tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55979350885983382332024-03-14T01:39:06.868-04:00 Wide eyed wonderSayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-89006846120286727352015-04-28T15:09:00.002-04:002015-04-28T23:40:33.756-04:00Infant's Perspective<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back cover picture.<br />
"Preferred Attire: Naked With Tasteful Scarf"</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When my baby writes a tell-all book about her infancy, it will be titled something like "Suburban Guantanamo." It will chronicle the indignities she suffered at the hands of various parents and caretakers, many of whom claimed to be blood relatives, as they stuffed her into snowsuits resembling arctic animals, day after winter day. She will note the absurdity of putting an infant in a snowsuit without ever putting the infant in the snow; "I'm not saying this violates the Geneva Convention, but I'm not saying it's NOT a violation, either."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"An hour or two later, they're at it again, this time removing the snowsuit. Apparently it annoys them when I'm content. Someone immediately jumps to undress, re-dress or change me. They don't seem to hear my protests, over their hushes and grins and rapid maneuvers to confine my flailing limbs in garments. Their smiles, meant to soothe me, are usually offensive; must be nice to don sleeves only when you feel like it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And just when I think I'll get a moment to myself, they assume I peed again. Do I enjoy sitting in a wet diaper? No, not really. But do I celebrate being forced on my back, feet lingering at my nose as a cold, wet wipe makes its way across my bottom? Dirty diaper please. With the remarkable advances in diaper technology, this is a no brainer."</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I imagine some discussion of baby dresses, second in utility only to size-3-months sandals. "What makes you think I want to sit on bunched up pink tulle? The fact that I stopped wrestling with the huge bow you strapped on me, a sequined head-belt of sorts? I was losing the battle to win the war. Imagine my unbridled glee when I ended up in this flamboyant web of an outfit anyway."</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She will conclude with a chapter devoted to hats, because "it's never cold enough in New York to make hat-layering a thing. Throw a hood on me and let's take that walk. I'm wearing a onesie, pants, pants (not a typo), socks, a sweater, and naturally, the snowsuit. We've been through enough today."</span></span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-32286815310913603502015-03-19T22:10:00.000-04:002015-03-19T22:48:39.692-04:00Rules of the Suburbs<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Moving to the suburbs is among the compromises new parents make when the crib/storage bench no longer fits in the bedroom/playroom because they were gifted an unwieldy toy that their kid saw/loved before they had a chance to hide it in the closet/pantry and return it later.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Having just gotten used to sleep deprivation and come to terms with newborn hair loss, a new adjustment must take place. This list serves as an impractical tool for navigating the suburban initiation.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1. Plan ahead. For literally everything. Owning a car (and you must own at least one) should make last minute plans easier, but nothing gets done in the suburbs without prior notice. Everyone is over scheduled and super busy and you would think you're dealing with CEOs and heads of state rather than the Joneses.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have an hour available 2 Sundays from today. Lets catch up over string cheese.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Takeaway: Don't try to make plans with one of your new neighbors for this weekend. Their rejection will compel you to explain why/how you are possibly free this weekend, and I don't need to tell you this is an uncomfortable and unnecessary thing to do. Want a summer playdate? Send out your requests with your winter holiday greetings. (Want a carpool? And you just moved in? lol).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">2. Learn the unspoken rules of the railroad. They make no sense, so save this part of my list for your first few weeks.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To sit in an empty 2-seater section, scoot down to the window; someone else will definitely need a seat during rush hour so don't make them ask you to move.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Same for a 3-seater *unless* someone is already at the window. If so, sit in the aisle seat, leaving an empty spot in the middle. I don't know why. I suppose the (non existent) awkwardness of sitting directly next to someone is greater than the obnoxiousness of forcing someone to ask for a seat. And when they do ask, DO NOT move to the middle seat to give the third person the aisle. Rookie move. You're admitting to being a weirdo who didn't want to sit near the window guy but will now do so anyway. Instead, get out of your seat (as everyone else is shuffling in and the aisle barely accommodates one physically fit person at a time), let Third in, and sit back in your aisle seat, proudly making thigh-to-thigh contact with only one stranger.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">3. Keep up with neighborhood real estate. I still can't manage to (care to) do this, and my social life has suffered as a result. Know the houses that are for sale, the houses that recently sold, and the houses that will be on the market soon because the Joneses are divorcing or upgrading or died of suburban boredom. Be ready to opine on prices, house styles, and your next renovation. Name drop the guy you will use for this upcoming project, without actually using his name. Just "our patio guy." The days of supers and building handymen are behind you; soon, when someone asks for a painter recommendation, you'll have a fastest guy, cheapest guy, and highest quality guy. Don't call them that to their faces.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4. Plan ahead. Oh I get it now. You live an eternity away from anywhere you'd want to go, you have at least one child (if you don't have more, people will ask you why not, because we don't erect white picket fences around our private lives, only our backyards), and you drive a mini-apartment that screams "I never have to parallel park." The mental preparation, alone, takes up to a week.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. Be prepared to see everyone everywhere. Chances of anonymity are slim, and bumping into someone you know is no longer an unexpected treat. It's something you account for in budgeting time.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hoping not to see anyone, because laundry day and a bad hair day happened to land on grocery shopping day (which is now a thing)? Good luck with that. You'll probably recognize people just getting into your car.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And yes you will have to drive there.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But, if you picked the right place, the sense of community and neighborhood bond helps make the absurdly long trip to pick up milk worthwhile. (It's just milk. How is there nothing closer)</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">.