coming.

*****

(Note: I wrote this piece over two years ago but never published it until now. He is now 8-and-three-quarters years old and incrementally more mature and amazing. I thank my lucky stars I get to call him my son.)

For 5 years after I got divorced and before we moved in with my boyfriend (and had a baby), Jake and I lived on 97th Street. These "Me & Jake on 97" years began - these best years of my life.

Here are some photos from the "Me & Jake on 97" Years:

Superbowl Sunday Pillow Fight

2011-02-06T12:57:00.022-05:00

This morning, my two kiddos decided to have a pillow fight. OK, one of them decided and truthfully it was kind of one-sided. In fact, baby's dad wasn't really on her side, as you can see in the video below.

This lasted for over 10 minutes, but I figure these 40-seconds were enough to get a smile on anyone's face.

The best part is that when she watched the video back, she was laughing even harder!

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL - especially when it's filled with children's laughter.

Bringing Back the Hearts

2011-02-05T21:58:00.000-05:00

The blog is called Hearts Everywhere but it had been a while since I had posted anything heart-related. I was having a crisis of blog identity; I wondered if my blog title no longer fit my blog. As a band-aid for my doubt/guilt, my boyfriend suggested I take one day a week and post something heart-related. (If you want to read why I started my heart obsession, read about it here.)

I love love. I love romance. I love happily ever after.

And Hearts … they kind of found me. Especially in a time when my life was a bit clouded, naturally-occuring hearts seemed seemed to light my path anywhere I looked.

These geometric symbols of love revealed themselves wherever I looked. They were life's reminders of love and beauty. It kind of saw it like a Heart is to Love as a Cross is to Jesus. If you love being a good Christian, you wear a cross; if you love love, you doodle hearts. Or see them - Everywhere.

I sneered at the boyfriend’s suggestion. My blog had evolved as a forum for my rants and a digital scrapbook of my life. The hearts were good background but I wasn’t sure if they were strong enough to play a lead role. Had I become better than my hearts?

I thought I’d wait for a sign.

But I couldn't just look for obvious hearts; this was early February and with Valentine’s Day hearts abound. I live next door to a Tiffany’s and this is their current campaign:

I pass this almost every day – but still, not a sign enough.

Then I got an email from someone asking me to review and write a post about this book. (They found me!)

In the trifecta of heart signs ... earlier this evening the baby girl was finishing her mushy dinner and daddy invited me to come look at her shirt. A stain in the shape of a heart.

A sign that made me stop – take a photo – and blog about.

Today, take a moment to stop, look around, and the find the love (hearts) around you.

Blog-Worthy Dessert

2011-02-04T20:52:00.001-05:00

Growing up in a donut shop - and in a family where both my grandmothers were bakers, dessert has always had a leading role in my life. I love baking, but ironically don't enjoy many baked goods. My favorite dessert - or food for that matter - is ice cream.

I eat ice cream on most nights - and often add embellishments.

On this particular night, this was more of a meal than dessert, but it was spectacular.

Featured in the photo above is a peanut butter & Nutella sandwich on toasted wheat bread served with chocolate ice cream and drizzled with chocolate sauce and topped with walnuts.

I don't usually blog food, but this was so delicious - it was worthy of a post.

I Will Remember this January

2011-02-03T16:29:00.000-05:00

I will remember this January as the one with all the snowstorms that didn’t really affect me much. (I had to drive in it once – but somehow didn’t mind; I grabbed my camera and got some good photos on the way.) I felt terrible for the rest of the country, but got annoyed at all the Facebook weather updates and the photos of the snow, although some were quite amazing. I felt terribly for both my parents who had to keep digging themselves out. My mother with her damaged knee and wrist and my father with his gout-ridden foot.

Jake had 4 snow days, (5th snow day February 2nd) but we probably treated at least 24 days the same way. On a Thursday afternoon in the last week of January I set out to make the best blueberry muffins of my life – and I did.

It was the January where the genius of Fresh Direct and Diapers.com brought all my groceries and diapers to my door.

I will remember this January as one we hibernated a lot and worked on our “project” [READ: BABY]. We had an impromptu 8-person dinner party where Bryan drank too much cheap Tequila and broke my stainless steel garbage can. This was also the party where we talked about hippies a lot, Mexican and other kinds.

This was the January where we threw a very successful surprise party for my sister, who turned 30 on 1/11/11. The party brought both sides of my divorced family together for the first time in a decade.

Love was in the air this January - and not just for me. Wink, wink - you know who you are - both of you.

I will remember this January as the one where we had the 6-hour date night, celebrating 3 men’s birthdays at 3 separate Manhattan locations. I made careful psychological observations and conclusions about all three men, but wrote down none of them.

I will remember this January as the one where we at a lot of bagels and eggs with tofu bacon for breakfast. Where I broke my tooth on a tortilla chip and then waited almost a month to get it fixed. During this broken tooth phase, I learned to be less vain (it’s about time). A new sheet of confidence draped over my shoulders and I was able to stand up taller, somehow more comfortable in my skin.

I will remember this January as the month where I learned to look at photos of myself differently – because of the way I look at pictures of my daughter.

Mostly I will remember this January as being one those cold months when Kenzie was a baby, Jake was a big boy, we were young and in love – and enjoying every ounce of watching life unfold.

The 6-Hour Date Night and the Screenplay that Wasn’t

2011-02-02T13:12:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend and I are the type of couple, which up until our daughter was born 7 months ago, would be out at least 4 nights a week. (Not necessarily partying, but always out soaking up the greatest city in the world.) However, since her birth in June, we have been out alone on only 3 separate occasions. Once when we went to see the Roger Waters: The Wall concert; another time in December for my man’s birthday dinner at Tribeca Grill – and finally last Saturday, the night we celebrated the Male Birthday Trifecta.

The three men, while at different stages of their lives, all had the same birthday goal – to get drunk. But all three decided to do it in different ways – and locations. The first man, turning 39, was going to the Robert Plant concert at the Beacon on the Upper West Side. We’d be meeting him for an intimate sushi dinner first. Man # 2 was turning 30 and celebrating with dozens of his closest friends at a bar in Chelsea. Finally, Man # 3 was in the next decade, shyly turning 42 at a wine bar in the East Village.

Date Night would be a 6-hour escapade; we started at 6pm and had to be home by midnight. We would party with all the men (and respective ladies) in three Manhattan neighborhoods – behaving like properly socializing grown ups.

We started on Wall Street and jumped on the train uptown. Within 20 minutes we emerged from the underground onto 72nd Street where the snow was dazzling around us like sprinkles from the sky. We looked up and almost simultaneously stuck our tongues out to catch the snowflakes – these were delicate morsels of fluffy deliciousness.

We were in a snow globe living out a fantasy date night created just for us. Because we see things that way, him and I – like the world is providing the perfect cinematic background for our dream life.

Somewhere in my snow euphoria on the way to dine on raw fish, I suggested we write a screenplay about this glorious night. (This is not unusual since one of us usually has a screenplay-of-the-day idea.) The night promised to be replete with adventure, witty banter, miraculous character revelations – I could just feel it in the air. Just a few short minutes into the night, I remember saying something extremely witty and I immediately thought it be a great addition to the screenplay. After the sake, though, I no longer remembered anything with any degree of validity or wisdom in it.

Dinner was great; we don’t have a good sushi restaurant downtown so this familiar uptown place was so refreshing. Man # 1 enjoyed his sake, his wife, and reflecting on his last year in the decade of 30. We toasted 39 and sent him to rock out with Robert Plant.

After dinner we trained it downtown to Chelsea where we were early for Man # 2’s celebration. We walked around the neighborhood, reflecting on how long it had been since we were grown-ups lingering around the city together. It’s much easier to hold hands and canoodle on the street when one of us isn’t pushing a stroller.

We had a beer at the Chelsea bar, helping Man # 2 drink himself some memories. This was his 30th birthday party – and here we were the experienced 3-decaders. Welcome to the 30’s, we saluted. Before I realized they had Heineken in a bottle, I had ordered one of their draught beers. I was trying to be experimental and daring and what I got in my mason jar tasted like the water that overstays its welcome in a dying bouquet of flowers.

After about an hour it was time to head further downtown for Man # 3’s stop by. The [free] babysitter had given us a curfew.

Our original plan was to jump in a cab. Instead the weather and outside energy sucked us in and we decided to walk there, slowly meandering through the familiar East Village. At this point we realized we were kind of hungry and in perfect cinematic timing, the boyfriend leads me into Pomme Frites, home of the authentic Belgian fry – or home to exactly what you want after a few drinks on a Saturday night. They serve thick-cut, perfectly-crispened potatoes in red and white checkered paper cones. There was a ridiculously extensive menu of sauces and mayos to go with the fries, but truly they needed no embellishment. We ate the fries while standing at the dark wooden counter that was so cleverly designed for this restaurant. It had holes along the counter’s length designed to perfectly hold the paper cones of French fries.

Finally we made it to the wine bar to have a toast with Man # 3! When I asked how old he was turning, he whispered that it ended in a “2.” We mingled for a few minutes with acquaintances that we only encounter at this particular friend’s party each year. Then a random, screenplay incident happened. Someone came up to us convinced she knew both of us from somewhere. At first I thought she was a bit psycho but in the end of the how do I know you game, we had a laugh. The clown boyfriend had entertained the kids at her company.

At the bar I realized it was almost midnight, and Cinderella-style we bounced and hailed a cab downtown. We made it home only a few minutes late but remained pumpkin-free. By the time I got home, I was way too tired to think about a screenplay – so I blogged about it instead.

Date Night Version 3 Post Baby: Great Success.

Taking the NaBloPoMo Pledge - One More Time

2011-02-01T19:27:00.001-05:00

Two years ago in February 2009, I participated in NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) where I made a blog post everyday. Since then, they send me monthly emails suggesting I try it again. I did it successfully once before (although I was one child fewer last time around) – and have been tempted to try it again. I figured a non-leap-year February is a great place to start. Commitment and Me - do we have a temporary future together?

The irony of me versus the project doesn't end there. When I went to read my NaBloPoMo posts from 2 years ago I stumbled upon one that declared it The Year of the Circle. (Two years later we are now in the self-declared Year of the Family.)

My goal was to simplify my life.

A few months after I wrote that post, life would get a bit more complicated. I moved two separate times, had a bed bug infestation, had an over-breeding rat problem above the drop ceiling – and oh yeah, I got pregnant. Only then did the fun of throwing up - every day for 7 months- begin.

It wasn’t simpler – but it was life.
The other day I was thinking about my favorite phrase, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans." I considered practical examples of how it applied to my life and scenarios popped up any year I mentally explored.

Well, it felt very much like a “year of the circle” moment when I read my last NaBloPoMo post about how my plan was to simplify life – and life, well, had other plans. Touché.

Here's to taking the NaBloPoMo pledge one more time.

Remembering 29-36

2011-01-31T12:34:00.011-05:00

This past summer, my new 4-person-family went on a road-trip through New Hampshire and Maine. We spent 5 days in Bar Harbor, home to Acadia National Park. It was beautiful (although not as amazing as Yellowstone National Park, a road trip we did two summers ago and I still haven't posted pictures.)

Nonetheless, the cottage we rented was adorable and it didn't have a traditional lock-and-key scenario to get in the door. Instead it had a numeric keypad on the door, where a magical combination of digits would yield an open door.

29-36

“I have a way to remember our keycode to enter our vacation house,” my boyfriend told me the day we arrived for our week respite from Manhattan’s heat.

“29-36,” he explains “29 is the age women always they are (want to be) and 36 is the age you actually are.” He smiles, proud of his clever memory trick.

“I don’t want to be 29,” I say thinking back to 7 years ago, a time much less happy than now.”

But as I accidentally locked myself out of the house later that night, I confronted the stainless steel keypad at the door with a sudden ‘oh shit’ moment. Then I calmly repeated and typed into the keypad. “29, the age I want to be and 36, the age I am.”

My Sister's Surprise Party & The Year of the Family

2011-01-28T12:49:00.006-05:00

We threw a surprise party for my sister this weekend. It was the second time we were able to do this; the last time being 18 years ago. My goal, on her 30th birthday, was to make sure she realized she was not # 2. She has gone through life doing everything after me – and with a big mouth, a matching personality, and a demanding (judgmental?) demeanor, I could only imagine that my shadow was pretty intense.

Lucky for her, she was pretty triumphant at standing out in the dark.

But this was 1/11/11 and she was turning 30 – and Goddamnit I was going to celebrate my sister’s birthday. Every year she thanks me for being born – since the story is that I asked for her. I remember saying I wanted a baby sister. My mother says I used to look into other baby carriages longingly and give her speeches to the tune of, “Well when grandma and grandpa die you’ll have your brother but I will have no one. I will be left all alone.”

Of course I don’t know if I really remember it because I actually said it or because it was retold so many times it has become a vague part of my collective history. Nonetheless when I was 6 ½ years old, baby Reena came into my life. For me. I took this responsibility seriously. She was my sister – and according to my parents – and as 30 years would teach me – she was the closest person to me in the world.

I struggled at different stages of our relationship – whether I was the big sister / mother character versus the best friend character. I often walked a fine line, walked on eggshells and cried at night that I was doing the wrong thing or not enough or too much.

For 30 years, we’ve been quintessential sisters, living and breathing the sister bond you read about in greeting cards. As life brought us together or pulled as further apart, we still spoke almost every day; we shared everything. My biggest heartbreak was that my baby sister didn’t always have peace and happiness in her life. It seemed to me she was struggling when she didn’t need to – angry when she could so easily forgive and lonely when she had people all around her.

Recently this has changed. Love entered her life and she seemed touched by fairy happiness dust. I know the kind and have been lucky to be sprinkled myself. She walks with a hop in her step and smiles so it hurts. The best friend sister in me beams warmly; the mommy sister in me is cautiously optimistic (with a dose of Russian cynicism stirred in).

My father planted the seed a couple of months ago. “Reena is turning 30,” you know. “It’s a big number.” And by “big” he was translating the Russian description, which really means “round date.” Not sure why our culture gave special occasion to the birthdays that end in zero or five, but somehow those are cause for exceptional celebrations.

I had debated about whom to invite. Do I invite immediate family only – one side or two? Do I dare do both sides of a divorced family? It was my cousin who urged me. “We’re all adults,” she said. “My parents will come to – no matter who will be there. We’ll all be there for Reena.”

