Oh, Yeah, I Forgot. I'm a Grownup

Something weird is going on, people. Somehow, I ended up having a weekend that did not revolve primarily around my children. A weekend where I did actual grownup things. I know!! Shocking, right? I mean, I never set out to be that person whose life revolves around feeding and nap schedules, playdates, and kids’ activities. (Does anyone?) But it happened.

Somewhere along the line it became perfectly acceptable to be in flannel PJs at 8pm on a Saturday night and in bed at 9:30. Instead of movies and restaurants, weekend outings became a trip to Costco and a 2-year-old’s birthday party. Dining out usually means going to Red Robin. Fun ... if you're 4.

But like I said, this weekend was different. First of all, we got a babysitter. Contrary to the talk shows and magazines that insist couples have weekly date nights, for us it only happens about once every 2-3 mos. So C. and I got dressed up and had dinner at a trendy new restaurant. That’s right – TRENDY and NEW! I can’t take credit for having the scoop on this place, though. A much hipper (and not coincidentally, childless) friend of mine recommended it.

So, anyway, there we were out and about after dark on a Friday night. Like real adults!! We had drinks, we had dinners that weren’t in the shape of Disney characters, we had some conversation about stuff other than kids and bills. (I said SOME. Of course, those topics cropped up. I mean, what else are we going to talk about?)

I also went out and saw a real movie. In a theatre and everything. As strange as it felt to be sitting upright and wearing shoes while watching a movie – as opposed to lying on the couch in sweats – I quite enjoyed it. I saw “Black Swan” with Natalie Portman. It was weird, in a good way, and the kind of movie you keep thinking about and analyzing for days after. I guess that’s what people without kids talk about. (Like the guys behind me who were discussing metaphors and symbolism in the film. Meanwhile, I was thinking about how Natalie Portman is pregnant now. Hey, I’m still a mom…)

But wait, it gets better – next, I went to a museum. A MUSEUM, can you believe it? I walked around and looked at art. Without pushing a stroller or shushing anybody in a Baby Bjorn. It was incredible. And also, quiet. Now, I have to confess, this was actually during a kids’ birthday party. The kids did art projects in a separate room while the parents could wander around and look at the exhibits. Great idea, right? Another mom kept giddily pointing out how she felt like a real adult again.

It’s hard to believe that all these activities were standard weekend fare not that long ago. Commonplace, dull even. I’m sure we were like, “Another movie? We just saw one last night.” Or, “What if we stayed IN for dinner tonight for a change?”

Boy, has life changed, huh? It’s OK, though. All that adult stuff kind of tired me out. I need a week of Thomas the Tank Engine and chicken nuggets to recover.

Babies Around the World

Ever since I saw the movie “Babies” a little while ago, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a short, wordless documentary about 4 babies growing up in different parts of the world, from birth to age 1. It’s visually stunning, and of course the babies are cute, but that’s not what struck me most.

Rather, it’s how differently babies are raised in other cultures. There’s Ponijao in Namibia, who rolls around in the dirt naked and has to put up with livestock drinking his bathwater. Then there’s Bayar, a little moon-faced boy in Mongolia whose mother births him with little fanfare and then hops on the back of a motorbike for the bumpy ride back to their yurt. The life of Mari in Tokyo isn’t drastically different from her counterpart Hattie’s in San Francisco, with their diapers and strollers and baby music classes.

But the scene that had the most impact for me was one with Hattie and her mother. The baby has become a toddler, with all the behaviors that go along with that—namely, fussing and swatting at her mother. So the mom—obviously an educated, upper-middle class woman in her 30’s, I’d say—does what many moms I know would do. She turns and takes a book off the shelf, titled “No Hitting.”

Isn’t that so AMERICAN? We can fix any parenting problem with the right book! Let’s consult 6 experts and then mirror correct behaviors for our offspring! Better yet, let’s take our baby to a child psychologist so we can understand the emotional causes of her hitting! Perhaps it’s because our peaceful, lute-accompanied water birth went awry and we needed a C-section?

OK, I’m mocking. But you have to admit it’s a little funny, especially in comparison to the mother in Africa who, when her children are fighting, distracts them with a wild dog or her own hair. The Mongolian baby is left alone constantly, either swaddled up to his eyeballs in yards of fabric or tied to a bed post. (Yes! He was literally tied to a bed post by his waist while his mother was outside tending the sheep or something. And he seemed perfectly happy.)

We American moms pour so much time and energy and angst into parenting. We debate the pros and cons of disposable vs. cloth diapers and when and how to potty train, while in the rest of the world babies are crawling around bare-bummed. The African mom, when her newborn poops, WIPES HIS BUTT ON HER KNEE and then scrapes it off with an old corn cob! No organic wipes, no wipe warmer, no Diaper Genie, no antibacterial soap. Can you imagine??

Now, I’m not going to chuck all our educational toys and books and diapers and let my baby crawl shoeless all over a rusty metal drum in the middle of a field of horned cattle. (Not that that makes the Mongolian woman a bad mom; let’s not be judgy.) But it is a good reminder that maybe we don’t need all the stuff we think we do to raise a child. Little Ponijao in Africa seemed pretty darn happy to me.

So, tell me, readers in America and around the world, what parenting differences do you notice where you live?

Babies and Beer Bottles Don’t Mix

If you’re squeamish about blood, stop reading now. But if you’re a mom, you’ve probably encountered more blood than Freddy Krueger. And if you haven’t yet, you will.

I hate to break it to you, but kids get hurt. If they’re anything like my boys, they get hurt A LOT.

The other day we were playing in our yard enjoying the beautiful fall weather. Riley, 20 mos., aka “Dr. Destructo,” went up on the porch to grab his toy lawnmower. Only he got distracted – by a broken beer bottle in the recycling bin which he promptly put in his mouth and took a swig from. Blood, hysterics, and panic ensued.

In case you’re thinking, “What kind of a dumb-a** leaves broken bottles around?” let me just say we had recently moved the recycling bin outside thinking it was safer there than in the kitchen. The porch isn’t a place where the boys play. Or so I thought.

And anyway, my sons have injured themselves on steps, doors, bookcases, bathtubs, and plenty of other nonthreatening household objects. So unless I want to outfit them with bubble-wrap coveralls and football helmets for the rest of their childhoods, they’re gonna get hurt.