</span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-90468449293308731332015-03-02T15:22:00.000-05:002015-03-19T22:13:30.206-04:005 Things I Don't Believe In<span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1. Ketchup on pasta. I will never understand why kids enjoy the taste of this, and I will never offer this culinary abomination to my children. I am no food snob. I've melted cheese onto oatmeal, and have eaten mayo sandwiches. But encouraging a child to assault her taste buds in this manner basically goes against my religion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;">2. And while we're on food--I don't believe in kids menus, the small section where the most unhealthy items at a restaurant reside. Kids can enjoy fried food off their parents' plates and the regular menu, but let's not define their options this way. And it contradicts all parental food propaganda. Rude.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">3. Sleep training. Ha just kidding. I'd rather repeat high school than discuss any sensitive parenting issue with The Internet. What I meant is sleep silence. Like the tooth fairy, this only exists in the world of children. As an adult (maybe), as an adult parent (probably), and certainly as an adult parent woman (mother, for short), sleep consists of sprints of restfulness separated by noisy bouts of snoring, crying, snorting, coughing, suspicious house creaks, "mama," and/or refrigerator openings (none of which are your own except the last one). A mother is the "princess and the pea" of sounds.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">4. Dressing kids up for daycare. This is a source of discord in my home, but there are few days when it is a real decision. Usually, time constraints and toddler fashion instincts take over and the fact that she has never gone to school in pajamas (note: I did not say she has never gone to school in the clothes she woke up in that morning) is an incredible feat in itself. My husband loves dressing up our 3 year old and I get it, it's cute. My daughter rarely chooses impractical outfits, and if she must wear her pink tutu skirt over grey fleece sweatpants then so be it. But in theory, the utilitarian in me is ardently opposed to the gorgeous jeans and button down shirts my husband would choose, the restricting dresses and hair-tugging bows in which our kid looks amazing, because it takes a photoshoot or an occasion or at least a weekend before I will choose style over comfort for a little kid.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Yes, it can be both stylish and comfortable- I'm talking about when it's not. Let's also assume I don't purchase intentionally hideous comfort clothes, although with the little accent she still has going, I'm tempted to source my childhood "immigrant in America in the early 90s" pictures for attire inspiration. I have not yet acted on this temptation. Largely because size 3T windbreaker jackets with fluorescent geometric patterns have been hard to find).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. Thong diapers. My sister nixed this as a business idea and I no longer believe in it either. We may have missed an incredible business opportunity but she was probably right. Impractical.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8000001907349px;"><br /></span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-25354968550175599942015-02-10T21:42:00.001-05:002015-02-10T23:03:39.719-05:00On Becoming That Mom (part 1 of infinity)<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It's enough to just display the pictures," you told yourself. The kids alone. You with each kid. Your husband with both. A family picture. And passport photos, for good measure.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That's sufficient notice of the fact that you're a mom. Enough imagery to evoke compliments on a slow day in the office, sympathy on a busy one, and to qualify as decor in your office away from home.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And yet a compulsion snuck in the moment your child brought her first project home. Her "just a Wednesday in daycare" project. The one you left on the dining room table for a couple of days, then neatly filed in a folder. You wouldn't be that parent, you told yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But months passed, and the projects kept coming. They even got better - or, at the very least, different. New colors, new materials, new Xerox copied templates. Your sister claimed one. "It's cute when the young girl displays her niece's artwork," you sternly stated, during one of your no-nonsense talks with yourself. "Do not be that mom."</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But it's a tale as old as time, and we all know how it ends. You brought the project to work. In fact, you snuck the project to work because your daughter, trying to save what is left of your professional identity without knowing it, refused to relinquish it.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br style="background-color: white;" /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">This will add some color, you weakly justified. Ambiance. Whimsy. Democracy.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">You thumb tacked your daughter's tree to your wall. Near your list of matter numbers and upcoming deadlines. And now, the only way to explain this objectively unremarkable item (no offense babylove, there's abundant other proof of your intellect and artistry), is to claim that it is not your kid's work. To suggest that there's a reason beyond misplaced parental pride for presenting this art. To put the burden on the viewer to conjure up scenarios in which this paper in the shape of a tree, with green dots and pink tissue paper, belongs on the wall of your corporate law office.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">However, it doesn't matter if they believe you. It is irrelevant whether or not they begin to wonder about the potentially creepy, potentially genius origins of the art. You've become that mom.</span></span></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toddler in snow: rarely vertical.</td></tr>
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Yes, it was in fact a blizzard of historic proportions, but most of the devastation was suffered on the interior of houses with children staying home from school. There was also a nice amount of snow outside, which presented a good learning opportunity for parents whose kids are now old enough to enjoy it.<br />
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What I discovered is the following.<br />
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I would [almost] rather retake the bar exam than get my toddler dressed, undressed, and redressed for the outdoors. You layer her up, haul the puffy ball of toddler out the door, place her down gently and uncertainly, and wait 6 seconds before she tumbles and yells, for the first of a hundred times, “I can’t get up.” To enjoy the snow, they have to be warm, but to be warm they have to be 90%-immobile chubby stick figures.<br />
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Understandably, she analogizes snow and sand. On vacation, she peed in the ocean without repercussions (yes, the ocean you swim in), and now she wants to freely pee again. “No love, you can’t pee in your clothes.” “No, you cannot remove your clothes and pee on the snow.” “Let’s quickly go inside and go back out again.” “You don’t need to go anymore? You’re lying but I will gratefully play along.”<br />
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In an inappropriately goal-oriented manner, you work on building a snowman out of the uncooperative, powdery snow. When humpty-dumpty isn't calling for mama helplessly (and joyfully, unless you linger), she is smashing the modest sized balls you have managed to put together. You get irrationally annoyed, but hold it in because you’re out there for her, not yourself, and … remember that time you became an adult?<br />