And in the end, they all were.

It was the first time that I had my whole family together in a decade. By “whole,” I mean – both sides of the divorce. My parents split up after 25 years of marriage. Since then, I pretty much flushed the dream of family Sunday dinner or Thanksgiving at my house down the toilet. This is especially sad since we have a very small family. Each of my parents only has one sibling with one child; I only have 2 first cousins.

The party was a success on so many levels. Mostly because the birthday girl was (a) surprised and (b) super duper elated. She glowed, and even said “this was my best birthday ever.” She seemed joyful; I was utterly pleased.

Another byproduct of the party is that it served as the gateway drug. It opens up the door to future family parties. Events where old family can leave old baggage at home and focus on today; creating new memories and passing along the collective family history to the next generation. It is our responsibility and our privilege.

For the last few years, I have given each year a name. For instance, there was the “Year of the Frittata,” where I devoted many Sundays to brunches with friends. There was the “Year of the Baby,” where baby booms erupted like asterisks all around me – and Hollywood. Finally, last year was the “Year of the Circle,” when all lessons kept coming around again.

I’ve declared 2011 the “Year of the Family” – and I will happily appreciate and rejoice in – and with them – daily. (And that means going to visit grandma in Queens more often!)

Finding Bliss in Driving

2011-01-27T15:01:00.000-05:00

Driving is fun – when you live in the city and don’t get ample opportunity to hit the open road. Driving is not fun when you have to drive your 8-year-old son to school and back – through Manhattan traffic – three times a week. If it was just in one direction – it would be tolerable. But on Mondays and Tuesdays, I have to drive up to Riverdale from downtown Manhattan and back again – and then do the trip again about 5 hours later to pick him up. On Wednesday’s I drive him to school, but don’t have to pick him up – since he goes straight to his father’s house.

People seem shocked that I do it. Why does he have to go to school so far away everyone wants to know? (Because he’s lucky enough to be going to one of the country’s best schools while his father is struggling to pay for it.) Truthfully it’s only a 15-mile drive that in most places in the country would take less than ½ an hour. But with Manhattan’s rush hour, it’s a two-hour ride round trip.

I use ZipCar to get myself there and back. In theory, the prices aren’t so bad. About $8/hour for the small car I usually take. But 4 hours a day plus the $4 toll each way means my daily cost is about $50 to drive my son to school. The school bus for his private school is $6,000 a year. A cab would be over $50 each way. These are crazy numbers for most people, aren’t they?

I could take the train with him, but it would take over an hour and a half each way and then walk up a steep hill. For the rides where the 8-year-old is in the car with me, the traffic is usually going in the opposite direction and he only has to sit in the car for 40 minutes. On his dad’s days, they take the train because they live further uptown and it only takes them an hour.

I would think about the drive all the time. When I’m about to drive, during the drive, and then dreading the drive the next day. This is the second winter I’m doing this. Last winter, when we moved downtown and found out the school bus didn’t pick up all the way down here. I was 6-9 months pregnant doing the drive, barely able to hold my pee on the way home. My back was always killing me with the belly perched just under the wheel – but I made it. I drove him up until the very last day of school – and only then did I let myself get induced into a late labor.

When I started the drive this September, I felt lighter – no belly – but still tired in the mornings. Most of my frustration comes from the pedestrians of downtown Manhattan. Wall Street pedestrians rival those of Chinatown with their complete disregard for motor vehicles. Rambling around with a sense of entitlement, both finance junkies and tourists alike trot around with their heads on their destination or in the clouds.

While I wake up optimistic each morning, there is indubitably going to be some asshole to piss me off. I try to resist this nastiness that I know will have me pay it forward and focus on breathing and distraction exercises. I listen to the ridiculous radio shows that target the 20 – 25 year old crowd and hope my son is too into his book or video game to notice the talk of penises.

Most of the two hours I spending thinking. My brain, in the white noise, spins – I write in my head. I create scenarios and dialogue and theories and come to all sorts of realizations – all of which I can’t write down! I tried getting a transcription app for my ipod and attempted to talk into it – but the words spoken sound so differently from the words written. It just didn’t work. The good stuff would stick, I tell myself. The same characters will come to life when I sit down to type, I tell myself. The good ideas can’t be unborn.

In the winter months, we get gorgeous views of the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge as the sky turns rainbow shades of pink, purple and orange right as the sun is going down. On our ride home last week, my son noted that the reflection of the sunset on the mirrored buildings looked like lava was flowing down their sides.

Recently I made a vow to myself to find the bliss in driving. Like anything in life, (I’ve noticed I write that phrase a lot – “like anything in life.” I compare everything to life but the sentence makes no sense since everything is LIFE. Alas, I’ll still leave it in.) I had to realize that if I can’t change the situation (right now), I have to find the beauty in it. I had to suck up every droplet of goodness from my rides.

I have learned to enjoy the silence – and the radio personalities that keep me company. I do the easy crossword puzzle in the free newspaper (amNY) at red lights. I keep my notebook with me at all times. I delight in the “Me Time” I didn’t realize I was wasting. The calm of life – when it’s just me and my head – in a rolling metal box through the city.

Yesterday was quintessential memory day. I knew as it was happening that I’ll always remember it. Another winter storm decided to show its scary face to our city, but it was the calmer weather before the promised thunder snow storm to come later. The private school, which already had 3 official snow days, decided to remain open. The boy and I took to the roads and I drove through the worst snow I ever driven through. It was frightening, but parts of it were magical.

Snowballs the size of grapes were falling all around me, and as if within a snow globe, I drove along, sometimes as slowly as 4mph. Around school in Riverdale they hadn’t yet plowed the streets. I was driving on 2 inches of powder and hoping I didn’t spin out. I took it slow but somehow was relaxed; I had never driven in this weather before. I didn’t love it – but there was something enchanting about it. It felt like nature’s sprinkles on my life.

Every day I wake up and say thank you. I feel so blessed in my life; so lucky. If going on a car ride five times a week to bring my son to an exceptional school is the hardest thing I have to deal with, I’d say I’m doing pretty damn good.

Here are some photos from my drive yesterday. Probably not a good idea to drive and snap - but I was feeling lucky.

Stream of Consciousness Blogging: Can I Do It?

2011-01-21T20:58:00.002-05:00

I’m not one of those bloggers that publishes stream of consciousness writing. You know what I mean … more like journal writing or ranting. Not much for sentence structure or even direction. Just trying to type fast enough to keep up with the words my brain is spitting out.

In theory, it could go something like this:

I woke up this morning and my eyelids were heavier than normal. My lower back ached as I stretched my arms out, draped my robe on my shoulders and began the day. The feeding, carrying, driving, cleaning, loving day that melts into all the other days.

As I walked to the garage in the morning to get my Zipcar, it feels like a chore to say good morning to the man who brings the car. I smile, he says, “Hola. ¿Cómo estás?” I say, “Bien,” which means the same thing in French and in Spanish – but when I say it, I mean it in French, because as I’ve told him for the last year, I don’t speak Spanish. I speak French and Russian – but no Spanish. He persists each morning.

After I drop of my son at school, I drive back to Wall Street in traffic and think. At one point I thought I could use some iPod app to transcribe words – doctor style. But it didn’t work. For a writer, brain-to-computer (or brain-to-paper) is different than brain-to-voice. It just is. When I tried to dictate what I wanted to write it sounded ridiculous. My brain thinks in writing rather than speaking. With writing you can take things back and make them sound better. With speaking, I end up saying it as fast as I think it – but then I often regret it.

But on this one ride home, in the dreadful sleeting weather, stuck in bumper-to-bumper on the West Side Highway, I started longing for this American idea of “Me Time.” Some of my girlfriends would strongly suggest I needed this “Me Time.” It was hard to find this mysterious Me Time. I wanted my Me Time to write – not for massages. It felt too selfish. Luxurious time devoted just for Me?

But then I realized that it’s all Me Time. It’s up to me to see the Me in every moment. As I feed my baby girl, I’m amazed that I brought her into this world. As I sit in this traffic I know that I am alone in my head, finding bliss in silence, or the ridiculous morning radio show. It’s Me Time when she’s napping and I have 2 hours to eat and shower in luxury. It’s Me Time when she plays for herself for an hour and I can write this silly group of words. It’s Me Time when the babes are in bed and me and my honey are snuggling on the couch watching (and living) Parenthood.

It’s my Life – and it has plenty of Me in it. Now I have to learn how to use My Time better.

***

That was an example of the kind of blogging I don’t do – but wish I did. I don’t do it because I don’t think it’s good enough. I don’t do it because I (and only I, of course) am judging it against some invisible hierarchy of blog writing. I don’t do it because I expect more of myself. It doesn’t feel worthy of publishing my stream of thought.

No, I can’t do that. It’s like leaving the house without make up (to me). It’s like giving a present unwrapped. It’s messy – and I’m a neat freak.

No, I won’t just publish a stream of consciousness blog. I will write it once and then I will read it later and rewrite small parts of it. I’ll close the document and reopen it, read it and rewrite it again. Small changes, usually. I’ll struggle about what goes where, ensuring that it flows and I move things around. My journalism training is my Fairy Godmother sitting over my training; I still think back to our AP Guide with every comma, dash or semi-colon. I read it aloud. Finally I wonder if what I wrote makes sense or if anyone will give a shit. I hope it does. I doubt myself – and then publish anyway.

Then I sit and wait for comments or response. I wait to see what my boyfriend will think, what my dad will think, what my good friend, the writer will think. Mostly I get good feedback. At times I’ve written relatively calm pieces on touchy subjects (like breastfeeding or divorce) and those too yielded positive responses.

But still, I don’t publish stream of consciousness. Do people respond to pieces because of the quality of the writing or because of the general idea? In an age of texting and tweeting, where we’ve become conditioned to be succinct, raw and engaging to get attention or initiate conversation in any social networking situation. Is the art of more formal writing going out the window for bloggers?

I’ve been amazed to see the success of some women bloggers out there. Women like Heather Armstrong who launched an entire empire from one blog. I read her blog and think – I’m just as good of a writer as her, aren’t I? I’ve got a matching set of baggage to go with hers; my stories are no more tame. What made her so much better?

She was consistent. She was committed. She was raw and honest. She was real – and that’s what people want to read. She is like the Bukowski blogger – and I should strive to be that good. For that purpose.

Or I could just stay being me – and add in the commitment and consistency bit.

It’s snowing again. I see the white powdery flakes falling outside my dark window 17 flights up in the sky. I realize we are all just snowflakes floating through this earth – no one any better than another – just different.

Recently my 8-year-old said how he hated his voice on the answering machine. I told him that our voices sound very different to ourselves rather than how the rest of the world hears us. I wonder if that’s how it works with writer’s voice. Do others read my words and hear something entirely different than I said them?

I’ve never had writer’s block. I have dozens of notebooks with stories and ideas and words. Words, glorious words, they’re the heart of me. I have so many of them, they corrode my insides if I don’t get them out. If I could publish all of these words as they come out – won’t I be honoring two commitments at once – the one to myself and the world?

Joining the Divorce Club

2011-01-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

For those of us who have been divorced, indubitably at one time or another, we turn the magnifying glass on ourselves and question our judgment. We scrutinize every move, every red flag missed, every sign we ignored. I [thought I] wanted something, I tried it, I gave it my best, and it didn’t work out [according to original plan]. It doesn’t really matter the reason – I thought “forever and always” and instead I got “until now.”

Divorce shakes up your life and reshapes us to move forward (sometimes a bit tainted). Some time during or after, we usually over hypothesize and eventually come up with a conclusion that releases ourselves from the stamp of FAILURE. Only then can we set our hearts free, allowing us to repair our wings and set flight on finding love again.

Blah, blah, blah – life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans and give peace a chance, but sometimes the hardest thing to accept is that your marriage wasn't a "mistake." It was what you wanted at the time and you did it. You didn’t always think of the repercussions of it not working out because, quite frankly, going into it, you romantically thought you were the type that was going to make it work no matter what.

But LIFE often kicks your plans in the ass and people change. People react differently during unexpected situations and adjust in different ways. People mature or people immature. They get dependent or interdependent. They ignore and they forget. They forget themselves in the US. They compromise themselves for the greater good. Sometimes it’s one-sided, other times it’s mutual. With billions of people come billions of combinations and billions of break up scenarios.

When you find yourself in a relationship where you realize you are NEVER happy, it does not make sense to continue to live this way. There is too much joy and beauty in this world and you don’t need to be married to enjoy it. (You don’t even need to have a partner.)

It’s when things get bad – when the relationship gets weak that it becomes fragile – it becomes more susceptible to temptation. You may feel powerless or sexless or ignored. You may feel taken for granted or confused or angry and someone will come along, smelling the aura of desperations. (Because we all put out signs, whether we know it or not – and the universe sees them and hears them – and responds.)

Often times marriages end because of infidelity, but other times marriages end because one of the people still has hope. My marriage ended because I made the decision to be happy. I had tried to make myself happy in the relationship for 3 years and I didn’t want to try to make it work anymore. I spent 3 painstaking years crying and miserable when my ex-husband asked me if I loved him, I really didn’t think I did. I thought I should – but I really didn’t. He was a good father, a good son – but he was not the man I fell in love with – and apparently I no longer wanted to be the woman he married.

But with a small child and all the other baggage that comes with a marriage I couldn’t see the forest beyond the trees. I saw branches and twigs and greenery and rotted oak. I just wanted clean – I wanted fresh – I so desperately wanted to be happy. I valued every day and I wanted to teach my son that each day is priceless. I wanted to teach him the importance of happiness. Mostly I didn’t want him to watch a loveless marriage.

When my ex-husband said he would be fine to sleep in separate bedrooms for the rest of our life because he didn’t want to get divorced, I realized that happiness was never going to be on his agenda. And that was not up for debate in my book.

Only later I realized that he existed in a silent depression; he bit his tongue as much as I did; he walked on just as many eggshells. We didn’t have fun; we didn’t laugh; we didn’t like each other. We co-existed because we signed a piece of paper that said we would do so.

There were threats, uncertainty and countless attempts at making it work again. We tried and then tried harder. We attempted to change – but after a while, there is so much rubbish and resentment built upon the foundation, the house crumbles. Ultimately, like anyone else who joins the club, there is the breaking point from where there is no going back.

We join the divorce club.