ALL kids get hurt. It’s a fact of life. You can babyproof your house up to the rafters and your child will probably still manage to injure himself. (Remind me to tell you about the time Miles got his head stuck in a kitchen chair.) You can’t protect kids from every possible danger. (But you should totally try. Maybe if you start early enough, babies get used to wearing helmets and bubble-wrap.)

Believe it or not, I used to be so uncomfortable with blood, needles, and all things ER-related that I would pass out at the mere thought of it. I’m not kidding. I actually wrote an article about my condition, which is called “vasovagal syncope” and is more common than you’d think.

Needless to say, post-kids I’ve gotten used to the sight of blood. When your child’s bleeding from the mouth, you don’t have the luxury of fainting. You spring into action with washcloths, Popsicles, and calls to the pediatrician.

The first time my older son cut himself (on a doorframe), I rushed him to the ER, called my husband to leave work, and endured hours of X-rays and doctors. He was fine. Now that I’m on Kid #2, I’m no longer so quick to panic.

I know now, for example, that mouth injuries often look worse than they are because the blood mixes with saliva. I know that a split lip doesn’t necessarily need stitches unless the cut crosses the lip line or doesn’t stop bleeding after 30 min. I know that you have 5 hours to decide whether to get stitches or not. (After that, it’s too late.) And I know that Popsicles are a godsend for kids who scream at the sight of an icepack. (Although when blood mixes with a green Incredible Hulk Popsicle, it’s not pretty.)

It’s awful, it’s heartbreaking, it’s upsetting when your baby hurts himself. You feel like the worst mother ever. But it’ll be OK. Like they say, kids are resilient. And what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And anything else people say in these situations that sounds wise.

All I know is, I should buy stock in Batman band-aids and Flavor-Ice. And at least I don’t have to worry about fainting at the doctor's anymore.

FLICK O' THE WEEK: I finally saw "Babies," the documentary about the first year of life for 4 babies around the world. Adorable and awe-inspiring. And I guess I can't get too worked about a beer bottle if moms in Africa are shaving their infants' heads with giant buck knives.

Ramona Made a Reader Out of Me

Anyone have a tween girl I can borrow? I’m dying to see “Ramona and Beezus.” Oh, trust me, I WILL see it, tween or no tween. As a kid, my love of Beverly Cleary’s Ramona was rivaled only by my affection for Lois Lowry’s Anastasia Krupnik.

The following anecdote will either a) reveal what a geek I was as a kid, or b) prove that I was destined to be a writer when I grew up.

One night I was reading in bed when I came across a particular passage. I honestly don’t remember whether it was a Ramona book or an Anastasia book, though I’d bet on the latter.

Anyway, this passage was describing the hapless protagonist’s humiliating turn at being forced to shimmy up a rope in gym class. She inevitably lost her grip, and plummeted to the floor in front of all her classmates.

Something about that word “plummet” sent me into gales of laughter. In fact, as my mother tells it, I laughed so hard I fell out of bed. So, writers? If you’ve ever doubted the power of word choice, let this be a lesson to you.

This past year my son’s preschool class made little booklets about themselves. They listed their likes and dislikes, favorite activities, foods, etc. Under “Favorite thing to do with Mommy” Miles listed “read books.” I’m not gonna lie, people. I teared up. Especially because that’s MY favorite thing to do with my kids.

Miles has loved books from Day 1 and is the type of kid who will read anything in front of him, including a cereal box. Now, I’ll admit I don’t always love his choice of reading material, like the mind-numbing “Cars” books based on the animated motion picture, or the encyclopedia of sharks. (Which is clearly not intended for 4y.o.’s since it includes detailed instructions on what to do if you are ever attacked by a shark. The gist: punch it in the nose and swim like hell.)

But we both love reading all the Dr. Seuss books (although we agree the guy could NOT draw horses) and Jane Yolen’s dinosaur books and David Shannon’s books.

Then there’s Riley. I know he’s only 16 mos. old, but I genuinely feared he was destined for a life of crime and illiteracy since he showed zero interest in books for much of his life. Then, all of a sudden, things changed, and now he climbs up on the couch next to his brother with his own book every time he sees Miles reading. And he does the backwards butt-scoot into my lap when he wants me to read to him.

My second-born is WAY pickier when it comes to reading material, however. He’s stuck on the same 6 or so board books, including a stupid one about a cow that came from the $1 section of Target and a non-age-appropriate book about tractors that’s of questionable literary value.

But what do I care? I’m just thrilled that my children are readers. (Even though I know that can change at some point.) It’s even inspired me to rediscover my OWN love of reading, which has withered up and died tapered off since I had a second baby.

I had stopped going to the library because the overdue fees were starting to cut into my kids’ college funds. I simply could not finish a book or manage to return them on time. But I’m giving it another go. Although, wouldn’t you know, I’m overly ambitious right out of the gate and am currently reading 3 books at the same time. I’m taking full advantage of the library’s online renewal policy.

Just think: with all the late fees I save, I can buy a movie ticket to see “Ramona and Beezus”! Who’s with me?

Toy Story 3: Lotso Terror at the Movies

*Guest post by Dad2Miles

This past week, my wife asked if I’d like to take our son to an advanced screening of the new Pixar film “Toy Story 3” in 3D with free tickets she’d won. Taking Miles to his first movie in an actual theater seemed very exciting to me.

I can still remember my first time at the movies. I was probably just about Miles’ age when I saw “The Jungle Book” with my dad. Back then the theater was the only option. (Weird, huh?) That amazing memory has stuck with me all these years. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to continue the tradition with my own son.

I knew he’d love it. After all, he already loves the other Pixar movies like “Cars,” “Finding Nemo,” and “Wall-E.” He can even recite their lines verbatim. The fact that this movie was also in 3D seemed like icing on the cake. So it was decided. This would be an experience of a lifetime for my boy (and me).

I made plans to leave work early, beat the traffic, and surprise Miles with this fun, after-bed-time adventure. This would be a night he’d remember forever, and I’d be a hero just like Buzz Lightyear!