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Snow mittens for toddlers fit about as well as oven mitts on adults. When your kid’s patience runs thin (and toddlers are known for their patience) -- when the thumb falls out of the thumb hole one too many times, or she realizes she’s as effective at handling snow with her mittens as she is at handling food with chop sticks -- you have about 3 minutes to get back indoors. Your toddler’s initial glory-filled moment of hand-agility and sensory glee is rapidly replaced by a shocking pain of the fingers. You will be frustrated at her shock: “I literally just told you it would be cold if you removed your mittens, you know that it is cold because you face-planted into the snow several times, and you are a sufficiently developed human being to understand this basic logic (according to grandma, you are a remarkably developed child prodigy so please, work with me).” You will then be frustrated at your toddler’s sense of urgency, because the time it took to get her fully dressed was rivaled only by the time it took you to (until now, unsuccessfully) persuade her to go back indoors. But now she sees her hands getting red, her sand (I mean, snow) toys call out to her but her fingers don’t listen, and though she doesn't know of “frostbite,” she screams as if her fingers are a snowflake away from detaching.<br />
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You rush into the house less carefully than you had planned. Snowwater is everywhere and you can’t decide whether you should undress her first or tear off some of your own layers to better assist her. She continues yelling, but only because she already has so much momentum that it would be wasteful to give up. Shortly thereafter, your clothes and her clothes lay dangerously close to the boots and the melting situation that is taking over your house but nothing matters because you finally got her a snack, her cheeks are rosy and bladder empty, and you think (aloud, within earshot of your husband) about what a remarkable parent you are.<br />
<br />
And with ricotta pancakes and other breakfast foods for dinner, your first parental snow day is complete. Congratulations.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-45829071880232765512014-12-10T14:21:00.003-05:002015-09-09T21:53:42.642-04:00First-time parent, many times.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white;">With a second baby in my house, I find myself
struggling to understand why people assume "second time moms" are so
much wiser. Yes, I've already gone through the hazing process that is
life with a newborn, and I have learned some common pitfalls. I place
fewer panicked phone calls to pediatricians and friends in the medical
profession (from whom I don't take "no" or "I just do billing"
for an answer), and there are various rites of passage behind me. Yet
there is a great deal that continues to puzzle me, even in the early childhood
years with which I have amassed some experience. In fact, I’m fairly
certain that you only "learn from your mistakes" with the first child
if your kids are spaced a cool 15-20 years apart.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: inherit;">Toddler shoelaces
- one missing notch on my mom belt (if that's a real accessory, it's hideous). I assume there's a reason kids' laces are as
long as jump ropes, but my savvy parenting sense tells me it's not to double as
jump ropes. I am left with no choice but to eye kids' shoes wherever we
go, because that's the creepiest possible solution.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Yes they go on and on my friend..."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="background: white;">
After three years, I also remain unable to discuss payment
with nannies without feeling like it cheapens what we have together, and I
can't get my child to pose for the camera without her Stepford Toddler smile
replacing her natural one. There are
many hot-button child-rearing topics I am still developing a stance on, and
sleep remains the biggest mystery to me, despite having heard of little
children who engage in this activity for extended periods of nighttime. I've read plenty [of Facebook questions and comments]
regarding remedies for postpartum hair loss, but have yet to learn how to keep
that hair off and out of my infant. My baby's onesie is a Swiffer of loose
hair, and I'd be lying if I claimed that it's only on her onesie and not her
head and hands and mouth too. I know it's disgusting when you read about
it; don't worry, in real life it's merely nauseating.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background: white;">Tender parenting
moments flood social media. I get it - you are physiologically bound to
view your child as the most stunning specimen of perfection. But few
parents reflect on anything else, even when they're not busy savoring<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>fleeting morsels of youth and inadvertent childhood comedy. Like the fact that in the first few months,
you'll get a bad grip on your newborn as you awkwardly pick her up, and a small
part of you (if it's baby #14; a large part of you if it's the first born) will
feel like you inflicted some permanent damage. At the very least, you will
reprimand yourself (in your head, but moving your lips like a sleep deprived
crazy person) for not paying enough attention while handling a tiny helpless
human. Or, I've heard, your iPhone will slip out of your hand during middle-of-the-night nursing and land atop the infant, making you wonder if you
ever really were a good person. You'll make up for it a few months later,
gracefully removing a splinter as daddy helplessly looks on, feeling utterly
heroic. (No offense dads. Remember the time your wife informed you that her car
is always still moving as she shifts into park?).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background: white;">Experience
doesn't make you an expert because, as they say, every child is
different. It's true, even if it's something they write on allergy
pamphlets at the doctor's office. So you might continue being unable to
predict when your kid needs her food cut up, and when, with tears in her eyes,
she will teach you that two halves do not equal one whole.</span><span style="background: white;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ugn9MPOnIko/VIieMN65JXI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/kWy42MBqWF0/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ugn9MPOnIko/VIieMN65JXI/AAAAAAAAAgQ/kWy42MBqWF0/s1600/IMG_0063.JPG" height="200" width="184" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three bows or I go nowhere.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="background: white;">
You won't avoid
video recording your toddler as she repeats curse words (who knows where she
picked those up) because you'll conveniently forget that she replays those
videos when she gets your phone in the evening. You'll wake up to her
smiling face the next morning singing "oh ****, oh ****, oh ****, oh
****" (they have the memory of elephants) and you'll probably think: worth
it. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white;">Or you may read this, finding it to be among the dozen other
parenting articles you've related to, and
wonder why you're up for the fifteenth time this night if it's all for an
overwhelmingly universal experience, and you should know, too, that no other
toddler will use "kalaboo" as the default answer to questions that
stump her or, conversely, insult her intelligence ("awww do you like that
banana babyyyyy?" I'm eating it, am I not? "Kalaboo.")