Divorced people meet other divorced people and find similarities – patterns in types of mismatched people. At first you liked his strength, and then it became controlling. At first he liked your outgoing personality but later he didn’t like your flirting. He promised you something in theory, but you wanted the reality.

After the initial euphoria wears off; after it doesn’t sting when his name calls up on the caller ID; after you've learned to be "just one." After all that, once again a time will come when you start to wonder. (Often times when we are at our most vulnerable, our imagination can be our best friend or our nastiest enemy.) Will I remain alone forever? Maybe I didn’t know what I had until I lost it? Will I ever feel love again?

Generally divorcees split up into two categories. There is the group who insists, “Oh yeah, THIS TIME I REALLY KNOW” (when it's time to move onto the next person) and then there’s the other group, those that carry a satchel of perpetual doubt. They exist in a paralyzed state of fear, worried of making Big Wrong Life Decision: Version 2.

When you start over in the pursuit of happily ever after, generally, you are a more bitter, wounded bird slowly merging into the skyway of love.

You will not trust yourself to pick a mate again. How do you learn to believe yourself when you were so wrong before? How do you know if this is the right one? How do you get back in that place that was so hard to climb out of? How do you risk diving off the new happiness platform in search of MORE?

When I joined the Divorce Club, I had branded myself as a relationship failure. Only now do I realize, that getting divorced was the best (and bravest) decision I made to steer my life to a place of happy. I didn’t want to spend my life alone. I wanted a partner with whom to share my life – and bear witness to his. Life’s terrain gets rocky and sometimes it’s easier to conquer when you’ve got someone in your corner.

I was lucky. I met someone early on; right when I realized I had made the best decision. I had resigned that it was over and my heart was not only open to love, but thirsting for it in such a passionate way. I met the best someone for Me. Someone who carried the best me out (no matter how heavy my soul felt) and quenched the longing for happiness that lay unfulfilled for so long. My someone fit my notion of happiness so well; he was like the puzzle piece that made the rest of me click into gear.

Going through the experience of marriage and divorce is like anything in life – it brings you experience – and from experience, comes skills and knowledge. Leading a successful life is just using lessons learned from life experience to make it better the next time around.

Snow Day Photo Shoot, Hold the Snow

2011-01-13T19:16:00.005-05:00

While the rest of the country was shoveling or digging, we were quite warm on our cozy rug. We did an impromptu mini photo shoot to commemorate the happy moment.

Then we made a photobook on Shutterfly. Voila. (You don't need to be a member of Shutterfly to view this; you can just click View photo book on the bottom left.)

Click here to view this photo book larger

One Order of Happily Ever After, Hold the Marriage

2011-01-11T14:27:00.000-05:00

As long as he’s been able to speak, my 8-year-old has been philosophizing, rationalizing and challenging me. He’s not just precocious – he’s insightful, kind and caring. I knew it was just a matter of time before he said something that completely paralyzed my normally loquacious tongue.

We were passively watching David Turtera’s “My Fair Wedding,” and the boy asks me, “If you had a wedding, what would my role be?”

“IF we ever got married, you would have a very special role,” I assured him. “You would walk me down the aisle, maybe. But you don’t have to worry about it, because we’re NOT getting married.”

“Why not?” He countered.

“You know why not,” I answered, reminding him of his comment just a year ago. When we were moving in with my boyfriend of 5 years, he had asked if we were going to ever get married. I had told him the same thing, “I don’t think so.”

“Why do you think I don’t want to get married?” I was curious as to what he thought.

“Well you did it once before and it didn’t work out,” he came back at me, barely a second to think about it. He had just turned 7 years old that week. I was still getting used to not saying “my 6-year-old.” His logic never failed to amaze me.

Here we were about 18 months later and he had quite a different come back to the “never getting married” bit.

“Did you ever think that maybe it wasn’t the MARRIAGE?” He said this in a way that even the most experienced psychotherapist would never have broken it to me.

My mouth hung open. It wasn’t the first time he made me speechless – but it would become one of the memorable ones.

Later that evening I was tucking him into bed. This little man who still slept with dozens of stuffed animals once again turned into my baby. I cozied up to him and held him while John Lennon’s Beautiful Boy played in the background. This was the same goodnight ritual for the last 8 years.

He hugged me and whispered, “Would you want ME to get married?”

“I would want you to do whatever made you happy,” I said so motherly and politically correctly. Secretly I wondered, did I really want him to get married?

“Well, would you want me to take that RISK? Is it worth taking the chance of marrying the wrong person?”

I looked into his soulful brown eyes where wisdom lurked far beyond his years.

“Knowing what I know now, Yes, I would still do it again,” I told him.

“To have me, right?” He understood even more than I did. He has taught me lessons like no other teacher.

“Of course to have you – and to end up right where I am. It’s the road of life; to get to the rainbows, you first have to deal with some rain.” It was cliché and tasted as sour coming out as it sounded. But it was the cold hard truth.

But this boy got me thinking. (Finally!) I was so down on the institution of marriage, yet I wasn’t the type that abandoned dreams. Was I? I wasn’t the type to try something once and give up – or was I? If my excuse of doing it once and screwing it up was my reason for not wanting to get married again, then what kind of lesson was I teaching him?

It’s a frustrating question and an annoying assumption (although one I understand): “So when are you getting married?”

We’re celebrating our six-year anniversary next month; we have a 7-month-old gorgeous baby girl, and we are as happy as we have ever been. (Yes, it sounds nauseating even to me. I knock on wood every single time I even THINK about how lucky I am to be so in love with the man my daughter calls daddy.)

Why do we need to join the marriage club? We made promises to each other that are as valuable as that piece of paper that can [not so easily] be undone. We live as a family and don’t mandate a title that others feel compelled to procure. We are artists that live an nontraditional life; why should we join a traditional institution? Am I just hiding behind a veil of fear in the form of the cliché, “If ain’t broke don’t fix it?” Maybe.

Ironically, (or not so much) I’m a romantic. I want to believe in fairytales – but as I’m knee-deep, living this enchanted life I’ve created for myself, I think, would marriage really make it better?

My imagination just cannot compute that marriage > (is greater than) life today.

Don't Jinx It:Russian Style

2011-01-08T18:39:00.006-05:00

On a recent morning as I was driving my 8-year-old to school, I noted that the usually congested West Side Highway was rather empty. "Look how good the traffic is today," I said excitedly. Without missing a beat, he comes back with, “Hey, don’t jinx it!”

I noticed this had become a trend and I wondered if I was partially to blame. How often had I said, "Knock on wood?" How long had I been wearing the red bracelet around my wrist?

A few days ago he was recovering from the stomach flu, but staying at his dad's house.

“Are you feeling better,” I asked him during our nightly call.

“Well, I don’t want to jinx it,” he answered.

“Well do you feel like you have to throw up THIS VERY MINUTE?” I followed up.

“No, not this minute. But I can’t speak for the future. So I don't want to jinx it."

Where did he get this fear of the jinx?

I must confess that I do believe in it a bit myself. But with me, it’s more of an energy transfer thing. My sister has always thought I was crazy.

“Do you really think anyone on this earth has the power to wish cancer upon you?” (Not that anyone ever said "cancer.") Personally I believe in only a moderately severe degree of jinx. But I do believe in an "evil eye"- the kind that comes from jealous or non-wishing people.

I’ve spent many years wearing a red bracelet. Although it's technically a token of Kaballah, I don't necessarily connect the two, but I like what it promises. They say that the Red String protects from the negative influences of the “Evil Eye.” The evil eye refers to the unfriendly stares and unkind glances we sometimes get from the people around us. Kabbalah says we can remove intrusive negative influences by using tools such as the Red String!

It sounds silly, right? Well it did to me too – but a few years ago I was having a pattern of bad luck, and I figured what's the harm in wearing a little red string around my wrist? I sort of felt protected - and if nothing else other than help me hold my head up higher, it seemed worth it.

But way before I knew of the power of the crimson thread, I knew of the power of the … wait for it … the safety pin. Apparently the safety pin (or “bulafka” as the Russians call it) was going to protect me from the evil eye. The first time I took my baby to meet lots of new people, the first and main question all the Russians asked was, “Did you put a bulafka on her?”

It doesn’t end there. "Knocking on wood" has nothing on the Russians. I grew up hearing all sorts of superstitions. Us Soviets are a pessimistic breed and it’s reflected in all of the things we do to avoid bad luck.

For example, when a Russian receives a compliment or positive feedback, you should spit three times over your left shoulder. As demonstrated in this little exchange:

ME: “Mackenzie slept through the night. She’s such a good baby!”

MY MOTHER: “Shh. We need to knock!" And she proceeds to search for something upon which to knock and then matches it with a spastic spitting three times over her left shoulder.

There is a plethora of ways to bring about bad luck to Russians.

If someone steps on your foot, you have to step back on theirs; otherwise you will both have bad luck. If you are lying down on the floor, and someone accidentally steps over you, you have to let them step back, otherwise it will stunt your growth. If you want to get married, don’t sit at the corner of a table. Doing so will cost you 7 more years of singlehood.

Birthday parties should always be celebrated on or after one’s birthday, not before. A funeral procession brings good luck, but you can never cross its path or else its Ruskee doomsday!

There are all sorts of gift restrictions. If you give someone a wallet as a gift, you have to make sure you put a dollar in it, so they won't end up poor. You can also never give knives as a gift. If you get them as a gift, give the person a dollar so that it’s as if you’re buying them from them. Baby showers are an absolute no-no. You should only buy gifts for a child once it’s been born. (This is also common in Jewish practice.)

It’s bad luck to whistle in the house; it will make you lose money. If you have forgotten something after you’ve left the house, it’s bad luck to go back for it. (Apparently if you must go back, you have to look in the mirror before you leave the house again.) When you leave for a trip, everyone in the family should sit, calmly and silently for a few seconds before we leave. (I still do this before every single trip.)

Now this is a big one. “Don’t show on yourself.” It is bad luck to use physical hand gestures to demonstrate something negative on yourself. For example, if you are describing a scar you saw on someone else’s face, you should never gesture it on your own.

In my family, the broken mirror reigned as supreme bad luck giver. We feared it like no other. The story goes back to when my father was in the army. When he opened his shaving kit one morning to reveal a broken mirror, he shivered. His father died the same day. The superstition was confirmed in his head.

Then there are Omens.

If you have the hiccups, someone is thinking about you. If a bird poops on your head, you’ll have good luck. If your right hand itches, you’re going to get money soon; if your left hand itches, you’re going to give money away. (This had me going when I was young and my parents would play the lottery and then the right hand would itch. Scratching their palms, we all believed it was a sign ... but alas, the lottery tickets were nothing more than book marks.)

Finally, there’s the one that if you sneeze while you’re saying something, it’s "Na Pravda" - for the truth. But I thought this was picked up by the Americans too?

These are just the ones I heard in my house; there are so many more - and not only in the Russian culture. My ex-husband was Chinese and they have a whole slew of their own "Don't do this ... or else" ways to paralyze your life. When my 8-year-old was born, I had a trifecta of cultural superstitions mandating all sorts of ridiculous rules: the Russians, the Chinese and the Jews.

I came up with my own logic - and try to maintain (and find) it daily.

So do I continue to live my life void of any superstitions? Probably … but why tempt fate when you can just knock wood, spit three times, and wear a red bracelet tied together with a bulafka to keep it all away?

A Piece of Plastic Makes Injections Easier & Less Painful

2011-01-05T23:01:00.006-05:00

“You’ll remember this day forever and yet he’ll forget it right away,” the pediatrician told me right before she stabbed my two-month old’s beautiful chubby thighs with the dagger – three times! A mother never forgets her baby’s first set of shots.

But this was 8 years later. I felt more ready; I had done my mental preparation exercises. So we get there for her first shots and baby girl is super happy. Giggling and looking up at me with those huge, brown eyes, entrusting me with her entire life – and then stab. Three times again. Major cry, excruciating cry, real tears! Luckily both babies calmed right down with the help of some distraction and a pacifier.

But shots still remain a dreadful childhood experience. Today, however, shots went down differently – and it’s all thanks to a genius product call the Shot Blocker made by Bionix.

The Shot Blocker is a small plastic circle whose underside is covered with blunt skin contact points. When pressed firmly against the skin, the pressure created by the contact points numbs the skin. Essentially we are tricking our brain to react to the first pain by giving off a temporary, yet effective anesthetizing sensation, minimizing pain.

This is the first time I have ever seen this contraption used. My baby did not cry for the first two of the three shots! She did cry a few seconds after the third shot. (The pediatrician admitted that the third shot was the most painful, so clearly baby girl was justified.

Why isn’t everyone using this wonderful plastic devise? It could revolutionize the experience for immunizations, allergy shots, insulin shots and more. Thank you James Huttner, M.D., Ph.D. for this invention.

On the Edge of 2011

2010-12-31T15:09:00.003-05:00

The boyfriend is sick with the stomach virus and sleeping in bed. The baby naps in a room down the hall. The older boy is at his father’s house. The house is still and eerily dark. It could be the middle of the night, but it is just shy of 2pm. It is silent except for my nails clicking of the keyboard and the white noise of the refrigerator hum. It is so quiet I heard the neighbor flush and I have never heard that.

I live in a 2200sq ft. apartment on the 17^th floor of a doorman, high-rise building on Wall Street. We have a roof-deck, a gym, a lounge and even a mini golf-putting situation in the basement. I never imagined myself living in a building like this. And yet, it has become my norm – although we are far from the average family on Wall Street.

First, there are not a lot of families this side of Downtown (they settle just to the west along the Hudson River in Battery Park City and further north in Tribeca). Secondly, we are an unusually artsy family; the boyfriend is a professional artist whose day job is a clown and the girlfriend (me) is an out-of-work, ex-advertising exec, wannabe writer. I have an 8-year-old boy from my previous marriage and now we have a 6-month old girl. We live a dream life and are very thankful and aware of it – and it’s limitations.

A year ago, I was 2 months into a 9-month pregnancy battling daily nausea, and living in a walk-up apartment above an Indian restaurant infested with bed bugs and breeding rats scurrying above my drop ceiling.

I have adapted quite nicely to my new living situation. But everything changes. The rent is going up and the 2-month free deal that we got that enabled us to afford this apartment is now not being offered. Translation: rent increase is $1,000. Luckily they gave us a 3-month extension to figure out a way to beg.