On the drive to the theater Miles clutched the movie pass in his little hands and hummed a song with excitement and anticipation. So far, so good! Unfortunately, from this moment forward, let’s just say things didn’t go exactly as planned.

As we walked into the foyer we immediately noticed a line that stretched about 100 people long, primarily made up of 20-something, out-of-shape fan boys wearing black comic book T-shirts. (Cue the skipping record player.) Hmm, not exactly what I was expecting. So we queued up behind these Kevin Smith look-a-likes as the spectacle and wonder of the theater started to diminish a little amongst their “World of Warcraft” chatter.

After about 45 min. we were finally in our seats, with popcorn and our 3D glasses. Father and son, just like I had imagined. As the movie began, the booming surround-sound and 3D technology immediately had Miles in awe, and laughing hysterically.

Unfortunately, his amusement was short-lived. The storyline started to take some questionable turns. About 30 min. in, the boys at Pixar decided to paint a rather dark and emotional third installment of this classic series.

SPOILER ALERT! STOP READING IF YOU DON’T WANT TO LEARN PLOT DETAILS

You see, in this chapter of the Toy Story trilogy, Andy, the owner of the beloved Toys, is heading off to college and the fate of his childhood playthings is up in the air. After a mix-up, Woody, Buzz, and crew end up getting donated to Sunnyside Daycare Center, where things are not as they seem.

What ensues next is essentially a turf war between the new toys and the Sunnyside toys, who are led by an evil, tubby, purple teddy bear named Lotso, whose southern accent and evil mannerisms give him the charm of a Klansmen. Our beloved Toys proceed to get tortured and dismembered by the unruly toddlers at the daycare while Lotso makes sure his clan gets quality playtime with the “good” kids.

The screenplay is actually quite hilarious and entertaining -- for me, an adult. In fact, I was so entertained that I failed to immediately notice the fear and anxiety overcoming Miles. As the content clearly became questionable for a 4 y.o., I started to wonder what this movie was rated.

At one point I noticed that Miles had ripped off his 3D glasses in an effort not to watch. There were multiple scary characters like “Big Baby,” Lotso’s creepy baby-doll enforcer with a lazy eye who reminded me of Jason from Friday the 13th, and the Tambourine Monkey.

Finally, at the movie’s climax, I began questioning my own parenting skills as we watched the good toys facing their death at the garbage dump as they rode a conveyor belt into an incinerator. The Toys were holding hands as they prepared to meet their toy-maker in the sky. Was this a scene out of “Schindler’s List” or a G-rated cartoon?!

At this moment I turned to see Miles bawling. I could hear the toddlers in front of us screaming as well. What had I DONE? “Do you want to leave?” I asked him. He managed to squeak out a yes from his knee-clutching, rocking position in his seat. “Wait,” I thought. “We can’t leave now. He’ll never go to the movies again. Certainly they’ll be rescued in the end.”

So for what seemed like an eternity, we waited for the happy ending and escaped the theater. On the way out, Miles -- who was obviously exhausted from this experience -- was clearly not happy and stated the obvious when he said he “did not like that movie.”

So much for the magic and mystery of the movies. At least he’ll have lasting memories of his first cinema experience with his dad. The question is, how many years of therapy will it take to suppress them?

Dream Big

The other night when nothing was on TV, I found myself watching the 1988 movie “Big.” First of all, how cute was Tom Hanks? And second, how horrible that his parents thought he was kidnapped all that time he was really living it up in NYC? (Even in my downtime, I’m still a mom!) But that’s beside the point.

In the movie, if you recall, Hanks’ character lucks into a dream job as a product developer for a toy company. Of course, they don’t know he’s really a 13-year-old boy in a 30-year-old’s body, but that’s not the point either.

The point I’m trying to make is that he finds success, happiness and even a girlfriend, simply by being himself. Is that a great message or what?

Ever since I can remember, I’ve struggled with what to do with my life. I certainly did not know at age 13 that I wanted to be a freelance writer. I distinctly remember the day my friend Tracy DID announce on the school bus that she was going to be a freelance writer when she grew up, because I had no idea what that meant. I probably intended to look it up later, but got too busy applying my Bonne Bell lip gloss and worrying whether my bangs were big enough.

Anyway, my career path has been a long and circuitous route, to say the least. It’s always felt like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. It never seemed like my talents matched up to what employers were looking for. But Tom Hanks got me thinking: if someone WAS willing to give me a big, fat paycheck to do whatever I wanted, what would it be? I’ve got some ideas.

Entertainment consultant. I read about this ex-Marine who is a military consultant to the TV and movie industry. Basically, he goes to the set and tells them what wars and army bases and stuff should really look and sound like in real life, not Hollywood’s idea of military life.

I would like to be a “motherhood consultant.” I would tell producers and directors what life with kids is REALLY like. For instance, there would be more than a single baby bottle on the counter to signify an infant in the house. And most moms certainly do not gallivant around in full makeup and stylish, body-conscious clothes at all times. Also, most of us do not suddenly go into labor and give birth in the time it takes to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” (6 min., I Googled it) like Quinn Fabray on the season finale of “Glee.” Just saying.

Children’s book consultant. I don’t really want to be an editor (that’s far too much like real work!) but I would like to work with authors and publishers to help them tailor their books to real kids. For instance, they should never use the word “pooped” to mean tired. You’re just ASKING for potty-talk.

And what’s with the delicate pop-ups and lift-the-flaps for the under-3 set? Those books are destroyed in MINUTES. Also, beware of incongruous illustrations that don’t relate to the story. In one of my sons’ books, there’s a random snake on a beach – a detail which never goes unnoticed, not even on the 117th reading.

O magazine columnist. But why stray too far from my writer roots? Writing’s really what I love to do best. So I propose that O magazine should make me a columnist. I’ve been reading it for years, and I think I share O’s mission of helping women -- moms especially – accept and embrace their true selves, fulfill their potential, and find happiness. And a cute pair of shoes.

Oprah’s always saying that motherhood’s the hardest job there is, right? Well, I have the war stories to prove it, and I’d package each one neatly with an inspirational message about what the experience has taught me and how others might look at their own lives differently.