Like your kid, my daughters love me in the generic Hallmark way kids love
their parents, but at night she also institutes an "iloveyoukiss"
policy, which she has recently supplemented with her pilot
"iloveyouhug" program. Those experiences are deliciously unique
and your own. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So what's my point? Instead of your friend
the "third time mom," call her a "first time mom for the third
time." She'll love it. (She'll probably hate it).</span></span></div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-31937661599511488952014-10-26T02:19:00.000-04:002014-10-26T02:28:20.284-04:00The Eyes of a Toddler<div>
The eyes. Windows to the soul. They are revealers of secrets, and divulgers of desires. Absorbers of beauty, expellers of truth. But so much more. The eyes of toddlers are so. much. more.<br />
<br />
It is the look in her eyes that warns you seconds before she intentionally tips over a bowl of soup. A beautiful gaze that signals: "cancel all phone calls and trips to the bathroom for the next 38 minutes, I will be screaming maniacally." With a bat of the lashes, you know. You just know that accidentally breaking her Magnatiles tower was an act of war, and you will either spend the rest of the afternoon bowing to her wishes or you will have no rest of the afternoon. With one glance you're informed that she will not be letting go of your shirt, whether you're flashing the entire congregation or not.<br />
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It is those same eyes that automatically switch from panic to relief as she seeks you out in a crowded room. In them you see gratitude for building the Magnatiles tower with her inside, forgiveness for handling the soup situation with less patience (and more volume) than necessary, and some remaining maniac as she winds down from the tantrum. Pure sincerity as she asks you for just one more cookie. And that same look as she requests another one. With a hint of mischief in her eyes, she selects the longest book for bedtime reading, with a look of boundless excitement she hides in the usual hiding spot. It is not just with powerlessness that she begs you to avoid entering her room (for more time to smear diaper cream everywhere, you suspect); it is also with deep comfort. Pure, simple love, as she prepares you for her strongest bedtime hug. And determination, hours later, as those gorgeous eyes of your sweet child remain open, in bed, at midnight.</div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-78924562370817585282014-10-14T10:28:00.002-04:002014-10-14T10:54:10.112-04:00Apology To My InfantLittle munchkin: I am compelled to apologize for certain facts of your young life. None of these incidents are, individually, overwhelmingly negative, and most occur simply by virtue of your birth order. However, it will be years before you reap the benefits of being second born, and in the meantime I have some ‘splaining to do.<br />
<br />
First, I'm sorry for sometimes emphasizing developmental milestones you have not yet reached. "Well the baby doesn't even walk yet! Of course she doesn't have to eat tomatoes." You see, it can be a useful tool in getting your sibling less hungry or less nude. Just know that by no means are you expected to walk or sing or eat soup by one month old. People double your age can't even do so. And I assure you that what sounds like an insult is always a last resort attempt to protect your face. "Let's play in a different room, the baby can't even catch a ball."<br />
<br />
In addition, I didn't intend to suggest to your sister that your every movement results in poop, but that's what I have inadvertently accomplished. Sometimes it's for your own safety- "don't touch her, she just pooped!" Sometimes it's an explanation. "I'll play with you as soon as I clean the baby's poop." It can be an excuse - "Not sure what that smell is. I guess the baby pooped" - or a lazy response to your sister's curiosity - "that face she's making? Must be pooping." We should have focused on your sweet and contagious smile, but this poop thing took over. My bad.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzANWDVWGaA/VD0ytDbYjSI/AAAAAAAAAa8/_8agUzG6PZU/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZzANWDVWGaA/VD0ytDbYjSI/AAAAAAAAAa8/_8agUzG6PZU/s1600/images.jpg" /></a>I must apologize for our choice of entertainment too, as I have recently realized how depressing 90% of Russian kids songs are. Your father and I are experiencing a cultural awakening of sorts, which boils down to this: Soviet era poems, nursery rhymes, and songs from children’s cartoons and movies. Upon researching the song lyrics and reading them at the pace of a 6 year old, it turns out they are all unbearably nostalgic and almost exclusively about lost youth. Upbeat tunes that should sing of frolicking in sunny fields instead describe the rapid floating away of time. Yesterday? Gone. Seriously, little child, it's gone forever but hey, the best is yet to come. (A reference, I assume, to jobs, bills, and car repairs). It seems that a Soviet childhood is incomplete without awareness of the simultaneous loss of childhood. The other 10% of songs bear the distinct aftertaste of communism ("a good friend doesn't ask too many questions"). Please accept the Russian language that I hope you will retain as an apology for this poorly timed reminder to carpe diem and avoid the KGB. And in that vein - you might have a Russian accent as you enter preschool. It’ll fade, but will be hilarious while it lasts.<br />
<br />
You may have expected to be the only one waking throughout the night, and for your sleep, at least at night, to be otherwise undisturbed. I'm sorry that's not true in real life. Your toddler kin has begun waking for water (which she requests extraordinarily loudly and suddenly) or for a good old fashioned 2 a.m. tantrum. When that happens, I can almost see you rolling your eyes. "For all the time you spent putting me to sleep, one would think you'd try harder to keep me asleep. It's fine, I'll just nurse all night." You may have some choice words for your sister as well. Do I take responsibility for this situation? Yes. But know that I'm not thrilled about it either.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Honey, is the baby sleeping?" "Nope"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Finally, no apology to you would be complete without explaining why I allow your sister to "help with the baby." They say it encourages bonding, decreases resentment. In fact, there has been a lower incidence of toddler-on-infant violence at our residence when our big girl puts on the baby's socks (minus a toe or two), unzips her onesie, or carries her to the car. Kidding about that last one, but you know who to thank when you two become best friends. Can we agree it was worth the occasional cold toe or rough unswaddling? I'll ask again later. Way later.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-66890631238350124282014-08-24T21:49:00.004-04:002014-08-24T22:43:19.575-04:00My Maternity Leave "Vacation"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There are few women at work with kids, particularly in the junior ranks, and both my male and female peers seem to have a wholly inaccurate (although wildly appealing) idea of what maternity leave entails. The brunches and happy hours, movies, late mornings, leisurely coffee dates, spa afternoons...surely this describes a mother's luxurious 3 months off. Maybe with an occasional newborn diaper change, and toddler feeding. The below, a somewhat more accurate account, is something to keep in mind for those skeptical of the maternity leave vacation...those enjoying relatively unfettered access to sleep, showers, and socializing.</div>