Last night I had insomnia for the third night in a row, and the worst of them yet. I kept insisting to myself that I was relaxed, but obviously reality proved otherwise. How I struggle to relax; it has been one of my life’s greatest challenges. I just can’t shut my brain off. I tossed and turned occasionally checking in with the clock. I would drift off and suddenly be forced back hard into consciousness in such a restless way that I’m not sure if I ever really slept last night.

This morning, I was playing with the baby; it wasn’t painfully early, about 8:30am – but it might as well have been in the middle of the night. She was sitting on the L part of my couch and I was playing alongside her. I got up and went to pick her up, but in the time it took to stand, she rolled herself onto the floor. Face first. Gasp. My couch is low to the ground, about 18” – but it was a wooden floor. She was fine – not a scratch or a bruise or any souvenir of the fall. But she cried to let me know she was pissed that I slacked off on the ‘mother should protect you and keep you safe’ responsibility.

One night last week my 8-year-old was also having a battle with insomnia. Maybe it was the last blizzard of 2010 or just a week off from school and going to bed way past his bedtime. He just couldn’t get to sleep and by 11:00pm, he came out to the living room with tears in his eyes, so clearly tortured by the desire to sleep, but the inability to let himself go there. I so hope he learns the road to relaxation earlier than I did.

But as I was strangled by my sleeplessness, just at the end of reason, I started to wonder what was keeping me paralyzed in this distressed state. I engaged in a mental game with myself where I played the devil and the advocate. I realized that I was partially anxious for the turn of the year. The change on the calendar dial – from 10 to 11. It seemed so asinine; it was just another day. But somehow, it got me a little nervous.

This past week I have been reflecting on the year - and how revolutionary it was to my life. It was so bitter at the beginning of 2010 but I made it to the middle, where in June our lives changed forever. We all tasted a kind of sweetness we just didn’t even know existed, nor did we know how much we yearned for it.

I am so thankful for how kind life has been to me this year and I’m just hoping the movement of the numbers or the realigning of the stars will not mean I’m due for more of the harshness that life can often dole out. As the clock strikes 12 and we change the dates after the slashes, there are so many maybes in front of us. So many opportunities, challenges, rewards. I’m sure 2011 will bring tears of joy and sadness, cold days and hot ones, and without doubt, lots of change.

Because as long as the earth is spinning and the clock is ticking, there’s one thing for sure: it will change – and we will adapt.

Happy New Year!

The Last Blizzard of 2010: The Wall Street Perspective

2010-12-27T21:38:00.008-05:00

The last blizzard of 2010. New York Stock Exchange on Broad Street. NYC.

Jake in the snow in front of our building.

Stomping through the evenly plowed masses of snow near the stock exchange; Wall Street kept the streets clear for business.

In front of the New York Stock Exchange with the Christmas Tree. Pretty crazy that this is our neighborhood.

Jake is playing dead after a snowball / icicle adventure. In front of Hanover Park a block from our apt in downtown NYC. This was the same park the Queen of England visited this summer.

Mackenzie is not particularly happy in her first romp in the snow. Daddy insists she was happy the whole time until the end (when the bitter wind came). When I got her home and unraveled her, I found a melted piece of snow near her bottom. Good thing for diaper protection.

Merry Christmas from Wall Street

2010-12-25T12:05:00.001-05:00

Are You Mensa Smart?

2010-12-22T09:00:00.001-05:00

I always thought I was smart. I always scored in the 99th percentile on all the standardized tests and such. (Although the SATs were a bit more challenging, but I still scored up there.) But the other day there was a short lifestyle segment on the local news about Mensa, the International High IQ Society. To join Mensa, you must have attained a score within the upper two percent of the general population on an approved intelligence test “that has been properly administered and supervised.”

This peaked my curiosity. I went on their Website and started taking the 30-minute, 30-question Mensa Workout. I did not adhere to the time constraint, but I will say that I think I spent up to 20 minutes on a few of the questions – and those weren’t even the math ones!

This same segment that intrigued me to the Website featured the newest Mensa member, a 5-year-old boy. Seriously.

If anyone wants some brain stretching, I’d dare say the Mensa Workout is fun – but it was certainly refreshing to feel the cerebral gears spinning.

You can find a list of prominent Mensa members here.

And So the Days Go By ...

2010-12-21T10:23:00.003-05:00

I wrote this over 6 weeks ago and rereading it, so much has changed – especially the ROCKING, which is gone, gone, GONE! Sleep training is a tremendous gift parents can give their children and themselves. I cannot say enough about it – and because it’s such a personal issue, I won’t. I’ll just say that it has revolutionized our baby-centered lives.

I am preempting the following piece by saying that the elements of your life you focus on almost compulsively are gone by the time you figure them out. Lesson learned: when you figure it out, they switch it on you … and if it happens to be a few months of smooth sailing, don’t worry - daylight savings time will come along and kick your ass.

********************

I realized I hadn’t blogged in over a month. Last thing I wrote about was our summer family vacation. Now it was into November – the day he broke out the North Face jacket. I think back on October and it’s a blur. A month highlighted by a trip to Kansas City for his sister’s wedding. Her first plane ride. Her first Halloween. It was a month of continued firsts – but the days went by.

I look at the clock all the time, a ticking in my head of schedules – by the person – by the day. When do I pick up the boy? What time does the baby need to eat? When is his gig on Sunday? When is the next pediatrician appointment? Is it the day of after-school?

The days go by and mid-week I get a break. I don’t have to drive him anymore so I can go back to sleep when the baby naps. Mondays are the hardest in the early evening. Homework, dinner, bath, rocking. This is how it is to be a parent; it goes by so much faster. You live for the smiles in between. For the giggles. For the sound bytes and snapshots of your life.

********************

My baby is 5 months old today. Almost half a year of our lives have passed with this sweet girl that serves as a heartbeat to our days.

These last two months were drastically different from the first three. Obviously she is more alert and a big smiler and laugher – but gone are the days of sleeping all day. She was amazing for those first few months and during our (2-week!) family vacation through New Hampshire and Maine. She slept and ate like a champ – but as they grow, and stay awake longer and want more entertainment – less time for mom and dad to get anything done. This is especially challenging when you work from home and are trying to kick off some important projects off the ground.

Most days I feel lazy and tired and am hard on myself for being a slacker. It seems minimal and inexcusable to just get up and feed, dress, play with, put to sleep, bathe and keep putting baby to sleep.

The last two months there was also a lot of rocking. So much rocking that I’ve been thinking there should be a new-mom exercise video involving rocking. Side effects of said rocking include lower back and neck pain (from looking down at falling asleep baby). Positive side effect is slight cardio and a pseudo-six pack that sits above the jelly belly souvenir of my pregnancy.

Early days of rocking were blissful. A slight motion would send her eyes rolling to the back of her head and then the sleepy smiles would start to pop up around her mouth. Sweet dreams or muscle spasms – it didn’t matter. I could hold her in my arms for hours and not get tired; watching the slumber enter her face and then her limp and heavier body.

Now that she’s just about 13 pounds, I feel her weight sooner and more severely. We rock her before each nap – about 3 a day and then the major night sleep. Lots of rocking and my back doesn’t like it. I try to be conscious of my posture, periodically checking the full-length mirror in her room to see if my bad rocking posture is what’s causing the ache in my back. My posture looks perfect. I tighten my abs and try to use those to do the swinging, but know that I’m suing all the other muscles I shouldn’t. I’m good at that – knowing exactly what I shouldn’t be doing but not knowing how to stop doing it anyway.

We were somehow able to live with the rocking that seemed to overtake our lives because she was such a happy baby. As soon as she opened her eyes, she was a Smiley-Pete … and as a bonus, I had a particular knack for getting her to giggle. Surely there is no more potent a medicine than your baby’s giggle.

Other major changes in the last two months have been the introduction of the bottle. We waited over three months before we introduced a bottle. This created a domino effect of positives and negatives. On the plus side, I was given a leash longer than two hours that I could be away from my baby. On the negative side, she now preferred the flow of the bottle to the flow of my boob and decided to go on a boob strike for most of the day. I started to pump … all the time when she stopped taking the boob – and then I was either pumping or rocking. Or driving.

With the start of school in early September, I had to drive my son to Riverdale and back 3 days a week. That means to school and then picking him up from school 5 hours later; 2 hours in the car each way. Many of early fall days seemed like this: Wake, nurse (or pump if she was still sleeping), breakfast for the boy, drive to Riverdale, drive back to the city in rush hour traffic, pump, eat, play with baby, rock to nap, drive back to Riverdale, pump, dinner, homework, baby bath, rock baby to sleep, night-night for big boy, make dinner for grownups, pump. Collapse.

The whole time I kept thinking when is it me time? Or time for me to write? The pregnancy was supposed to be my time to write – but instead I threw up for 9 months and wrote about nothing more than bodily excrement and sadness.

Now it’s supposed to be time to write and instead I’m rocking, pumping, cooking and wiping up spit-up and shit from everyone and everything.

I’m hard on myself but all the same, forgive myself and go another day without putting words to paper. On the car rides to Riverdale and back I write in my head. Different stories for different projects. I get angry on the ride because it’s two hours that I’m not spending being productive. I could be dictating or listening to books on tape (“research”) but alas when I bring the iPod I only blast the same playlist over and over. At red lights I take out the undersized hardcover notebook with the holographic picture of a lion on it. I take notes. I scribble down writing ideas. Inspirational thoughts that I could turn into essays, character traits for a short story or plot points for a novel. I have reels in my head. Names, events, places, descriptive scenery. But in 5 months I can judgmentally say I have not written anything productive.

I have milked and cooked and showered and bathed. I have driven for over 100 hours up and down the Henry Hudson Parkway and watched the trees change color and the sailboats get sparser. But the novel, the short story, and even the dozen of blog posts that never got posted – they’re all just a jumble of thoughts in my head and scribbles in the lion notebook.

Then there are the things on the things to do list that don’t get crossed out, but just get re-written when I make my new list on a new piece of paper with a new colored pen. It’s the unemployment issue I have to deal with. It’s the American Express erroneous outstanding balance that I have to fight because it’s from a ruined vacation over 2 years ago. It’s the Mac classes I have to take before the one-on-one runs out again. It’s the closet that never got organized. It’s the bedroom that never got the decorating finishing touches. It’s the ABC painting that I never finished for the baby’s room. It’s the book that’s only written in my head.

A New Look, An Old (Refreshed) Commitment

2010-12-20T11:53:00.003-05:00

So it all started when I got fired and I realized I didn’t want to just another rebound job, falsely following another golden paycheck. Truth is money never turned me on; all I really wanted to do was write, travel and take photos along the way. This was, as my boyfriend clarified, called “my dream.”

(He is a role model for anyone who doubts they could live their dream. Not only does he believe in creating the life you want to live – he creates it and lives it.)

So I thought now was as good a time as any to try to create it. I started a blog and tried fruitlessly to commit to writing. But because I thought this was my public portfolio of sorts, I became hypercritical of everything I posted. Instead of traditional, short blog postings, I ended up posting random long rants in between what was happening in my life.

All the while, I was writing a lot, but publishing less and less. As time went on, life complicated the blog – or got in the way. But it was the other way around – this was the meat of the story and I wasn’t sharing it. My little boy and I moved in with the boyfriend, I got another job and left that, I got pregnant, I got nauseas, I had a baby … This was LIFE: Exclamation Point and while I was writing it all down, my perfectionism was preventing me from publishing it.

All my writing seemed incomplete. It seemed like non-stories; descriptions of events, emotional rants, whining in words. But only I judged it. I would open three files at a time, hoping to make one good enough for the blog. Then I would read them, come to the realization that they were better than I thought, but they still needed work – and I would file it away for another day.

This pattern would continue. I’d get a few moments, I’d open some old unfinished documents, read them, feel better about my writing, reaffirm that I will blog more often, commit to being less hard on myself, and then close the documents, blog untouched.

I can’t remember how many blog postings were dedicated to saying, “I’m going to be a better blogger and not be so hard on myself.” Seriously it’s no wonder I am such a commitment-phoebe.

So now here I am, at the end of one of the best years of my life and almost none of it is published. I am making a (pseudo-public) vow to write more, even if the quality is less. I will also back-publish pieces that I wrote documenting this year and others of my life. Raw emotions and anecdotes that have colored my world – and judgment free, I will put them on my blog to chronicle. Because that’s all it is; a written memory of the days that were.

Here’s to doing what I say. Oh yeah, and I have a new look for my blog. White background rather than the black, larger fonts, larger photos – and a new header (thanks to the boyfriend who took my obsessive doodles and funky-feed them).

Cheers to life: writing about it, reading about it, blogging about it and not judging it!

Note about the photo: Me, very happily jumping in front of the lighthouse on Monhegan Island in Maine. This was when I truly believed I could make my dream come true. Two years later, I'm starting to wonder, with a hearty dosage of doubt.

Watching My Sister at the Restaurant

2010-11-14T08:40:00.001-05:00

“It’s a Bailey’s with three ice cubes,” she tells me as she inserts a red plastic swivel stick into the short glass and whisks it away on a small silvery drink tray.

“Three ice cubes,” I reiterate, a strain on the three. She gives me a look back as if to say, “You think this request is something? You have no idea!”

My immediate instinct is to contemplate a stint as a server just to gather the stories; it seems movies like 'Waiting' could be written every day. Even I couldn't concoct some of these human behaviors. (And here I thought after an adolescence spent as a ‘server’ at a Staten Island donut shop, I would have a library of stories from which to choose.)

From a unique outsider's viewpoint with insider's knowledge, sideline observation of fine dining in New York City provides a wealth of human entertainment. As I observe the public display of luxury food consumption, I always have a pang of guilt thinking of the hungry millions in the world. But alas where would capitalism be without the $40 steak?

“I have one VIP table now and another one coming in later,” she tells me.
“What does VIP mean?” I ask.
“It means they get free stuff,” she explains. “And usually they don’t tip enough.”

It’s Restaurant Week in New York City, an added bonus, which translates to more crowds, fewer tips, more cursing.

Here I am sitting at the bar at another restaurant that’s honored to have my sister as a server. Instead of up on the Upper East Side, this time I’m east of Union Square. Different cuisine, different clientele, blue button-downs instead of white. A new vibe, younger, hipper sometimes, more touristy definitely. But many of the same server frustrations. Same server grunting. Same pissed off expressions on their faces as they walk away from the tables.

The General Manager says hello to me, as do all of the other classifications of managers below him. All the servers stop by to ogle at my newborn that sits next to me at the bar.