For instance, getting out the door in the morning with a small child who operates at an excruciatingly sluggish pace is a reminder to slow down and live in the moment.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s a lesson in patience, the supply of which required for parenthood would tax even the Dalai Lama himself. But what was I saying again? Oh, right. Be true to yourself and success will follow. It worked for Tom Hanks, anyway.

LINK O’ THE WEEK: I’ve gotta give props to fellow blogger Stephanie Stearns, aka @MinkyMoo. In addition to “Big,” it was a vlog on her new and improved DialMforMinky.com that got me thinking about this topic. This girl needs to be on TV, don’t you agree?

Lighten Up on Carrie Bradshaw!

I think this recession is making people grumpy. How else to explain why a large portion of the population seems to have lost their collective sense of humor? Much as I tried to shield myself from the reviews of “Sex and the City 2” before I saw it, I could not. Most of the reviews I read were negative, and most objected to the movie’s inappropriateness in these economic times.

People. Come ON. This is Carrie Bradshaw we’re talking about. The only writer in the history of Manhattan who can afford a walk-in closet full of designer labels and a sweet Upper East-side pad on a newspaper columnist’s salary. The only woman in the world who would wear a Dior ballgown to a Middle Eastern spice market. Can we just suspend our disbelief for a couple hours and enjoy a girls' night out?

That’s what I did. I've told you that a group of us used to get together weekly (!!) to watch “Sex and the City,” eat, drink, and gossip. Pre-kids, of course. Oh, how times change. The first SATC movie was a big event for us. We began planning a night out for the sequel as soon as we found out there was going to be one.

One person flew in from Portland and another from Minneapolis. Tickets were purchased, reservations were made. Outfits were bought, nails were done. This was my favorite part, truth be told. I’m still wearing my post-baby Old Navy wardrobe from 2006. Carrie would be so ashamed.

My ensemble for the movie, however, was nothing short of FABULOUS, if I do say so myself. It was a team effort -- two of my friends and the chic dressing room attendant at H&M helped me select a ruffly top and short-shorts, which I paired with studded gladiator sandals and a whimsical feather broach, as an homage to Carrie’s crazy bird headpiece at her first wedding to Big that didn’t happen. My nail polish was called “My Place or Yours.”

By the time we were settled into our seats with popcorn and Cosmos (the theatre had a bar!) I was ready for some fun. Carrie & Co. did not disappoint. While the first movie had some serious themes, this one’s pretty much pure spectacle. “Eye candy” is a good way to describe it. The wild wardrobes, the glamorous parties, a Speedo-clad male soccer team, Aiden...

Look, grumpy movie reviewers, if you’re looking for a nuanced portrayal of Islamic culture, you will not find it here. (Shocker!!) If you’re looking for a realistic depiction of life in this tough economic and political climate, you will not find it here. If, however, you’re looking for a lighthearted, female-focused bit of fun (remember FUN?!), you WILL find it here.

Me? I loved dressing up, going out, wining, dining, and gossiping with some of my best girlfriends. It’s been a LONG time since the stars and calendars aligned for that to happen, people.

I maybe should rethink the staying out till 1 a.m. part, though. Because being awakened at 5:30 a.m. by an angry, wet baby? Not so much fun.

Movie Night Fail

My fondness for the movies first began to decline when I was pregnant. Squeezing my girth into a cramped theater seat was no fun, especially when I had to go to the bathroom every 20 min. Plus, I had jumpy babies. The loud noises at the movies made them do an in-utero disco. Elbows and knees and heels, oh my! So I stayed home and signed up for Netflix.

But after the baby was born, even watching a video was tricky. If we did manage to find that elusive window between feedings and naps and diaper changes, I’d much rather sleep. Nowadays, we have 2 kids who sleep through the night (mostly), but our evenings look like this:

7-7:30 p.m. – Put the baby to bed. He’s the easy one. A couple of board books and a pacifier and he’s out.

8 p.m. on – Put the preschooler to bed. Usually, this is Dad’s domain. Unfortunately for him, he introduced an exciting new element to the bedtime routine, and is now a slave to the epic tales of fantasy and action he weaves nightly for our son. Each night they get longer and more involved, and each night C. struggles to stay awake and come up with new storylines.

Meanwhile, I’m downstairs waiting for him to start the movie. Occasionally, C. does not come back down. I sigh, resolve to rouse him from our son’s room when I go to bed, and settle in to watch a chick flick. Or, more often, by the time he DOES come downstairs, I’m already too tired to watch a whole movie.

Such was the case the other night when he persuaded me to watch Avatar. I’m not a huge science fiction fan, but this movie got so much press that even I was curious to see it. Only I didn’t realize it was almost 3 HOURS LONG. Good lord, people, I don’t have that kind of time! Especially not at 9 p.m. when I’m on my second glass of wine.

I gave it my best effort, though, rallying till the last half hour. But as a parent, you know there’s always that chance you’ll be awakened in the middle of the night or the pre-dawn hours. I couldn’t risk my rest. I went to bed, secure in the belief that the movie – which we ordered on-demand from DirecTV and recorded – would be there on our DVR for at least the next 24 hours.

Only it wasn’t. When I sat down to watch it the next night, it was gone. I called DirecTV and pleaded my case. I was told that the movie had expired at 6 a.m., NOT 24 hrs later like we’d thought. (Aside: I find it funny that DirecTV began and ended the call by thanking us for being loyal customers for 7 years. The middle part was basically, “Screw you. There’s nothing we can do.”)

So I will never know what happened to the persecuted Na’vi people of Pandora. Did they roam the floating mountains and glowing forests in their skinny blue bodies for all eternity? Was their planet full of weird creatures and scary plants bulldozed into oblivion by the evil Americans? Did the guy in the wheelchair wake up and find it was all an elaborate dream? I’ll never know.

The next time I get the urge to watch a movie, I’ll just skip the hassle and go right to bed. I’d rather sleep than wonder why not one of those skinny blue aliens was pregnant, anyway. (Seriously? Not one. I did spot a baby one, though.)

FLICK O’ THE WEEK: Are you ready, ladies? The movie I’m REALLY excited to see is “Sex and the City 2,” opening Thurs. But first, I just need to find something to wear...