<br />
<strong>Food</strong>: In the mornings, you tend to eat whatever your toddler left on her plate. If chef mom made her specialty, you will be enjoying soggy cereal half stuck to the plate by the time you get there. Sometimes you make oatmeal, and suffer the tantrum that results when you take a spoonful from her after she gave you permission but then changed her mind. Other times, when you are overdue for a trip to the store, you feed your child cherry tomatoes and crackers, or cheese and a banana, or bread and sour cream. On those days, you and your toddler eat together. This quality time may or may not outweigh your feelings of guilt over a meal that looks like Christmas during wartime.<br />
<br />
One of you will inevitably be famished as lunch time comes and goes. You have either been sneaking junk all afternoon and will be too full to even think about food (although it's for someone else...a small child, in fact). Or you get so caught up in the two hour ordeal of packing for the park, that you responsibly feed your child while neglecting to eat yourself. By the time you get home, you can't shovel food in fast enough. As you put a cookie between two pickle slices, you hope this nursing-induced ravenous appetite subsides by the time you return to work so you don't have to look like an animal there too.<br />
<br />
<strong>Entertainment</strong>: You must occupy your toddler while keeping your infant alive. These tasks are mutually exclusive during the beautiful moments when your toddler floods the baby with Lenny-style squeezing, suffocating love, when she takes out her frustration at being told she's too rough by attacking the baby's head, or when she explores how far an ankle, wrist or finger can twist. You say things like "stop licking your sister's head," and come up with a different, self serving explanation each time you're asked why the baby has to sleep again ("because you didn't clean up your toys").<br />
<br />
To keep the baby minimally deformed, you go to the park. With 40 diaper bags strapped to your bus of a double stroller, you realize you didn't bring your 2.5 year old's water bottle. Maybe you can keep her dehydration at bay by offering her a pack of diapers or whatever other crap you brought with you.<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iI-ll2DSz6g/U_qVvQpNLzI/AAAAAAAAAY8/pJbRU2nSl-8/s1600/photo.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iI-ll2DSz6g/U_qVvQpNLzI/AAAAAAAAAY8/pJbRU2nSl-8/s1600/photo.PNG" height="320" width="213" /></a><br />
<br />
You let your kid go to the sand box, and her friends' caretakers roll their eyes at you for being too permissive because, it seems, there is no greater annoyance than shaking dry sand off a child. You then keep your daughter away from the sprinklers (because you also forgot a change of clothes), and are presumed to be a childhood-robbing monster by others. Having impressed everyone there, you feel only moderate shame when your kid follows around a mom dispensing food to her kids, drooling and staring at them with her green eyes, silently conveying starvation. As you drag your child away, you don't bother telling the mom that 15 of your bags are filled with snacks.<br />
<br />
<strong>Comfort</strong>: Our pediatrician instructed that the baby should wear one layer more than we are wearing, but then clarified - don't go by mom, her hormones are crazy now. Joke's on you funny guy, profusely sweating is how I lose weight.<br />
<br />
Luckily, there are other treats in the post partum experience. Whether you gave birth naturally or by c-section, you may also be popping painkillers while either learning to sit again, or waiting for your organs to shuffle back into place and avoiding the sight of your stomach.<br />
<br />
Finally out of the hospital gown and disposable underwear, you peer into your closet, eager to return to your regular wardrobe. You quickly learn that not being pregnant and not needing pregnancy clothes aren't the same, but clothes don't really matter when you spend 80% of your day semi-topless and 20% being spit up on. In public, you accessorize your half toplessness with a draped sheet and baby legs dangling on the side. This is a cue for grandfatherly men to sit near you and compliment your newborn.<br />
<br />
<strong>Leisure</strong>: OMG SO MUCH LEISURE. Seriously, all you do is take 1-3 hour naps all night, with a quick hour long nursing-burping-diaper change in between. A solid two naps later, your toddler is up for PLAY TIME! MORE RELAXATION.<br />
<br />
Then, when the baby is sleeping and your toddler is occupied playing with knives or whatever, you sneak to the computer to place an order on Amazon. Or wash dishes. Or laundry. Or pick up meatballs from the living room carpet. And you wonder what you would be doing at work now, what your friends are doing, as you bump into them on Facebook.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-10692427071038431112014-05-29T14:02:00.001-04:002014-05-29T14:46:34.612-04:00A Lady In The Street And A Mom In The Office<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: left; text-indent: -24px;">
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<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I have Bandaids in my wallet and stray toddler socks in
my purse.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">It’s hard being professional
and ladylike when old fruit pouches fall out of your purse as you’re reaching for
your legal memo.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The double burden of
women.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">If I call the nanny and don’t hear back within 5
minutes, my imagination runs wild and nothing in the office matters.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I will not respond to emails, will not