No one looks happy – server-wise. I guess no matter how much bank you make – when you’re a servant, you’re not happy. It’s like every servant cliché. They show the pearly whites to the customers (or “guests”) and then as soon as they walk away, their facial expression is as if they want to kill. Whatever. Whoever is in their path. Kill. Murder. Fucker. Hate the World. Because they are in a profession that underlines the class / caste system and their position on it.

The bartender pours me a second glass of Prosecco.

Why don’t the managers smile? They seem angriest. Like they reached the pinnacle of servitude but don’t make the commission in exchange for the fake smiles. They get to tell the servers what to do – but really they’re still just servers. And they’re angry as shit about it.

I wonder how this group of artists came to be servers? How they all converged to this place or this profession? Isn’t struggling to be an artist enough?

More tourists than locals flood this establishment. A famous owner attaches his name and personality to this restaurant, so people come in hopes of catching a glimpse of his red hair.

I watch as my sister darts between tables, to the computer ordering station, to the bar – all with a smile and a hop, skip and a jump in her step. Eager to please, she is a great server and as much as she hates it – I like watching my sister work. She’s in her element and in control of her surround. She’s good at it. She’s smiling and she’s alive.

Here's a video that made her - and me laugh - hard.

Happy Birthday Daddy

2010-11-08T15:31:00.008-05:00

To my daddy – on his birthday.

I don’t remember every day and neither do you, but between the two of us, we have 36 years of moments. We have memories, anecdotes, stories. I’ve enjoyed the ride of life with a dad who did his share of driving me around when I needed it – and now is happy to sit in the car next to me and cheer. (Of course this is just figuratively since we all know you will never allow anyone other than you to drive.)

I remember the matchbox you gave me in the crib and you remember me perched atop your shoulder for long walks through the woods in Kiev. I remember telling you to quit smoking and you remember how my words motivated you to quit cold turkey. You remember my first word and I remember the first time you let me take the Isuzu Trooper around the parking lot. You remember rocking me and I remember when you told me I was too old to be carried anymore.

I remember the “Electronic Box” that you made me for a science project. I used it two years in a row.

I remember you dancing with mommy – your special way with the legs kicking out and hands frolicking above your head. I know she was part of your first life, but there were happy memories sprinkled through there. I like to hold onto those; souvenirs of an upbringing that could easily all be tainted by just a bad ending. (Bad being a judgment to mean ‘not what I expected.’)

We also have the memories of tears that make us laugh now.

I remember the years at the donut shop. A collective memory for both of us, the Donut Shop Years are a series of snapshots and smells that bring me right back to Time Out 4 Donuts. Powdered sugar on the cake donuts, eggs over easy on the greasy grill, the bowl of bacon fat, the huge tubs of raw cookie dough, the dried-up sugar glaze on your sweatpants.

Then there was my part at the Shop. I remember all the weekend mornings I had to be there at 7am. (Do you ever wonder why I love to sleep so much now?) I remember the trips to Jetro. I remember the night shift. We peeled the over-cooked potatoes into home fries for the next morning; we refilled the Heinz ketchup bottles with the large Hunts ketchup; we bleached the counters, we scrubbed the grill by standing on the milk crate and we did a massive throwing out of the donuts into the 50-pound paper bags from sugar.

I remember your shady office in the back where you used to count out cash and shove it into small white envelopes for payroll. I remember that we made $3/hour + tips. I remember the secret walkway to the back of the shopping plaza so we could take a shortcut to Pathmark.

Mostly I remember the people. Customers and workers who somehow became a part of the story, peripheral characters to a bigger tale. Marlene with the stretched earlobes, the two Doloreses (Fat and Skinny), crazy Dotty, drunk Diane. We got angry, we fought, and we forgave – because for better or worse, these people were our extended family.

I always thought I was wasting my life in that Shop. I thought I was too good to peel potatoes and pour coffee – but you told me that everything in life is a learning experience. You told me that I’d use these skills again. You were right – and not just because I make a great breakfast. I inadvertently learned about business, commitment, work ethic and customer service.

So much of my adolescence is wrapped up in that donut shop. I hated you for it then, but when the novel comes out, I’ll be thanking you.

I remember the morning you told me baba died. I remember your eyes and the cognac in front of you.

I remember when you dropped me off in Boston. I hugged you in the parking lot and started to sob. I remember what you told me, “Call me anytime of day and I’ll come back and bring you home.” I remember calling you at 5am because I was itchy and couldn’t sleep. And I knew you’d be awake.

We both remember the bet you made me that I would make $100,000 by the time I was 25. We also both remember me losing that bet.

Then there was my “first” wedding – where I remember our dance and way you looked at me and I looked back at you to the tune of “What a Wonderful World.” This is the only lasting memory from that day almost a decade ago.

I remember when I made you a grandpa, a role you were born to play. I remember you holding Jake when he was 6-months-old singing, “Mambo Italiano” – making him explode in giggles. (And we all know how stingy Jake was doling out his giggles.)

I remember Jake’s first birthday – you were the only one he wanted there. You are his deda and you will always have that special bond. I can’t wait to see the new unique connection you’ll form with Mackenzie, your newest little bubby.

I remember how you always tell me, “You can write.” I believe you (finally) and am finally writing it all down. The good and the bad – and the funny. I promise that when the book comes out and you see any similarity to the dad character, I will deny everything.

On this birthday, as I reflect on some of the moments of our daddy/daughter journey, I thank you for the years. For the love and support you’ve given me. For the times you’ve carried me, driven me, painted for me, fixed me when I felt so broken … thank you. I always think you were a great father to me.

I wish you a happy birthday – and a life filled with peace, love, health, happiness, laughter and ease. I hope you can reflect on the life you’ve lived with nostalgia and pride rather than with disappointment.

Yesterday a 90-something man ran the marathon. I saw that story and thought, “That’s totally my dad. He would absolutely do something like that.” You’d better believe when that happens, I’ll be the loudest one on the sidelines cheering!

Happy Birthday – I love you!

Summer Vacation: Week 2 - MAINE

2010-09-13T10:28:00.004-04:00

From Hearts Everywhere

Week 2 was easier since we were based in one place (Bar Harbor cottage). I highly recommend staying in a rental rather than a hotel when traveling with children. A separate bedroom for parents and children and a kitchen go a long way towards maintaining sanity and recreating any semblance of the much-needed routine they crave.

Reading back on my notes in retrospect, I think I was all parts brave, a good sport, and partially psychotic in attempting a "vacation" such as this. I was lucky since after two weeks with me, the 8-year-old got to go on another vacation with his father, and I had only the baby with us for the last two weeks.

These past two weeks in New York was just us three, hanging out at home and relaxing, detoxing, and loving. These two weeks were exactly the vacation I needed to end the summer we welcomed Mackenzie into our life.

I realize how very lucky I am to have this time to completely enjoy life - and a loving partner that holds my hand through the sweet ride.

Here's another over-detailed account of what week two of our summer trip looked like; pictures at the end.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Drove from Portland to Bar Harbor, Maine.
Breakfast at Denny’s – Jake’s fave.
Went to BabiesRUs first to get a travel bed for our cottage (we were using the hotel’s cribs up until now and didn’t bring our own because we had no more room in our car).
Went to see Portland Head Light where Jake got to climb rocks and collect quartz, see crabs and snails and Andrew got to sustain an injury during quartz acquisition.
Snacked in the car all day rather than eating any real meal other than Denny’s. Wendy’s frostys for dinner. Bad mother guilt.
Arrived at cottage where we were pleasantly surprised – but the beds seem very hard.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Breakfast at home made with local groceries.
Went to Acadia Visitor Center, hiked at Sandy Beach (where Jake and Andrew climbed all the way up the rocks and I watched nervously) and hiked to Otter Point (where incidentally there are no otters).
Dinner at Geddy’s in Bar Harbor.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Attempted to do cereal-crusted French toast for breakfast – not a huge success. Mostly blamed the stove and the frying pan.
Hiked around Witch Pond – same 3.3 mile-hike that the Obama family did a few weeks ago.. Jake made a friend: Serge, the grasshopper.
Dinner at the Thirsty Whale in Bar Harbor
Movie night at home (Where the Wild Things Are). The movie turned out to be too dark for the tv we had there - so we cut it short.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Went to Echo Lake Beach for the day – my first lake beach. No waves crashing sounds in the background so it was hard to feel 100% beach like, but it was the closest I had gotten all summer.
This was one of my favorite days of vacation. We finally got to slow down. Jake was able to go into the water by himself without me having the paranoia that the waves would steal him. Andrew made a painting - and I did nothing for a few minutes. It was fabulous, but I felt guilty because Jake kept asking me to go into the water, but I never got hot enough. (But Andrew spent a lot of time in the water with him – he just wanted to see me be cold or splash me.)
Went to Thurston’s Lobster Pound in Bernard, Maine, just past Bass Harbor for dinner. Best lobster we’ve had on this trip. We had soft shelled lobster, since it was soft shell lobster season (and all they had left). It was easier to crack than the hard shell, but it was still a hard shell. Whatever they call it - I call it delicious.
Jake wanted none of eating the lobsters so I ended up coming home and cooking him delicious chicken. Yes, eventually he’ll see the irony.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

It rained so hard we stayed home all day and watched Alladin and ate snacks, including nachos with guacamole and dark chocolate peanut m&m’s.
Andrew and I went to the overpriced Sawyer’s Market in Southwest Harbor to get fish and cook at home. We made a delicious feast and I somehow concocted a sautéed, granola-crumb encrusted haddock using whatever snack materials of food we had. We also had garlic mashed potatoes, corn and salad with thousand island dressing, which I never knew I liked.
We attempted to watch the original Batman movie (the one with Michael Keaton) and both Jake and I thought it was boring and didn’t make it until the end.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Drove to Cadillac Mountain where we did part of the South Ridge Trail hike from there.
Hike turned out to be 7-mile up treacherous rocks rather than the suspected .3 mile easy hike around the summit. Had Mackenzie strapped to me via Ergo Baby Carrier the entire time. We ended up doing about a mile of it.
Went to Pirate’s Cove mini golf – for 36-holes of fun. Jake even won us a free game by getting a hole-in-one. Had Gifford’s ice cream in between first 18 holes and next.
Attempted to eat at the Fiddler’s Green, but it turned out to be like the Nobu of the region. It was right about 8pm when the over-friendly hostess let me know that she’s got about 15 tables coming in (I think that meant reservations) and well, she had this rehearsal dinner party that took up the whole balcony – and she just could not do it. She suggested 3 other places “in town” (translation: 2 blocks away and for a span of two blocks). The first one we never found despite the very obvious directions of “between the first bank and the second bank.” The second one was a restaurant at an Inn that appeared over priced and empty. The third was a café/deli/ice cream place across the street. We decided that was our best, most effective choice that late at night with two kids on tow.
Dinner at Quietside Café in Southwest Harbor. Nice waitress from Macedonia, where she told us, is just south of Greece, since most Americans don’t know geography.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Went to Bass Harbor Head Light (http://lighthouse.cc/bassharbor/) where I really shouldn’t have been hiking on the rocks with a 2-month-old in the baby carrier. Drove to Boston, where we rested for the night and visited with Andrew’s cousins.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Breakfast in Cambridge with cousins.
Walked around Boston Public Garden and Boston Commons.
Watched a hilarious concert by Professor World Band. Check him out. He’s got more of what we need in this world.
Drove home sweet home. Slept soundly in our bed.

Flowers in front of our cottage.

More flowers.

From Hearts Everywhere

Portland Head Light. When we were there two years ago, the sky was just as white.

Portland Head Light. Closer up.

Portland Head Light – a little further away.

Before the boys climbed the higher rocks - a family shot at Sandy Beach, Acadia National Park.

A man got off his bike in the middle of a misty ride and asked us if we wanted a photo with all 4 of us before we started the Witch Hole Pond hike. We did. We did half of the 3-mile hike in the rain. It was kind of boring.

The Obama family walked this very path (Witch Hole Pond @ Acadia National Park) a few weeks before us.

On the Witch Pond Road hike, Jake and his grasshopper friend, Serge.

Someone made a stick of blueberries. Witch Hole Pond - Acadia State Park.

A lotus grows amidst a mossy lake. Acadia National Park.

Just a nearby view on top of Cadillac Mountain.

Sitting pretty on top of Cadillac Mountain.

Lots of colors on top of Cadillac Mountain.

Bass Harbor Head Light

The photogenic, quintessential shot of Bass Harbor Head Light.

In front of Bass Harbor Head Light. I should not have climbed out there holding the baby.

On the road to Boston.

Summer Vacation - Week 1: NEW HAMPSHIRE

2010-09-12T20:03:00.023-04:00

So it took me two weeks of detox to finally go through pictures and find the strength to post notes from our vacation. [Note - that if 2 weeks seems long, I still have not posted notes or photos from last year's 10-state in 10-day road trip. That trip was sans children and had 5 times the amount of photos. I still haven't given up hope that I would post the photos, mostly because they're MUCH BETTER than these.]

Overall the first vacation with the 4 of us was a great success. It wasn't easy, or necessarily relaxing, but absolutely memorable. Both the 8-year-old and the 2-month old were fabulously behaved. Jake read the first 7 books of the Series of Unfortunate Events series as well as the third Harry Potter book. He NEVER complained about being in the car.

Mackenzie loved eating boob on top of the inflatable brest friend in the car and on the mountains.

Week one of the trip we bounced around a bit (Portsmouth, White Mountains, Portland) and week two was all in Bar Harbor where we rented a cottage. That was easier. The packing up of the car every two nights was insane. Next time we travel much lighter and bring much fewer snacks.

Here is what we did, for those who are curious enough to read. Or for those planning a family trip anywhere to NH or Maine. Mostly these notes are for myself to have record since the older I get, the faster time goes, and the weaker the memory muscle feels. (You can also scroll to the bottom to see a few photos.)