Personal Space

Stop the presses: C. and I went out to a movie the other night. I KNOW!! In the theatre and everything! We go to the movies so rarely that we barely recognized a single Oscar nominee. This is because a) movies either start too early or too late for us (gotta get the kids fed but can’t stay awake past 11 pm) or b) we can’t agree on one.

But we both wanted to see “Date Night” with Tina Fey and Steve Carell, and we arranged for a kind and generous neighbor to come over after the baby was in bed. I highly suggest trading childcare with a friend if you can swing it. Because there’s nothing I hate more than paying a sitter to sit and watch TV after all the hard work is done!

I really enjoyed the movie. It was exactly what I look for in date-night entertainment. I hate how the trailers give away most of the movie these days, but there were still some surprises. One of the funniest parts to me was when T.Fey’s character, a harried working mom, reveals her “fantasy” -- eating lunch by herself in a quiet room. Every mother I know can relate to that!

That’s one of the biggest adjustments to becoming a mom, I think. All of a sudden you are never, ever alone anymore. Not even in the bathroom. If you work, commute, or have a sitter, you might get a few solo moments in your day, but mostly likely you spend that time trying to “get stuff done” -- phone calls, errands, basic personal hygiene. (BTW, I have seen a woman flossing her teeth at 55 mph.)

My husband and I have an ongoing argument about his 2-hour daily commute. On the one hand, I know from experience that stressful rush-hour traffic is no picnic, but on the other hand? How awesome would it be to sit in a quiet, air-conditioned place drinking your coffee and listening to whatever you want on the stereo without complaint from the peanut gallery in the backseat?

A few months after C. and I first started dating, he moved an hour away for a job. Shortly after, I lost my job and moved to the same city. Lots of people thought it would have made sense for us to move in together. Nope, not for me. First of all, I wasn’t sure about this guy yet. And second of all, I was finally making enough money to not have roommates. Damn straight I was looking forward to that!

The funny part is I ended up renting an apartment directly downstairs from C. I was something like Apt. #526 and he was #527. In the evenings after work we’d usually eat dinner together and hang out. But then if I wanted to go to bed early or he wanted to watch some game I wasn’t interested in, I’d go back downstairs. I didn’t even have to put shoes on. It was awesome. It was like all the benefits of living together without the hassles of someone else’s dirty dishes in the sink or having to split the phone bill.

So, yeah. I sometimes miss having my own personal space. But every now and then I get an unexpected gift -- like today, when both boys are napping at the same time (!!) and I have a few quiet moments to myself. And I enjoy it all the more because these moments are as rare as a free babysitter.

NEWS O’ THE WEEK: The next session of my 6-week online writing class, “Personal Essays that Get Published” starts in 2 weeks! There are still some spaces left. The class offers great camaraderie, accountability and best of all, how-to tips on getting published, even if you never have before. Past students have sold their essays to Chicago Parent, Southern Living, The New York Times and more. Get more info and sign up here.

The Myth of the TV Baby

Have you seen the show “Accidentally On Purpose”? It’s kind of loosely based on the premise of the movie “Knocked Up” -- a 30-something single career woman gets pregnant during a one-night stand with a less-than-perfect guy. Hilarity ensues. Only in the case of this show, it doesn’t.

I keep forcing myself to watch it now and then because it’s a show I SHOULD be interested in. It’s about pregnancy and babies, for pete’s sake! It stars the adorable Jenna Elfman. She’s even a writer! What’s not to like?

It’s got its moments, I suppose, but scenes like the one in last night’s episode really turn me off. These slacker dudes are fantasizing about a hot baby nurse and breastfeeding. Ew. Anyone who’s ever witnessed cracked nipples, engorged or leaky boobs, nursing bras, etc. knows there’s NOTHING sexy about breastfeeding. What is it with guys and boobs?

I watch plenty of other shows largely because they feature babies. (You’d think I’d want escapism in my entertainment, but you’d be wrong. Realism all the way. Only funnier and prettier than my life, of course.) I LOVE “Modern Family,” and I feel baby Lily gets way too little screen time. In fact, I frequently annoy my husband by saying, “Where’s the baby? Both the parents are out and there was no mention of a babysitter. Where is she?!” Yes, I want it spelled out!

On “Cougar Town” it bugs me no end that the next door neighbors have a baby that only occasionally makes an appearance. The kid looks to be about 7 or 8 mos. old, maybe. He can’t be sleeping ALL the time. They’ve never mentioned a sitter or nanny, and have maybe once shown a baby monitor. The mother, Ellie, is always taking naps and having lunch and playing tennis, no baby in sight, never glancing at her watch.

Come on, people!! Get real. I want calls from the sitter, emergency trips to the pediatrician, even the stray spit-up stained shirt. I want to see diaper boxes, bottles, wipes on every counter, binkies and blankies everywhere. I want to hear the adults talking about teething, asking whether he’s started crawling yet, what his first word was. SOMETHING to indicate there’s a baby around!

Life does not simply go on as usual once a baby comes along, with the tot making only the occasional appearance to coo or smile. You don’t get to go back to who you were before, just with a snuggly little accessory on the side that conveniently shows up every few episodes. No way, sister.

Of course, it goes both ways. One of the reasons I stopped watching “Parenthood” was that it was a little TOO real, and too depressing. The same with the movie, “Motherhood.” Too close to home to qualify as entertainment. Got my own dramas, thanks.

What do you guys think? What are some of your favorite mom-related shows and movies?

Easter at the ER

Last week, my husband C. discovered he had to go out of town unexpectedly. For 4 days. Over a holiday weekend. When Miles was out of school. And we had invited guests for Easter brunch. In spite of this, I suppressed toned down my first reaction, which was panic and dread.

In fact, things started out swimmingly. I took both kids to the zoo (by myself!), Miles and I dyed Easter eggs (fun!), picked flowers for the table (festive!), and made cupcakes with 3 (3!) different colors of pastel frosting. We went to the playground, the farmers market, and the neighbors’ for dinner. We were FINE without C. GREAT, even. Look at me, I’m Supermom! I don’t need no stinkin’ husband!

(Imagine the theme song from “Jaws” starts playing now.)