continue my work, and will not pick up my office phone.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I will eat chips, harass my husband, and
redial my house until I hear that everything’s fine and that [latest horrible
thing I heard/read on the mainstream/weird news] did not happen.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">More than the absentmindedness, the half
zipped dresses and the cell phones in the fridge, this ability to conjure up
worst case scenarios and fully convince yourself of their likelihood (as in,
100% likelihood) until the very moment that the grave injury turns out to be a
splinter and the missed phone call turns out to be a missed phone call, is what
defines “mommy brain.”</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I wear flats and change into heels for meetings.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I get tired just thinking about the ladies
who wear heels all day long and who </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">also </i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">attend
after-work happy hours.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">When I see them
in the elevator, I resolve to wear makeup and contacts more often…or at least
shower.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">My phone has no storage left because of all the baby
pictures on it from only about 10 different occasions, each with endless
variations of the same photo that I can’t get myself to delete because it seems
wrong.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">When my phone will no longer
place calls because of lack of storage, I hesitantly delete the indecipherable
blurry pictures of what is probably the floor.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I have learned to keep a nice looking outfit or two in
the office for the inevitable days that I come in wearing an old t-shirt
under my suit jacket, or have failed to coordinate colors getting dressed in
the dark.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I learned the hard way, frantically
running to a nearby store for a plain black dress after an email giving 30
minutes notice before a big meeting.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I didn’t
want to wear the baggy skirt that I thought was something else (something not
embarrassing) when I put it on.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Why do I
have obese grandmother clothes in my closet?</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">A question for another day.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5K8RhfPFHg/U4d2HOxtrKI/AAAAAAAAAWM/b95MhLIcKx8/s1600/photo+2+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-l5K8RhfPFHg/U4d2HOxtrKI/AAAAAAAAAWM/b95MhLIcKx8/s1600/photo+2+(5).JPG" height="320" width="320" /></span></a>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I make lists of recipes, notes for the nanny (i.e., passive aggressive
instructions), and miscellaneous tasks on unsaved documents
at work.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I never remember to close them
before calling the help desk, and cringe when they remote in to my computer and
get a solid glimpse of my legal work.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">(“Buy
toddler underwear, figure out what size” “Peel carrots” “For nanny: don’t share
a fork with my kid; do get all food off washed dishes, I’ll take over 90%” “stop
being a B to nannies” “buy summer shoes, measure her feet” “why do you not know
any sizes”).</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I gauge the productivity of my day in terms of both accomplishments
in the office, and time spent with my daughter.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Cuddle time only counts for one of those.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Reading a lot may work for either, depending
on content.</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Productivity is off the
charts when there is more food in the fridge than on the floor (breakfast ice
cream facilitates </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">my </i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">growth, but I
guess that’s not toddler-appropriate growth), and when the entire family looks
presentable for a reasonable amount of time (intentionally vague standard).</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; text-indent: -0.25in;">I find
time to summarize how my life differs from almost all the female associates in
my office, but have not completed my legal research or resolved my child's
shoelessness (and, if you were reading carefully, underwearlessness -- but
that's an awkward and uncomfortable word ... and state of being).</span></li>
</ul>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-1845787734239057562014-04-29T23:56:00.001-04:002014-04-30T00:00:51.572-04:00Are they wiser, or are we more progressive<span style="font-family: inherit;">The judgmental honesty of past decades has almost fully given way to political correctedness, but old ladies still got it (and at the supermarket, they flaunt it).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n6KEnnkCpSs/U2B0SLU4GwI/AAAAAAAAAUk/wQdlx8zz0S4/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n6KEnnkCpSs/U2B0SLU4GwI/AAAAAAAAAUk/wQdlx8zz0S4/s1600/photo+(5).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We were at Trader Joe's a little while ago, with our daughter in the shopping cart seat. This made it easier for her to attract the attention of strangers - much to her delight, even when she feigned shyness. An older lady, probably in her 70s, came up to us, gushing. "Oh my, those cheeks. She's adorable." Then the inevitable Q&A session of the not too-busy-for-everything elders. "How old is she" followed by "does she talk yet" and then a nod so thick with reserved judgment I almost apologized.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She wasn't old-school enough to lecture me, but was not eager to express how "ok" it was, how babies progress differently, that hearing two langauges temporarily slows speech development, or that her own kids did not speak until high school. I would expect this latter response from a mom of my generation, and it wouldn't do much more for me than this lady's blatant smirk. I appreciated her almost-direct honesty, however unsolicited, and if she had proceeded to teach me the way they forced langauge on kids when she was parenting, I might have taken some mental notes before rolling my eyes and marvelling at how much more enlightened we are these days.