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Drove to Acton, Massachusetts to visit Sadie, Dan & Family.
On way, we stopped in Yalesville, CT to feed Mackenzie and take some impromptu snapshots of a reservoir.
Dinner with old college friends and family – delicious heirloom tomatoes.
Drove to Portsmouth, NH.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Breakfast at the Friendly Toast. The food was great and the décor was both interesting and great entertainment for an ‘I Spy’ game.
Walked around downtown Portsmouth including down the Portsmouth Harbour Trail.
Stopped in cute stores like Macro Polo where they sold doggy turd, books with pictures of cock on it, and overpriced fake silly putty marketed as something else.
We perused a gorgeous garden with the Moffatt-Ladd House in the background. I don’t know who Moffatt or Ladd was – but the light blue Colonial house was home to William Whipple, signer of the Declaration of Independence. (No relation to Mr. Whipple of the Charmin toilet paper commercials.
Indulged in ice cream at Annabelle’s.
Walked around Prescott Park - beautiful gardens and since they were having an arts festival, they had a theatre backdrop set up and Jake loved to pretend. I jumped.
We watched the Memorial Bridge raise for a boat over the Piscataqua River. We also liked saying Piscataqua over and over.
Dinner at the Portsmouth Brewery.
Jake took forever to fall asleep so Andrew & I have adult time in the bathroom and try to download more iPod apps.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Breakfast at the Friendly Toast. Again.
Beach day – attempt to hit Hampton Beach, Rye Beach and Plum Island. Instead spent most of the day on Jenness State Beach, where Jake makes a friend and falls in love with a boogy board.
Back to hotel for indoor pool sand clean up and shower for dinner (but not before Mackenzie had a little 7pm "I’m tired" cry).
Dinner at the Common Man, which had great service but mediocre food. Their specialty crab cakes just tasted raw inside. Josh, the server, though – lovely guy who has a passion for orange soda.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Packed up room to check out. This is an act we mastered over the course of the two weeks.
Breakfast at the Friendly Toast. Again - where 3 times was not a charm. Soggy (later comped) French Toast and overly spicy and undercooked home fries. The ‘I Spy’ game had reached maximum capacity.
Went to Water Country where Jake didn’t get to go on all the rides and gave me a heart attack when we went into the wave pool by himself. Ended up making friends with two 12-year-old girls and went on a ride with them – girl’s name ended up being MacKenzie.
Drove to Littleton, NH, through the White Mountains in the dark. Dinner at McDonalds. Two stops required for feeding.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Mackenzie’s first official (awake) giggle – Andrew playing peek-a-boo with her in the morning on the hotel bed.
First stop was to Franconia State Park in the heart of the White Mountains.
Stopped at The Basin where I breastfed in the car and Jake & A went to see it.
Hiked to The Flume Gorge.
Rode the Tram up Cannon Mountain.
Took a short hike to observation deck – where we were able to see Vermont, Maine & Brunswick, Nova Scotia in Canada (They all look like distant mountains to me).
Drove to Littleton downtown … Main Street.
Took a walk across Littleton's covered bridge.
Had a sweet visit to Chutters Candy Shop, home to the world's largest candy counter.
Dinner at the Littleton Diner (old train car) where the homemade food surprised all of us.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Drove from Littleton, NH to Portland, ME.
Stopped at Crawford Notch Train Station in the heart of the White Mountains.
Stopped to see the covered bridges in Jackson, NH.
Visited Flossie’s General Store, quintessential New England.
Went to Conway, NH – skipped the scenic rail station after spending an hour looking for it … instead
We did a hike to Diana’s Bath, where Jake made it to the "top" of the rocks, and I had to abandon the hike during the penultimate rock.
Arrived in Portland and had a lousy, overpriced dinner at DiMillo’s. (Stay away!)

These yellow wild flowers were in abundance in New Hampshire and Maine. (They were like the hearts everywhere.) I LOVE them.

Welcome to Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Flowers in the foreground, bricks in the back.

The clock downtown.

Preview of the Maine to come.

More flowers. The wild flowers and gardens were gorgeous and I'm obsessed with capturing flowers on macro. I have tried to restrict how many I post.

Flowers in the gorgeous garden between the Moffatt-Ladd house and the Seaport.

The Moffatt-Ladd House.

The Portsmouth seaport. In sepia.

Prescott Park.

Portsmouth Seaport.

In the gardens of Prescott Park.

Mid-fountain. Prescott Park.

My boy.

My girl. Back of the car diaper changes were standard protocol.

Wooden bridge in Franconia State Park.

Family photo mid hike at Franconia.

Covered bridge on the hike to The Flume at Franconia State Park in New Hampshire.

Jake in front of the Glacial Boulder on the hike to The Flume.

The tram up to Mt. Cannon.

The view from the top of the tram ride up to Cannon Mountain.

Me and my kiddos on top of Mt. Cannon.

The covered bridge of Littleton, NH.

Flowers in front of the covered bridge in Littleton, NH.

The candy counter at Chutters. Littleton, NH.

We're Back

2010-08-29T13:33:00.004-04:00

Here's what the cart looked like when we unloaded the car. (Car seat and baby not included.)

I have notes on our whole trip (and lots of photos to sort through). Will post details of the trip here shortly. Today is devoted to trying to unpack and laundry, laundry, laundry.

Overall - no major injuries and we all survived and made lifetime memories. Love my family.

Getting Ready for the 2-Week Road Trip

2010-08-15T01:41:00.007-04:00

So it's my birthday and we spent the day packing for our two-week road trip through New Hampshire and Maine. It will be mommy, daddy, 8-year-old boy and 2-month-old baby girl. On the road. Together. 2 weeks. I feel brave, excited, nervous and slightly crazy all in one.

Here's the plan - and what will happen is yet to be determined:

Rent car in Jersey City since it was half the price of Manhattan
Drive back to Manhattan to load up car (See above picture for what has to be loaded into a "standard" sized car
Drive to Ashby, Massachusetts to visit a college friend and her family
Settle in Portsmouth, NH for the night
Spend 2 days in New Hampshire seaside (Hampton Beach area)
Spend 2 days in White Mountains region of New Hampshire
Drive to Portland, Maine for the day
Drive through Waldoboro, Maine for the best pie at Moody's
Drive to Bar Harbor, where we'll spend a week in Acadia National Park and local region
Drive back to NYC, stopping in Boston to visits cousins on the way home

Fingers crossed. Many, many bags (and diapers and food and Legos) packed.

And we're off ...

Baby Goes to an Off-Off Broadway Play

2010-08-10T10:36:00.001-04:00

Nobody puts baby in the corner – or as it was in this case – nobody puts baby in the back row, middle seat of an Off-Off-Broadway show.

Our 7-week New York City babe has been schlepped all over the city, behaving like a quintessential sweet angel and receiving rave reviews (mostly by us). In her 7 short weeks, she has behaved perfectly through both Toy Story 3 and The Karate Kid. She has slept for countless hours as we paraded around Tribeca, SoHo and Union Square.

When a friend of ours asked us to come to his Off-Off-Broadway show last weekend, we thought, no problem! The theatre was on West 38th Street – about a 4 mile walk through downtown and Midtown Manhattan. We timed it just right so I could feed her as soon as the show starts and she’d be off in her milk coma for at least the first half and deep into sleep by the second half.

We arrive, sweaty, at West 38th Street, open the doors and see a sign that directs us to the theatre – on the 5th floor. We instantaneously see another sign – taped over the elevator – that says the elevator is out of order. Mom looks at dad. Dad looks at mom. Both look at the over-packed, over-sized stroller with car seat strapped on. My instincts said abandon mission, but we disconnected the car seat from the stroller and folded the stroller in the corner of a very small, seemingly unused make-shift lobby (that consisted of the entry to the broken elevator, the entry to the stairs, and some abandoned pieces of plywood).

I wanted to put the folded stroller behind the plywood, but we feared it would be mistaken for trash so we put a note on it saying ‘PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THIS STROLLER’ and up we went 5 flights of stairs, to be supportive of our friend, the playwright and director of this play.

When we arrive, we get oohs and ahhs over the baby, pay for our tickets and make our way into the theatre. I use the term theatre vaguely. Mostly it was a stage that was on the same level as the front two rows and then there was an incline to host another 8 rows or so. Of course there were no two seats together and several people wanted to rearrange their seats to accommodate us with our huge car seat. Finally they found a space for us in the back row – in the middle. (BECAUSE THAT MAKES SENSE…)

So here we are, in the back row, with no air conditioning, I might add, scrunched between a big woman and the man filming the production. Oh yeah, and the video man is also the friend/playwright/director’s dad. We say hello and introduce ourselves. He asks if the baby cries. We giggle and say, “Oh no, she’s very sweet. A perfect angel,” and as the words leave my mouth he looks down at her and retaliates with a look that says, “Yeah, right.” In my mind, I say, “He just totally jinxed it.”

“Well, if she cries, I have duct tape,” dad/videographer says.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I answer, “I have two sets of duct tape right here,” pointing to my boobs. He seems embarrassed and looks away.

Lights go down, actors enter on cue and start overacting on the stage about 20 feet from us. Perfect baby stirs. I don’t want her to get antsy so I proactively take her out of the car seat. She fusses. I try to stick the fix-all binky in her mouth – and she rejects it. What?! For the first time in her life – she rejects it. I feel glares on me. sweat beads form on my forehead and upper lip quickly. We try to shush her and meanwhile I whip out my boob – all modesty to the wind.

I’m shoving the boob in her mouth, and she’s howling over it – like a kidnapped animal I’m trying to gag. I shove the boob; her dad tries to shove the binky – nothing. She wanted nothing shoved in her mouth. She wanted nothing to do with this overheated theatre and she was having none of the videographer’s comments.

We think about a way out – and my boyfriend suggests going down the middle of the audience, across the stage and taking this wailing baby out. I say no way. we could try to exit at our aisle, over the big woman, I suggest. Except there the friend/playwright/director has set up his makeshift sound station and laptop. It also is about 3 feet off the ground. I see no height restriction – I just want out.

The boyfriend somehow shimmies over the big lady and jumps down into the aisle over the computer set up and I quickly pass him the baby. But not before some 20-something douchebag turns around and says, “Get that baby out of here – it’s ruining the whole video.” (Note that he did not worry about the live performers on stage – just the video.)

I pass the baby and I make my way past the large lady, miscalculating the height of the aisle, and jump around the computer, and landed remarkably on my feet. I envisioned a Bionic Man sound accompanying my jump. Miraculously my clumsy feed land safely and I grab the baby and bold out the door and down the steps. By the time I was one flight down, she was calm.

Needless to say, I did not go back (my boyfriend went back during intermission to get the car seat); instead we walked 2 blocks north to Bryant Park where no one cared if she cried and the air was much less stuffy. Moral of the story is movies: yes, Off-Off-Broadway shows 5 flights up: no.

My Inflatable Brest Friend

2010-08-07T10:24:00.004-04:00

Picture this scene.

Mommy, daddy and 7-week old baby are taking a lovely walk up Manhattan’s west side on a quintessential summer Saturday. Many of the locals retreat to their summer palaces and so the remaining stragglers are either poorer or tourists.

My boyfriend and I set out to explore the newly opened expanded section of Hudson River Park, just north of Chelsea Piers. This serene, well-designed green areas adjacent to Chelsea Piers has several piers, many well-groomed lawns, a carousel, a fabulous water playground and a hip skate park.

In the center area, there are darting docks over the water, all framed with new beautiful benches.

Here is where I thought would be the perfect spot to take a break and nurse the baby. I was prepared – I had brought along my inflatable Brest Friend. (Yes that’s really what it’s called – and don’t mock my convenience.

I’m not shy and will feed my baby wherever and whenever she needs it, but over the last 7 weeks, I’ve learned that outside-the-home feedings can be very uncomfortable. Enter the travel version of the breastfeeding-support pillow, My Brest Friend. $20 at Walmart Online and infinite hours of public breastfeeding comfort.

So here we are in this tranquil New York City green stretch over the water, and I whip it out. The pillow – not the boob. I feel eyeballs – but only slightly. I snap the boob feeding support on my waist and get situated. This is when I become aware that the sun is directly in the baby’s face. My instincts have me jump up to find a new locale.

So I stand up – just to realize that I’m walking with what looks like an inner tube around my waist. On dry land. When I start to walk forward, I hear laughter. I should have taken the inflatable Brest Friend off BEFORE I went looking for a new place to breastfeed. I immediately dislodge the inflatable Brest Friend by the plastic buckle that has secured it around my middle, shove it back in the stroller and walk to a different bench before it shows its paisley fabric-covered plastic face again.

But I’m left with the image of myself walking with the inner-tube around my waist on a pier in Chelsea. No regret, of course; I still praise the inflatable boob support!

My Sister's Keeper

2010-08-06T21:36:00.008-04:00

“What did it feel like when she died?” Abigail Bresner’s character asks the judge character in the movie, My Sister’s Keeper. The judge, played by Joan Cusack starts to cry and I hit pause on the movie to wipe the tears out of my eyes. I am holding my 7-week-old baby girl and the thought of losing her when she was just 12 years old (like in the movie) is abhorrent.

I am just at the beginning of the movie and I felt compelled to write something about it. I had read the book a few years ago, the title appealing directly to me. A sister is a title by which I define myself proudly. I take that role very seriously – and have for the last 29 years of my life.

I will no longer comment on the movie – but wanted to reflect on the book and the feelings it brought about in me – as a sister – and as a mother. When I first read it, I was only a mother of one. Now as a mother of two, I think about it slightly differently. But of course, since I’m blessed with two healthy children, my mind doesn’t even want to enter that compartment of ‘what-ifs’ in my brain.

I think about families with sick children all the time since my boyfriend has been entertaining seriously ill children at hospitals for the last 15 years. I hear about the stories in passing and each one has a poignantly stabbing effect on my heart. Each story makes me appreciate my children’s health. Every sad story makes me thank my lucky stars that it’s not me. Because I don't think I could ever find the strength it takes to cope with one of life's greatest challenges.

My sister was born with one kidney; it functions perfectly – as good as another person’s two, as the doctors tell her. We found out when she was about 9; I was 15. From that time onward, I declared one of my kidneys on reserve for her. It was a thought I didn’t have to consider. If I could one day save my sister’s life – it would be my privilege. I wouldn’t hail myself a hero, more of a lucky problem solver. I hope I never live to see the day – but if it should happen – I’m ready, set, go.

In the story of the Sister’s Keeper, it was the younger sister (Anna), genetically engineered and born to save the older sister’s (Kate) life. Complications arose when Anna was 11 and she decided that she no longer wanted that role. She wanted control – and say – over her own body. So she sued her parents for medical emancipation. That’s the short version.

As a sister I can’t imagine not giving a kidney, if I was a fit. But I also can’t imagine knowing I was brought into this world just to have my body serve as an eternal medical band-aid for my dying sister. There must be a collective history of sadness and defeat that Anna’s character felt.