Then I noticed Riley’s head felt a little warm. And his cheeks looked red. I took his temperature and it was 102.9. Uh, oh. By the time I got him some Tylenol, a bath, and in bed along with his brother, I was exhausted. And I hadn’t even cleaned up the house yet, put together the kids’ Easter baskets, picked out their church clothes, or prepared the French toast casserole for tomorrow when my brother and his family were coming. Ugh. Now’s about the time another parent would come in handy.

The next morning, Riley woke up at 6:30, miserable. Flushed, feverish, nose crusted with snot. Oh, boy. Church was out. Again, had there been 2 parents, one of us could have stayed home with the baby. I don’t even know if we can show our faces at Miles’ (Christian) school after not going to church ON EASTER. Oh, well, I guess God will understand.

I called my brother right away. After much deliberation, they decided to come anyway with their 2 kids. The older kids are in school and daycare and probably teeming with germs at all times anyway. Well, thank goodness they DID come because when Riley woke up from his nap he was burning up. When his temperature read 104, I started to panic. I called the pediatrician, who said to take him to the ER.

At this point I was mildly hysterical and called C. in tears. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’ll be fine.” The hospital staff, God bless them, were friendly and efficient. They got us right into an exam room and a nurse took the baby’s temp again (103.8) and sucked out his snot with a hospital-grade snot-sucking machine. Riley took this about as well as someone having their face plunged into hot lava.

I tried to distract him with a rattle, which he promptly smashed in half. If you’ve ever wondered what’s inside those cheap, painted wooden rattles you get for $1 at Target, the answer is dozens of tiny metal balls. Now all over the hospital floor.

So then the doctor comes in, all calm and soft-spoken, and says, “Fevers are our friends. It’s the body’s way of fighting off infection. They can go as high as they need to --103, 104, 105. Treat the child, not the fever.” I almost snapped, “Listen, Jack Handey in clogs: my baby is BURNING UP and I am HOME ALONE with 2 KIDS for 4 DAYS!!”

I calmed down a little after the tests came back negative for flu and RSV, and they decided he just had an ear infection and prescribed antibiotics and the correct dose of Motrin for his weight and let us go home. By this time, 3 hours had passed.

Thank God my brother and SIL were there to take care of Miles. Thank God Riley did not have some horrible infectious disease that he’d passed on to everyone else. Thank God this is my second baby and I have built up my tolerance for seeing my child sick and in pain. Thank God for red wine and Easter candy to help soothe my nerves.

And that, people, is Murphy’s law for moms. The one weekend Dad goes away, all hell will break loose. And if you ever find yourself smugly thinking you’re Supermom? Get ready. That’s the “Jaws” theme song beginning to play...

P.S. Also, I forgot to mention the garbage disposal broke right before our brunch guests arrived.

FLICKS O’ THE WEEK: Can you believe I rented 3 movies to watch while C. was away? “Have You Heard About the Morgans?”; “The September Issue”; and “Coco Before Chanel.” Know how many I’ve watched so far? Half of ONE.

Clothes Call

Look at this shirt, people. He’s been wearing it for approximately 4 hours, and it’s covered with 6 shades of paint and some mustard from his lunch. And probably some dirt and axle grease. Seriously, why do I bother?

I’ll tell you why. Because my son was invited to a birthday party and, God forbid, I wanted the other parents not to think he’s an orphan from a refugee camp. So I put my foot down and suggested—no, FORCED—my son to choose a shirt that a) did not feature a superhero, b) did not feature a monster truck, c) actually fit him, and d) had no visible stains, holes, or rips. You would’ve thought I was squeezing him into a barbed-wire wetsuit.

The kid has something against stripes and collars. Who knows why. A traumatic experience on “What Not to Wear”? Afraid going too preppy will ruin his ironic hipster vibe? Concerned that horizontal stripes don’t flatter his figure? Too bad, since stripes or superheroes are about the only options for boys.

I have heard from mothers of girls that their daughters are complete nightmares when it comes to fashion. Some will only wear dresses, some wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt. Every time I see little Suri Cruise in the tabloids wearing some seasonally inappropriate get-up -- like rain boots, a tiara, and a sleeveless party dress in December -- I laugh. Even Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have no control over how their little girl dresses.

But let me tell you, boys are no picnic either. Miles may be the next Hugh Hefner, given his intense fondness for pajamas. No sooner have I wrestled him into his school clothes than he comes home for lunch and wants to put his PJs right back on. A new pair, mind you. Does he think I have nothing better to do than laundry?!

Clearly not, given the way he treats his party clothes. Of course, whose idea WAS it to host a 3 y.o.’s birthday party at a paint-your-own-pottery studio? What did I THINK was going to happen? Although it’s worth noting that the birthday girl was dressed in an off-white sparkly dress and got not a DROP of paint on herself. I guess it’s just my kid.

Looking on the bright side, I guess a wardrobe of Batman T-shirts from Target will save me a lot of money in the long run. Money I can spend on more stain remover.

FLICK O’ THE WEEK: I guess I have bad taste in movies since I tend to hate the ones critics love and vice versa. “Couples Retreat” is a good example. Great cinema? No. But I laughed out loud in several places, and found Vince Vaughn’s character surprisingly endearing. Good enough for a Netflix rental.

Valentine's Day...with Diapers

My Valentine’s weekend was jam-packed, people! I saw “Valentine’s Day,” had a romantic dinner cooked for me by my sweetie, made heart-shaped pancakes for the boys, and met my BRAND-NEW nephew. How’s that for excitement? I guess I was due for some after my week of snow-induced isolation.

First, the movie: cute, sweet, funny, and not nearly enough screen time for most of the A-list hotties that star in it. Ashton Kutcher was surprisingly appealing as a love-struck florist. My favorite scene was probably Jennifer Garner beating the crap out of a piñata after her romance goes sour. Also, there are some cute kids in the movie, always a plus.

Next, the dinner: red gerber daisies, candlelight, macadamia and coconut-crusted Chilean sea bass with a delicate orange cream sauce. Of course, the romance factor was slightly dampened by the fact that I had to jump up in the middle of the salad course to go assist a small person in the bathroom when he should have been in bed. But that’s my life.