</span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-67998045762813047782014-04-03T11:42:00.000-04:002014-05-02T14:27:33.589-04:00"But I'm an angel" she says with her eyes as she wakes up, heels still lodged in daddy's ribs<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BMXw0rLEFrc/Uz2BEr8s2DI/AAAAAAAAAT0/ko2WJxeDGws/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is "Lia." That's not her name but that's what she will sweetly answer if asked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">She maximizes her weight and limbs to control the central 80% of our bed; blankets may not touch her. She articulates her demands by finger pointing, two words, or one word hidden in a gibberish sentence. She will not repeat herself and you have three guesses.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">She is a certified Master of the I-Phone, and her nemesis is the lock screen. Her other nemesis? Slivers of street lamp light reflected on the walls. Who invites them in at night, and why don't they move? They are simultaneously dull and disruptive, the worst kind of guests.</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BMXw0rLEFrc/Uz2BEr8s2DI/AAAAAAAAAT0/ko2WJxeDGws/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BMXw0rLEFrc/Uz2BEr8s2DI/AAAAAAAAAT0/ko2WJxeDGws/s1600/photo+3+(2).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">The boss enjoys extorting sweets from her grandparents, sleeping in 2-3 hour stretches, and taking all the clothes out of her dresser. Her dislikes are eating in any place meant for eating, bedtimes before midnight, dogs that are sensitive about their eyes, and spoons. She firmly believes that if crayons were meant only for paper, they wouldn't work so well everywhere else.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666;">Her snacks must, I repeat must, come in two's. ("A lot" is also acceptable. "Handful" is ok if there are a lot of them).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--OTMjiizohw/Uz2AfvSU67I/AAAAAAAAATs/KzLLHJT_rqQ/s1600/photo+(9).JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--OTMjiizohw/Uz2AfvSU67I/AAAAAAAAATs/KzLLHJT_rqQ/s1600/photo+(9).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Violate any of the aforementioned rules, and she will walk away screaming. Or she may lay on the floor, sullenly, quietly, and stare past you. Either way, you will understand that you have ruined her life. Of course, you can fully redeem yourself by offering snacks, the currency of toddlerhood. Just know that this is no time for hugs, which are earned and not stolen in a flustered attempt to fix what you just broke.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Hugs, incidentally, are her way of saying: "parenting...you haven't failed yet." While the world stops for you during those fleeting, unbearably sweet moments, she will find a new- albeit mischievous and most likely messy- way to express her love. But no worries, you'll have plenty of time to clean up as soon as you arrange for a cartoon. Please. Just one. (At a time).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F--OTMjiizohw%2FUz2AfvSU67I%2FAAAAAAAAATs%2FKzLLHJT_rqQ%2Fs1600%2Fphoto%2B" with "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--OTMjiizohw/Uz2AfvSU67I/AAAAAAAAATs/KzLLHJT_rqQ/s1600/photo+" --><!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-BMXw0rLEFrc%2FUz2BEr8s2DI%2FAAAAAAAAAT0%2Fko2WJxeDGws%2Fs1600%2Fphoto%2B3%2B" with "https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BMXw0rLEFrc/Uz2BEr8s2DI/AAAAAAAAAT0/ko2WJxeDGws/s1600/photo+3+" -->SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-26785419873765252912013-12-12T13:20:00.002-05:002013-12-12T13:51:58.072-05:00Attachment Parenting (AP): My 2013 Top 5 List<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I give myself some poetic license to make fun of attachment parenting crunchy
moms because, to the extent reasonable and feasible, I consider myself a member
and, at all other times, a groupie and wannabe. So I'm going to state the
obvious, what's on most of our parents' minds. Y'all is crazy.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">My observations and
experiences in the world of AP are as follows:</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
1. We cosleep and night nurse. I wake up to an adorable smiling baby and
it melts my heart. Which needs thawing by the time morning rolls around. My
daughter prefers to sleep perpendicularly between my husband and me. This is most efficient, permitting her to kick
his face (I didn't believe it until I saw it. 80% sure it's deliberate) while simultaneously
manhandling me under the guise of nursing. With both tasks completed, she
can go back to sleep just as we fully awaken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">I eventually found
that during slow periods at work, taking a 20 min. nap in the room I used to
pump in helps revive me. My queen size bed at home has nothing on that
pleather two-seater couch in a room with no windows and under fluorescent
lights, and I relish those rare moments of glorious sleep punctuated by the
startling, high pitched Blackberry dings of incoming emails. Those are some
of the beautiful and fleeting moments of parenting.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">2. I have been describing food wrong all
my life. A dish is edible based on the *lack* of ingredients. Your
apples and blueberries fruit salad is of interest to others if, and only if, it
is properly identified as #glutenfree #refinedsugarfree #vegetarian #dairyfree
#organic #nongmo #intact #novax #raw. Cut up apples with blueberries does
qualify as a recipe, and the fact that it really never includes gluten, white
sugar, or foreskin is besides the point.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">3. Family drama consists of keeping your
extended family's processed foods out of your children's guts, ignoring
criticism of your weird sleeping arrangements and refusal to use mainstream
baby products, and passionately arguing against punishment and cry it out.
(Although isn't CIO just punishment for an infant). There's a solid
exchange of links to "studies" going on during the work week.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">4.
Breastfeeding. Oh my goodness, breastfeeding. I do it, I
extended do it, and I find it incredibly important. I even stick breast
milk in every baby orifice at the first hint of illness. However, the
movement to normalize nursing has resulted in hyper-publicizing it.
Peeing, brushing your teeth, and eating vegetables are also normal and
healthy parts of mothering and of life, but I don't see many pictures of Gisele
doing those things.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My husband and I
once experimented with those tasteful, frame-able nursing pictures. They
came out looking more "hobo flashing baby with pale boobs" than
"artsy hottie nourishing child." There was a level of
over-exposure that even the most open-minded mama would prefer not to see.