However, as a mother, you are stuck in the most tragic rock vs. hard place scenario; a living Sophie’s Choice. (Incidentally, I know the story of “Sophie’s Choice,” but have never had the courage to actually watch the movie.) As a mother, every instinct in your body is designed to help and save your children. I venture to say that there is very little we wouldn’t do to save our babies. But would we put one child’s life at risk to potentially save another? And how much suffering do you put one through for the sake of the other?

Sick children is wrong – like a major flaw in the programming of the human race.

When I finished the movie, I realized that they ended it sadly, but differently from the tragic ending in the book. I was left with the feeling of ultimate joy and gratitude for my healthy children and sister.

3 Addresses and the Year That Was

2010-08-06T19:45:00.008-04:00

The other day I got a piece of mail that had 3 addresses on it for me; two of which were printed on the yellow post office new address stickers. I was dually impressed – both with the post office for keeping up with the mail, and with myself for managing 3 addresses in one year.

It led me to reflect on the year during an unconventional time – from June 2009 to June 2010.

I’m prone to being hard on myself so confronting this menial piece of snail mail reminded me of the transition that occurred in my life in just the amount of time that the US Mail will still forward your mail.

Sometimes I give myself a hard time that I haven’t accomplished much of what I’ve wanted to over the last year. But I say in retrospect, it was quite a year.

In all that time, I have:

Moved out of the first apartment I ever picked out and lived in on my own, the apartment I got when I left my marriage and moved into with my 3-year old son. – June 2009
Filed for unemployment for the second time in my life. - June 2009
Moved in with my boyfriend onto the same block I lived on when I was first married (and conceived my first child). – June 2009
Witnessed the death of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson on the same day while lunching in New Jersey. – June 2009
Went to Ikea no fewer than 5 times (3 of them on the FREE Water Taxi with an overwhelmingly gorgeous view of Downtown Manhattan). – June 2009 – December 2010
Three morons and a fake manager attempted and botched a DirecTV installation. – June 2009
Met the Umbilical Brothers and briefly “entertained” them at our new apartment. – June 2009
Continued to fight with DirecTV for the rest of the year. – July 2009 – December 2009
Started running my boyfriend’s business. – July 2009
Went to a Dead Weather Concert at Terminal 5 with Jack White. Well I didn’t go with Jack White – I went with my boyfriend. The performance was with Jack White. – July 2009
Started therapy again where my therapist urged me to “give myself a break” because I was “going through a transition.” - July 2009
Went on a 10-state roadtrip in 10 days (counting NY as the first state on the 1st and last day): New York, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, (Yellowstone) Wyoming, South Dakota (BadLands), Iowa, Nebraska. - August 2009
Went to Washington DC and Williamsburg with my 2 boys. – August 2009
Began being boyfriend’s baby mommy-to-be. Realized this is a good block for conception. – September 2009
Bed bug extravaganza began. September 16, 2009
Beg bug extravaganza continued – September 23, 2009
Ended therapy again – therapist persisted on the transition argument – and then brought up problems I didn’t even know I had. – September 2009
Bed bug extravaganza made a comeback - November 18, 2009
Signed the lease to our new apartment on Wall Street. Clown on Wall Street – the image is as funny as the jokes. – November 18, 2009
Had a debacle to uninstall DirecTV and get my money back even after it could not get installed in my new apartment – December 2009
Drove my son to Riverdale using Zipcar up until after I was 9 months pregnant. December 2009 – June 2010
Crimson Dynamo premiers at comic book stores - December 3, 2009
St. Martin babymoon: we seized every second. – January 2010
Pregnant. January – June 2010
Became a mommy of 2: June 8, 2010

After 8 weeks …

2010-08-05T21:22:00.004-04:00

They said not to judge the character of the baby until much later. “She will change – just you wait.” (Winner of the most obvious comment award.) Certainly my daughter will change like we all will change – but her character, an inkling of personality, the crux of what her soul is really all about – won’t. Her character was born along side of her and she is already who’s she’s going to be.

I can safely say, that reflecting on her first two months of life outside the womb, I still feel like she’s a little animal, slowly hatching herself out of its shell. Although she is outside my body, she still so heavily relies upon it. She is still so biological and instinctual with her needs (food, warmth, sleep, comfort, love). But every day we get glimpses of her evolving personality.

Who she has been so far …

She is a sleeper – like both of her parents. We both predicted this, eagerly anticipated it and I still knock on wood whenever I utter the words, “She is a good sleeper.”

The breastfeeding has gone surprisingly well. This is yet another one of those things I get nervous saying out loud. I’m knocking on Ikea wood right now. (Does that even count as real wood?) I also spit 3 times over my left shoulder just in case. I wouldn’t want to jinx it – whatever that means, but everyone seems to warn me of this ‘jinx’ so I figure a wood knock and a little spittle isn’t so much to do to avoid such a horrific potential spell placed on my baby.

She is sweet – a very chill baby, which I only imagine might change dramatically when she realizes she has to compete with the loud mouths of this household.

She loves the bath – or the shower and when you wash her hair, she leans her head back as if in a spa.

She seems very concerned in her way. She often furrows her brows and looks either worried or disgruntled. Her wrinkled forehead is her greatest resemblance to me.

She loves her pacifier – but less and less each day. She likes to suck her hands too – but somehow gags herself when she tries to put shove her whole fist in her mouth. Perhaps this too is what she gets from me. – apparently I was born with my whole fist in my mouth. This should have definitely clued my parents in that I would be struggling with a lifeime of putting my foot in my mouth. (Sorry and I’m trying to write it down instead of saying it nowadays).

Her eyes show a special soul – revealing a wisdom newborns shouldn’t even have in their eyes. She sometimes looks at me as if to say, “I understand exactly what you’re saying, I just can’t speak back.” I, in turn, feel like an idiot that doesn’t understand her language.

Her language, incidentally, consists of ‘words’ that sound like goo, coo, ah, ooh, and sometimes there’s one that sounds like hi. The favorite is the crrrr, which doesn’t exactly have a proper spelling, but sounds a little like the sound of the suction at the dentist’s office, when the straw-like thingy sucks your saliva for a few seconds.

Of course, she ultimately has a heart of gold. How could I expect any less?

A Girl’s Diaper Change

2010-07-30T12:49:00.004-04:00

I’m a girl with girl parts that I’ve had for 35 years and am very familiar with their operation and maintenance. When I had my baby boy 8 years ago, he came with a whole new set of parts – externally hanging ones. I could not relate to these parts, but quickly became a diaper-changer extraordinaire – the baby penis and the balls were easy to clean.

Fast forward to 7 weeks ago when my baby girl was born. One of the pediatricians in the hospital came in to give her an exam and off came the diaper and with it, the girl diapering lesson.

"Make sure you clean her vagina – inside the folds," she instructed. "Pull it apart and get it thoroughly clean," she went on. Then she not-so-gingerly spread my baby's delicate parts and checked them out.

Oh goodness me. This felt very invasive. She made mention that we don’t have to get rid of “all the lubrication” – some was normal.

But how would I know how much was normal? I’m a perfectionist and would lean on the side of scrubbing said-body-part clean. After baby girl’s first poop, it became apparent that the spreading part of the diaper change was imperative to thorough cleaning. Whereas a boys parts are ‘what you see is what you get,’ a girl’s parts are in line with a girl’s character – always hiding something inside and you really have to dig deep to clean the shit out.

Another difference that I never expected was the fountain pee. Baby boys have a bad reputation for peeing the minute the diaper comes off – a yellow streaming fountain that usually saturates diaper changer. Girls, however, with their folded parts, don’t come with this assumption. My baby girl has proven to me – over and over now – how wrong it was to presume there would be no female pee fountain. In fact, she has, in her 7 short weeks, given me more squirting yellow displays than my boy ever did.

I love that she’s bold like that. Just wait until I impose and pass along onto her my public restroom shtick.

I was a Witness?

2010-07-14T08:00:00.001-04:00

Two years ago I played the role of a good Samaritan and now I got a subpoena delivered to my home. (Two weeks after having a newborn.) Delivered to my doorman (not in my hands). Without an envelope and left for me to pick up at my leisure.

It all began on an August afternoon two years ago when after taking my grandmother to the doctor, I vaguely saw (they call this “a witness”) a woman get hit by a car. I think the car hit her foot or leg. I don’t remember the specifics and she never told me. I remember she was able to walk, but I also remember thinking she must be in serious shock. I was not the one who called 9-1-1. I don’t remember who did that.

There were others there, but nobody stayed after the initial Manhattanite gasp and chatter. The woman was all by herself; no one bothered to stay with her, assuming the authorities would take care of it. But because I didn’t have to be anywhere by any certain time, I felt compelled to stay with her.

Just earlier that year, on another midtown corner during rush hour, a much older and heavier woman had broken her fall with my knee. I remained standing still, stuck in pain, as she fell crashing forward. I stood shocked, in serious knee pain, thinking to myself, “Shit, this is more than just a boo-boo.” While everyone surrounding the fallen women jumped to help her up; I was the broken tree on the corner.

She got up and on her way, continuing uptown, someone’s eyes caught mine as I winced in pain and she asked me, “You’re not OK, are you?”

The Russian martyr in me took possession of my voice and I mouthed that I was OK. I somehow managed to hobble one block up to the bus and then up a flight of stairs to my boyfriend’s apartment. Later that night I put together a living room full of Ikea furniture, unevenly balancing on one leg. Good practice for the next six weeks I spent on crutches.

The moment that lingers with me during that incident will be the feeling of being very alone in a big city when I was in pain. Now on this August afternoon, I wanted to be there for someone who was also feeling very alone, hurt and afraid.

About a year later, or sometime between now and then, I got a call or a letter or both from someone that led me to understand that now there was a lawsuit and I was the only witness. For which side, I’m not sure.

Apparently one of them wants me to testify or give a deposition or something that sounds very Law & Order – and I don’t want to. (Nor can I as a lactating mom of a newborn.)
The reality is that I didn’t even see the whole accident; I just saw a scared woman. I’ve told them that.

Now I’m being harassed - on the phone, on Facebook, now at my home - by legal assholes or insurance assholes or any other person that fits into the ambulance-chasing scene.
It kind of made me understand why everyone else fled the scene and I was left being the only one that stayed behind to bear witness.

What kind of lesson is this perpetuating in society?

Month One: Check

2010-07-13T18:31:00.004-04:00

Throughout life, we’re behaviorally trained to rely on somebody else to tell us that we’re doing a good job. We perpetually seek validation (and reward?) for our actions. First our parents chant “good job” as we learn life’s basics. Then throughout our childhood and our educational careers, we count on teachers, tests and grades to present us with the grand check mark that we are in fact doing what we’re supposed to be doing. Finally in our jobs, we wait for our bosses to commend us or to give us a review – or at least to sign our paychecks to substantiate the job we’re doing.

Being a mother, though, is a job where we give ourselves our own grade. We raise our children, watching as their actions mirror our parenting. But before they’re old enough to be in the pre-therapy phase, they’re tiny babies. And how do we know if we’re doing it right?

I count on the pediatrician for that. Oh, what a power I bestow upon her.

Yesterday we took our baby for her one-month doctor’s visit.

Even though this is offspring number 2, many (of the same) questions made my sheet. Silly things like, “is her skull bones supposed to dip in like that?” or “how long will she do the cross-eyed Jerry Lewis thing?” Mostly I eagerly awaited the grand weigh-in. Fattening her up in these first few months of life is much akin to a final exam in determining the class’ overall grade.

While my baby was sleeping well and seeming satisfied after feedings, I wanted to see the proof that breastfeeding was working. I was still in doubt and in shock that I could do it. I needed to see the numbers. And we did, we did! Weight and height and head size – all properly growing!

The doctor tells us that she’s very proud of us. She used those specific words.

So elated, a huge smile spreads on both our faces. Nothing better than hearing words of a healthy baby. Good job boobies.

Month one, check plus.

Capture a Screen Shot with Mac

2010-07-13T16:06:00.004-04:00

Warning: For those of you whose google search to “How to Screen Capture on Mac” brought you to this page, I apologize because I don’t usually write about this kind of stuff. (Not that I’m not great at technical stuff; I actually am. I just choose not to write about it. Because there are funnier things to write about. This isn’t funny, it’s just darn useful. For those of you that have Macs. And for those of you that want to capture a screen shot.

This is a great list of ways to Capture a Screen Shot with Mac OS X:

1. To capture the entire desktop, press Command-Shift-3. The screen shot will be automatically saved as a PNG file on your desktop.

2. To copy the entire desktop, press Command-Control-Shift-3. The screen shot will be placed on your clipboard for you to paste into another program.

3. To capture a portion of the desktop, press Command-Shift-4. A cross-hair cursor will appear and you can click and drag to select the area you wish to capture. When you release the mouse button, the screen shot will be automatically saved as a PNG file on your desktop. (The file is saved as PDF in Mac OS 10.3 and earlier.)

4. To capture a specific application window, press Command-Shift-4, then press the Spacebar. The cursor will change to a camera, and you can move it around the screen. As you move the cursor over an application window, the window will be highlighted. The entire window does not need to be visible for you to capture it. When you have the cursor over a window you want to capture, just click the mouse button and the screen shot will be saved as a PNG file on your desktop. (The file is saved as PDF in Mac OS 10.3 and earlier.)

5. Add Control to the two shortcuts above to place the screen shot on the clipboard instead of saving it to the desktop.

6. Another method for capturing screen shots in Mac OS X is by using the bundled Apple utility, Grab, located in the Applications > Utilities folder. Grab is useful if you need to include a cursor or a menu in your screen shot, or if you want to save your screen shot to TIFF format. To include a cursor, first go to Grab Preferences and select the cursor icon you wish to have in your screen shot. To capture the screen with Grab, run Grab, then choose of the capture modes from the "Capture" menu: Selection, Window, Screen, Timed Screen.

7. When you choose the Selection mode in Grab, you can capture a specific region of the screen by dragging around it. Grab will display a tooltip showing the size of the region you have selected and the screen shot will open in a window when you release the mouse button. The cursor will not be included.

8. When you choose the Window mode in Grab, an instruction window will appear asking you to select the window you wish to capture, then click the "Choose Window" button. When you click the button, the instructions will disappear and the window you click ill be captured, including the mouse cursor at the position where you click (if a cursor was selected in Preferences).