Then, the baby: My SIL called me one day last week to ask whether I thought she was in labor. I am the WRONG person to ask; I wasn’t even sure when it was ME who was in labor -- either time! Thank goodness I suggested she might want to go to the hospital for peace of mind because a few hours later, she was giving birth!! Baby Nicholas weighed in at 9 lbs even though he was 10 days early. If you saw my tiny SIL, this would be all the more impressive.

Even so, he looked TINY to me when I saw him in the hospital. I’m used to my own 2 little bruisers at home. I had forgotten how quiet newborns can be. He snoozed the whole time I was there, never making a peep. Maybe, like Riley, he’s saving his lungs for the blood-curdling screams he plans to unleash once they take him home. But for my brother and SIL’s sake, I hope not. They deserve a chill baby after the rough pregnancy she endured.

I did have to laugh when I said to my 3 y.o. niece, “You’re a BIG SISTER now, Chloe! Are you excited?” She considered this a moment before replying, “I had chocolate for breakfast!” Then rushed off to show me her Valentine’s loot. New baby brother? Eh. Candy and glittery cards? All RIGHT!

Just goes to show, people have different priorities. Once upon a time, mine might have been romantic moments alone with my honey. Now, I’m happy to share Valentine’s Day with my friends, family, and people in diapers. After all, those are some of the people I love the most.

PIC O' THE WEEK: My Valentines

Every Day is Groundhog Day

So today is Groundhog Day. And apparently that dumb rodent doomed us to 6 more weeks of winter. Personally, I am DONE with this season. We’ve had our snow, now can we move on to butterflies and tulips, please?

Feb. 2 is no different than any other day for me. As I’m always saying to my husband, EVERY day feels like Groundhog Day around here. And by that, I mean the 1993 comedic film starring Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell, in which the characters repeat the same day over and over again.

Every day, the kids wake up before dawn, whether it be Mon. or Sat., a school day or a holiday. And then, of course, there are diapers to change, bottles to prepare, meals to make, kids to dress, dishes to do, and on and on and on. Sometimes the only way I know it’s Saturday is because my husband is around.

Loading and unloading the dishwasher has become so monotonous that I often cannot remember where we are in the cycle. I have to inspect the glassware to be certain. And as for baths? Did I give the baby one today? Or was that yesterday? How about the other kid? Who KNOWS?! It’s the same thing every day.

Perhaps the most maddening aspect of this endless loop I call my life is that nothing is ever truly DONE. In my professional life, I write articles, turn them in, and they’re done. (Well, technically they are edited and revised and published or sometimes killed or held indefinitely but for the purposes of this anecdote I write them and they’re done, OK?)

But it’s not like you can check “diaper changed” off your to-do list because there’s another one being dirtied even as you do so. Same thing with laundry. It’s just in an ever-flowing state of being washed, folded, or put away. (And seriously, sometimes I don’t even bother with those last two.)

In the movie, Bill Murray wakes up to the same song on the radio every morning. I think it’s “I’ve Got You, Babe.” Well in my world, it’s the Little Einsteins theme song. Then I get to replay the what’s-for-breakfast battle and the who-gets-dressed-first fight with my 3 y.o. Every. Single. Morning.

Sometimes if I’m craving excitement and spontaneity, I’ll leave the diaper bag at home when we go to the park. Ooh, dangerous! Or I’ll concede to Miles’ wishes to have breakfast for dinner, or to put his PJs back on at 2 in the afternoon. Sure, go nuts! Shake things up!

But as you know, when you have babies and small kids, you can’t stray from the routine too much. Or there will be HELL TO PAY, people. Just TRY to suggest listening to music instead of watching Little Einsteins and see what happens.* Just try to switch up the naptime routine by reading only one book instead of two, or failing to leave the door open at the exact right angle. And if you ever get a crazy idea like changing the lyrics to a classic lullaby like “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”? DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run. It’s snacktime, and I must go prepare the apple slices and crackers in the exact right configuration. Unless I did that already?

PIC O’ THE WEEK: Don’t ask me what he’s doing. I don’t know, either.

*See, even as I was writing this I was having a "deja blogged" moment. I've probably written this exact same post before.

What Nobody Tells New Moms

I read a lot of books by and for new moms and moms-to-be. A LOT. Here are some of the ones I’ve read. And here’s a list of some new ones I haven’t read yet. I even tried to write one myself. Here’s how that went.

In my intensive study of the genre of new-mom nonfiction, I’ve noticed a recurring theme. It’s the “what no one ever tells you” theme. Why didn’t anyone ever TELL me about hemorrhoids the size of Montana/the horrors of breastfeeding/how you’ll never want to have sex again/that my baby might look like a monkey with acne/etc.??

OK, first of all, I’m sure someone did. You really mean to tell me that in this day and age of blogs, the Internet, reality shows, and general TMI, you REALLY didn’t know that pregnant women often get hemorrhoids? Right.

Second of all, maybe there’s a REASON people don’t tell you that stuff. Like, say, wanting to protect the future of the human race by ensuring that naive people with no fear of episiotomies continue to populate the Earth? Or, more realistically, because people don’t want to come off as hugely annoying and negative pains in the ass.

Now, I’ve been at plenty of baby showers where the childbirth horror stories flowed like punch. I used to think the people that told these stories were obnoxious kill-joys and would pointedly change the subject the first chance I got: “So aren’t those tiny pink socks the cutest things you’ve EVER SEEN??” Now, of course, I join right in with my own horror stories.

But seriously, can you imagine if people starting going around the room saying things like, “You may have to push so hard that you burst blood vessels in your eyes” and “nursing will make your nipples feel like they’ve been attacked with an industrial sander”? In my book I don’t consider that a helpful heads-up from my gal pals. I consider that provoking needless anxiety in a likely already stressed out and terrified mom-to-be.

Besides, as I’ve pointed out before, every mom’s experience is so different no one can possibly tell you what yours will be like. For every 10 moms out there whose bodies were ravaged by pregnancy and birth, there’s one who looks better than she did before she had kids. Kate Gosselin comes to mind.

Sure, it’s good to know that breastfeeding doesn’t come naturally to everyone, but it does to some. And there’s really nothing you can do about it in advance, anyway.

My philosophy about sharing information with new or expectant moms is “humor over horror.” On that note, here are my answers to New Moms’ FAQ’s. And here are McMommy’s 10 Things You Need to Know Before You Have Your First Kid.

By the way, did you know that once you’re done breastfeeding a couple of babies, your boobs will look like ... of course you did.

QUOTE O' THE WEEK: “For nine months I grew a human being inside my belly and then pushed it out of my vagina. Afterward I fed it with my boob. Biology is so f***ing weird. I just really needed to point that out.”

– Heather B. Armstrong in It Sucked and Then I Cried: How I Had a Baby, a Breakdown, and a Much Needed Margarita

FLICK O' THE WEEK: My boobs gave me a 3-hour window to go see "Away We Go" with my mom this weekend. So glad we did. We both loved it. I'm still laughing about the scene with Maggie Gyllenhaal ...

Sex & Pineapple

I am not a procrastinator. I am a planner, a list maker, a pre-packer. In my professional life, I pride myself on never missing a deadline. Too bad no one told my babies that. Like his big brother before him, this baby in my belly laughs at the concept of a due date. “Due date, schmoo date,” he’s snickering in there. “I’d rather stay here in my cozy womb and practice my kickboxing. Plenty of time to be born later.”

Clearly, the boys take after their dad. The guy who still has not installed the infant car seat or set up the bassinet. The guy who once called on his way home from work on Friday and said, “Hey, how about getting a sitter tonight and going out?” In what universe can you get a babysitter at 5 p.m. on a Friday?!

So I’ve been forced to take matters into my own hands, just like last time. I did some new research on how to induce labor naturally. Everyone and her mother has some homegrown method they swear by, from magical eggplant parmigiana to evening primrose oil. (You can buy this in the vitamin aisle at Trader Joe’s, BTW.) But the bottom line is that medical experts remain skeptical. Only a couple methods show any promise.

Acupuncture’s not for me. I’ve heard that castor oil can bring on contractions but may cause diarrhea so bad you wish you’d never bothered. So that leaves sex and pineapple.

First, there’s the sex suggestion. After another disappointing internal at my doctor’s appointment today, I wailed, “Is there anything else I can do?” Now, this doctor happens to look a little like Freida Pinto from “Slumdog Millionaire.” This will become relevant in a second. With a smirk she says, “Have lots of sex.” HA. Easy for you to say, Dr. Divalicious. But LOOK AT ME. Nothing’s sexier than a beach ball with legs, right?! Throw in some stretch marks, hemorrhoids, and scary National Geographic nipples. In the mood yet?? All I’m saying is, even Angelina Jolie probably looked more like Jabba the Hut than a Victoria’s Secret model in her third trimester with the twins, OK?

So let’s do everyone a favor and move on to tropical fruit, shall we? On some non-medically accredited web site, I read that pineapple can ripen the cervix. Something to do with prostaglandins. So I thought, what the heck, why not give it a try? Fresh pineapple is YUMMY, people. (At the store, I showed Miles a whole pineapple and asked what he thought it was. He said, “A palm tree!”) It’s so yummy that my son and husband have been gobbling it up and making smoothies with it, leaving none for me and my poor, unripe cervix. Thanks a bunch, fellas.

Nothing left to do but jump on a trampoline and chew on some jalapenos, I suppose. Or road-trip to Georgia for some of that eggplant parm.

QUOTE O’ THE WEEK: “Long naps are a gift from God.” –Mom2Miles

FLICKS O’ THE WEEK: I finally made it to the movies! “He’s Just Not That Into You” was cute but mildly depressing (more for single or married people, I can’t decide) and “Confessions of a Shopaholic” was laugh-out-loud funny, even though it was nothing like the book at all.

This Movie's Just Not That Into Me

I don’t know about you, but a night out with my husband or friends is a rare and precious thing. So can you imagine how annoyed I was when my attempts to see a movie this weekend were foiled, not once but TWICE??

First, C and I had planned to go out to a movie on Sat. night. This was supposed to count as our Valentine’s Day date, our last hurrah before the new baby comes. We lined up a sitter, read movie reviews, cross-referenced them with showtimes at our local theaters, bought our tickets online, debated whether or not we could fit in dinner, too … More preparation went into a simple date night than planning the presidential inauguration.

Once we weeded out foreign films (not C’s favorite), depressing films, and really bad films, we were left with the romantic comedy, “He’s Just Not That Into You.” C agreed to this chick flick because it was filmed in Baltimore and he can tolerate Ben Affleck. Plus, his arm was twisted by his heavily pregnant wife who claimed it was her “last night of freedom, possibly EVER.”

So the sitter came, we dashed out the door, headed downtown—and ran smack into the worst traffic I’ve ever encountered. Gridlock everywhere, horns blaring. Dammit!! Later, we’d find out there was a water main break and a major road was closed. Super. So we get to the theater half an hour late. C used his powers of persuasion to convince them to give us vouchers for another show. Staying up till 10 p.m. was not an option, however, so we decided to get dinner instead.

Disappointed, I allowed myself to be cheered up by Thai food and virgin mojitos. Yummy! I felt like quite the spectacle with my giant belly at a place populated by hip, young pretty people with normal-sized abdomens. But hey, a night out’s a night out.

The next day, my neighbor friend and fellow preggo called to suggest an afternoon out. Like me, she felt her days of freedom were rapidly waning. (And she’s on her THIRD kid!) Hey, I told her, I have these vouchers from last night. Wanna go see a movie? She did, so we headed downtown.

The theater wasn’t even open when we arrived, but I grabbed an employee coming out the door. “We don’t open for half an hour,” she told us, but assured us there was no way a 1:30 p.m. showing would sell out. So we went to lunch. An hour later, we came back, eager to enjoy the dating foibles of Jennifer Aniston et al—only to find the movie was SOLD OUT!!! If there’s anything worse than one pissed-off pregnant lady, it’s two of them. But what could we do? We went shopping instead.

If there’s anyone out there who’s single, childless, or has a built-in sitter at their disposal and can see a movie whenever they feel like it, consider yourself lucky. There may come a day when this simple act becomes an impossible feat. As for me, I guess there’s always Netflix.

PIC O’ THE WEEK: Rapper M.I.A. performed at the Grammys last night ON HER DUE DATE. That’s gotta be a first. And it answers the question, “Where can I find a black mesh maternity mini dress?”