9. When you choose the Screen mode in Grab, an instruction window will appear asking you to click the screen when you are ready to capture. The mouse cursor will be included in your screen shot at the position where you click (if a cursor was selected in Preferences).

10. When you choose the Timed Screen mode in Grab, an instruction window will appear, allowing you to prepare your screen for capture. When you are ready, press the "Start Timer" button and you will have ten seconds before the screen is captured. This allows you to open menus and sub-menus, if necessary. After ten seconds the entire screen will be captured. The mouse cursor will be included in your screen shot if a cursor was selected in Preferences.

3 Weeks of Mommyhood-squared

2010-06-29T20:14:00.006-04:00

I made it through the first 3 weeks without breaking baby # 2. This second rendition of Mommyhood is entirely different from the first installment, when I was given the title 8 years ago.

Gone are the moments (OK, fewer are the moments) when you check on your perfectly angelic sleeping newborn just to see if she’s alive. Gone are the sleepless moments while she sleeps because you wonder why she’s still sleeping. (I’m taking every opportunity to sleep when she sleeps.) Gone are the phone calls to the pediatrician after every weird cry, burp or poop (or lack there of).

The biggest surprise, despite every second-child cliché realized, is that every baby is so very different – even if it came from the same womb. Truly, though, she only feels like a partial second child. After all, for the baby daddy, she is still a first child and our first child together; an altogether new family dynamic.

Throughout my 41 weeks of pregnancy, I had an internal breastfeeding debate: would I or wouldn’t I. After much deliberation and overwhelming self scrutiny and doubt (READ: GUILT), I decided that I owed it both to my child and to myself to give it another chance. Mostly because I didn’t want to believe that my body couldn’t do it. Gosh darn it, my boobs could make milk as much as the next female!

And when this time around, I squirted my sore nipples to see the white droplets ooze out, it brought tears to my eyes. Like the boobies that thought they could, they chugged their way through the first few days to be healthy milk producers. The little boobies that could!

Along with the fabulous benefits of being a milk producer, I also feel a bit trapped, never allowing more than 2 hours between me and baby boob sucker. The “Breastaurant” is open 24/7 at my daughter’s request and I am the sole proprietor. It strikes me as interesting fodder that some women actually love this – gaining a certain power or control that they are the only ones that can feed their baby. For me, it feels a bit restricting; different from the life I once had – even 3 short weeks ago.

While I have an 8-year old, the joint custody bit allowed me half a week of complete freedom and even when he was with me, the 8-year-old has become so incredible self-sufficient, that this constant attachment is a newfound challenge. “But it’s not forever,” they chant. So I nod and switch baby on the boob and take a deep breath.

But there’s another benefit to the boob feeding: THE BOOBS! Of course only my eyes and those of baby daddy have gotten to appreciate them since I have barely left the house for 3 weeks. (Why aren’t I on St. Martin’s topless beaches now?) He would argue that why else would anyone else have to appreciate them? I would counter-argue that outfits would just look exponentially better – and this is like the free boob job I’ll never have. But alas vanity has got the better of me.

Then there’s the pacifier. Also known as the binky, the paci, the bobo, baby # 2 has become enamored with it. On our third night at the hospital, she was just sucking on the boob - sucking her way into a newborn coma. Flashbacks of baby # 1 came back to me and I quickly declared unproductive boob sucking banned from the Breastaurant. So, we did the pinkie in the mouth – and it soothed her immediately. An hour later, daddy’s pinkie was getting as sore as my nipples and he quickly suggested a pacifier.

A trip to the local Duane Reade yielded a pacifier and the beginning of our mutual love affair with it. Aside from the self-inflicted guilt, it’s fabulous. (The American Association of Pediatrics even say so. ) It’s like a plug for any drip. Sometimes it seems that the pacifier will soothe any of a number of her needs – not just the sucking one. It just seems like the greatest distraction tool.

My issue is that babies just look dumber with the sucky thing in their mouth. They also whine as soon as it falls out of their mouth in the middle of the night, day, and nap. And then there is the final how will we get rid of it once said baby gets addicted? But I save that concern for another day.

Another newbie to this installment of Motherhood is the swaddle. At first we implemented the hospital swaddle and her hands would escape. But no – there is a better, more proper swaddle. Larger sheets, trapped arms and legs. It’s the latest trend (or at least back to what the rest of the world has been doing for hundreds of years). Mr. Happiest Baby on the Block said so in his books, CDs and quoted in every parenting magazine around. It seems to work magic. The first night we did it, she slept 7 hours straight. At two weeks. Dare I judge?

Then there are the hormones. The stuff that no one really wants to talk about because it doesn’t fit the pretty picture. (The stuff that even I don’t have the balls to write about. No one wants to hear whining, least of all me.) So while the 9-months of hormones leaves your body silently, it creates plenty of loud havoc in your brain. I read somewhere that it’s like the worst PMS you can experience – times ten. “It’s not your fault,” they say. “It’s normal,” they say. None of these words is a salve to the invisible wound that’s bleeding profusely through your mind.

The hormones course through your veins, creating insanity where there needn’t be; creating illogical thoughts to justify the irrational emotions. It’s hard to fit in with the angelic image of society’s picture of the newborn mom. Euphoric, glowing and madly in love.

Since I have joint custody of my 8-year-old, the days that he’s not here seem like a breeze. I wonder why I never thought a newborn was easy the first time around when I didn’t have another one to entertain? Having an 8-year-old creates a new brand of self-inflicted guilt. Both when I’m having to take care of the newborn and just when I need some extra z’s. I can’t let him play on Club Penguin for another hour! I should be doing something creative, brain stretching or body stretching with him. I can’t keep him in the house another hour (even though he loves it). All these guilt-inducing, mother-like reprimands chant loudly in my head.

“Give yourself a break,” the baby daddy says. “Take it easy,” the parents say. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” my sister tells me. It’s only three been weeks.

So we tread forward – the new family. Every day a new challenge, a new opportunity to learn something – or teach something – or just feed the baby I grew inside me for 41 weeks. I hold onto something I learned with baby # 1 – as soon as you figure it out, they change it.

Motherhood: Take 2

2010-06-16T16:58:00.008-04:00

Every baby comes with its own birth story, and the journey it took to bring it to life.

Mackenzie Riley came into this world on a Tuesday morning via emergency cesarean section after almost 24 hours of trying to be induced. She is perfect. For every hardship pregnancy gave me for 41 weeks, she is taking it away by the minute. It only took me a day to say ‘it was all worth it.’

This is my Take 2 on Life. I did this once before – with another partner, much more planned and strategically plotted. I was so much more nervous; so much more calculating; so much more judgmental of the process and myself. I threw away any motherhood instincts, mostly because I had a partner who doubted me, criticized me and didn’t believe in me – or in love. Not in the way of the fairytale. Not in the way it’s supposed to be.

I never was a girl who loved princesses, but I love stories – especially ones with a happy ending. So when I didn’t have a happy ending the first time, I set out to write another story.

When I met Andrew over 5 years ago, I didn’t know that he’d be the perfect daddy to my gorgeous baby girl. But I did have a vision, as he walked away from me the first day we met, of him walking down the street holding the hand of a long-haired little girl. I filed this crazy image out of my mind until many years later.

But this man, whose heart belongs to children, was meant to be a daddy all his life. A man that came into my life to love me, my son and now our beautiful daughter.

My first marriage went sour the day my son was born and my ex-husband decided that I was superfluous to our son. I spent over 2 years in a controlling relationship, crying every day. He sucked out every morsel of happiness during my son’s first months of life.

I was terrified for what this new baby could do to my new relationship. How would we handle the stress of a newborn? The feedings, the restless nights, the crying.

But now we have this gorgeous baby girl and she is so different from my son. My energy is different. Our house is filled with love and positivity. Andrew supports me as a mother, as a woman, as his partner, as the other half of the love that created this new life. And that has made this experience – even in the short week that has been – remarkable, life altering, euphoric.

I used to see men with babies and cringe. It was never one of those images that made me awe. Until now. Until I see Andrew holding our daughter, his eyes deep into hers, thankful that I took the courage to make this fairytale my reality.

I look down at her head of full black hair, at her steel eyes as she looks through me; I smell the sweetest baby fragrance.

She is sweetness defined. A delicate baby girl that makes me pinch myself. I am thankful for anything and everything I did to be given this precious gift.

I am inhaling every moment; soaking up every fleeting second – eternally grateful for the man who gave me a second chance to be a mommy. A man who taught me not to be afraid to dream – because if we can dream it, and imagine it, we can achieve it.

Cheers to Life 2.0.

Mackenzie Riley's First 5 Days on Earth

From Hearts Everywhere

Born 6.8.10 at Beth Israel Hospital, NYC.

Daddy will never let her feet touch the ground.

Now I'm a mommy of 2.

Meeting her big brother for the first time.

Big brother holds little sister's hands.

First day home.

She looks at you with these soulful eyes. Day 4 of life.

Flowers, Flowers and More Flowers

2010-06-09T10:38:00.007-04:00

Each spring ... and every season, actually, I become obsessed with taking photos of flowers. The colors, the intricacies, the secret details. I've been doing it for years and never get bored. Here are just some (oh yes, there are many more) snapshots of flowers from New York City this spring.

Snapshots in Sepia

2010-06-06T10:18:00.006-04:00

I've always loved capturing images in sepia. It's nostalgic, classic - almost like a little black dress. Whenever my pictures don't seem to convey what I'm truly seeing with my eye, I switch to sepia and it transports it to a peaceful interpretation.

Central Park, NYC

Same Bench - Central Park, NYC

Flower in Central Park, NYC

Belvedere Castle, Central Park, NYC

Central Park, NYC

Flower with Sunlight, Central Park, NYC

Central Park, NYC

Fountain outside Tarrytown Castle, Tarrytown, NY

Tarrytown, NY

41 Weeks - Seriously?

2010-06-05T10:59:00.008-04:00

My first baby (8 years ago) came 3 days early, which duplicitously led met to believe that this one would also arrive a few days before the June 1st day circled red on the calendar. However, here I sit 2 days away from hitting the 41-week pregnant mark and I'm not smiling too broadly.

I'm thankful for the little things that could make it much worse. I'm not on bed rest and my feet aren't swollen beyond shoes, but I'm anxious and I'm as ready as I'll be ... and between me and the rest of the universe, I'm really done with this journey. Every pregnancy is unique, I know. Every baby is different, of course. But most mama-to-be are pretty much at the "stick a fork in me, I'm done" part when 41 weeks has come and gone on the calendar.

At the doctor's appointment last week, they scheduled me for 3 visits next week, all including the non-stress testing where they hook me up to a monitor and check baby's movements, fluid levels, and heart rate. Fun! Then at 42 weeks they induce. I really wanted to take a less invasive route. Why is my body slacking off on its job? There is no extra credit for this overtime.

I started all the stereotypical labor-inducing techniques right around 39 weeks ... obviously to no avail. I've tried spicy food, eggplant, pineapple, Indian food. I've tried sex - a lot, believe it or not. We've tried acupressure points. I've even tried coaxing it out with promises of candy and ice cream (mommy and daddy's favorite foods). I've walked and walked and walked. Yesterday under the 87-degree New York City heat, I walked about 4 miles. Then later at night we went back out and walked some more.

But alas, I wake up with a huge belly laying next to me and an unborn Baby Beluga still comfortably hanging out inside. Deep sigh. All in time. Patience. The earth's plans are bigger than mine ... and of course, good things come to those who wait. So ... I clean the house again and walk again ... and hope that my body knows when my baby is ready to hear its first Happy Birthday song.

39 weeks Pregnant

2010-05-28T14:45:00.004-04:00

“Sick” has always been one of my favorite Shel Silverstein poems and I’ve always read it in a whiny complaining voice, which explains why it comes to mind now that I’m 39 weeks pregnant. Everything I say now feels like I’m uttering words to my own version of the poem.

I have never been one to wallow in the sickly mindset. Luckily my A+ immune system banishes my annual cold in a few days – and most of the time I ignore it (à la Monica in the Friends episode where she denies being sick as she disgustingly coughs and sneezes on everyone and everything). But this pregnancy – oh it has had me feeling sick for the last 273 days.

“It’s for a good reason,” they say. “It will all be worth it,” they reassure me. And I have no doubt - but it’s still a long time to feel like shit every day.

In the course of the last 273 days, the feeling of shit has varied in flavors – but the common denominator has been the same. No glowing skin or luminous hair or fabulous nails. Just nausea, vomiting, heartburn and now heaviness and tightness that makes me feel like I’m wearing a girdle securing a watermelon around all my organs 24 hours a day.

My muscles feel like they’ve completely atrophied. I am thankful for my wrought iron bed so that I can use the headboard like a disabled handrail when I pull myself out of bed. I’d like to think that I was strengthening my abdominal muscles when I raise myself, like some Rocky-worthy exercise where he puts 25-pounds of weight on his chest and does sit-ups. But alas, I think my abdominal muscles have retreated somewhere behind my stomach or lungs, both of which function at partial capacity at this point.

Sleep, oh sleep, how I used to love you. But somehow my body is readying my schedule for a newborn with frequent trips to pee – or to toss and turn and toss again. They tell me to sleep on the left side, so I try, but then I get restless and venture to the right side guiltily. Then it’s back to the left, where I have to tuck a blanket between my legs and under the heavy belly.

My reflection never fails to shock me. My shadow is like an exaggerated monster. How did my petite frame become this huge? The baby daddy says he loves the shape … but I’m part Humpty-Dumpty, part Weeble Wobble.

Then there’s the way others perceive me. I pass by strangers in the street and their eyes are drawn directly to my belly as if it’s an eye-to-belly magnet. This must be what it’s like for women with big boobs. Eye-to-boob contact rather than eye-to-eye. And speaking of big boobs – where was that when they doled out the pregnancy side effects?

Full-term pregnancy, how lucky that I am here, but you are the antithesis to comfort.

Now I wait, eagerly in anticipation to see this new life I've created that erases all memory of the above.

Sick
by Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

'Babies' Trailer

2010-05-23T20:57:00.001-04:00

Maybe it's being 39 weeks pregnant, but I don't think so ... this is human nature at its very core. So amazing. This is a wonderful documentary; highly recommend it - for those expecting - and for those that aren't.

It's also fantastic to see how the core of what all babies need is food and LOVE. Kudos to mothers around the world for being able to grow, birth and feed future generations. I'm honored to wear the title.