That camera eventually made its way to Europe, during my first visit to
meet my husband's parents. One cozy evening we gathered around the
computer to view a slideshow of the hundreds of pictures we took of our baby,
forgetting that those nursing gems were on there. Suffice it to say that
I will not be taking nursing pictures in the near future. That evening,
the stern father in law I just met (and wasn't sure whether to awkwardly hug or
warmly hand-shake), my formal mother in law, my husband, and I stood
uncomfortably in sudden silence (no more oohing and ahhing at the cute baby) as
each picture danced its way across the screen and lingered for what felt like
hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">5. It is
expected that you follow every like-minded blog and Facebook group, comment
with supportive advice to other mamas (where have all the papas gone?), and
post questions that a quick Google search would answer. If you're not a
stay at home mom, you are likely to miss out on many of these posts and
discussions, but, not judging or anything, where is the whole
"attachment" part of attachment parenting if you're at work all day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There you have it guys, I'm strapping on my Beco and off to the co-op. (Just kidding, I'm at work, but maybe this weekend).</span></div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-21496995781544195032013-11-07T13:13:00.002-05:002013-11-08T11:29:50.462-05:00Oh those modern parents...(they're not doing it all wrong)This morning, I came across an
article titled “This Young Mother Has Something Serious To Say. You Might Not Like It, But You’ll Probably
Love it” (at <a href="http://www.viralnova.com/this-young-mother-is-sick-of-how-kids-are-being-raised-heres-her-controversial-blog-post/"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.viralnova.com/this-young-mother-is-sick-of-how-kids-are-being-raised-heres-her-controversial-blog-post/</span></a>,
about and including the original blog post by Stephanie). I didn’t love it. I may not be exactly the “modern parent” that
Stephanie is referencing, but I can identify the trends she complains about, many
of which I agree with and therefore follow, and must respectfully disagree. That said, I think this argument will
ultimately boil down, as many do, to the need for moderation.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, it is a blatant oversimplification to equate every kid’s
childhood experience with his/her future expectations as an adult. By immediately responding to my child’s cries
for help or attention, she will not grow up to expect her professors or
employers to do the same for her, any more than giving her a treat after a
stressful doctor visit will condition her to expect a raise after completing a
difficult work assignment. She will not be
blind to the realities of the world simply because I chose to buy her another ice
cream cone when her first one dropped instead of teaching a 2 year old some deep
life lesson about loss and materialism.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K6H7G-6R2HE/UnvX6qBrCtI/AAAAAAAAAM4/WF6SYR8lEPo/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K6H7G-6R2HE/UnvX6qBrCtI/AAAAAAAAAM4/WF6SYR8lEPo/s320/photo+(4).JPG" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By validating her emotions and tending to her needs – even when
silly, repetitive, or expressed in the form of a tantrum (and by “tending” I
don’t mean “giving in to”) – I seek to foster her confidence and to instill in her,
from a young age, the understanding that her desires are not meaningless, her opinions are valued, and her needs are important. At least to her parents. And while she will learn to rely on her parents, she will not expect waiters to give in to her every whim. Or teachers, or bosses. If I let her reach her tiny
(usually sticky) palms into my food and retrieve whatever she wants, she will not
think this is acceptable with other people.
But if she tries to do this with others, she will be rejected, and it
will be ok. She has no expectation of blind, loving, unconditional acquiescence from strangers,
and will therefore take such rejection in stride. For this same reason (and lesson), I also won’t
reprimand her for trying. She will learn
it on her own. Two years old is the time
for lessons as these, not for Ms. Manners lectures (although, that adult’s reaction
will naturally help develop her awareness of social norms).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it possible that she will become too dependent on her parents? Maybe, and we would address it when
she’s old and confident enough to understand that she must learn to stand
on her own two feet. She will
internalize that lesson logically, reasonably – no longer emotionally. It will be about independence, not abandonment, and I will be assured that we have encouraged her,
supported her, and raised her into a strong woman who knows what she wants,
knows how to pursue it and, if things don’t go her way, knows how to move on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe there is a proper age for teaching about feelings
and emotions, for instilling confidence and a sense of self-importance. Safety concerns come to mind most easily, and
I want my daughter to be able to speak (or blabber) her mind (or gut
reactions) if she doesn't like something, even if she has to tell an adult “no,”
and even if she has to yell it. At this
toddler stage, I want her to know that it’s not rude or inappropriate. She can interrupt me; she has the right to be both seen and heard. After this is firmly established, lessons about politeness, patience, and self-sufficiency will be more timely and more easily absorbed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe latchkey kids grew up independent and self-reliant - they had no choice but to be. I’m striving
to raise my daughter in a way that is driven by concerns other than bare
necessity, and I am lucky to have that luxury. We are no longer in the 40’s and 50’s. Bullying, like the author noted, is no longer
defined by taking someone’s lunch money.
It involves a horridly public assault on a young child’s privacy,
vulnerabilities, and flaws. And yes, it is
horrid for a teenager, even though as late-20-something "grown ups," we know that it's just not that bad. When a boy's lunch
money was taken away a generation ago, after being pinned against a locker and given a wedgie (chalk that up to Saved by the Bell reruns), that embarrassing moment could not be known to teenagers across the country, who could then chime in with their own
hurtful comments. No. A few kids in the hallway laughed about it,
and of course it was easier for the victim to rebound from this experience. So, without a protracted discussion about the
obvious difficulties of a Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc. centered youth, perhaps
“coddling” is necessary, even if you’d like to term it a necessary evil. “Modern” parenting gives children an
unshakable foundation, stronger than parents had to (or could) establish in
the past, before sending them out to “modern” middle/high school life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, I do not understand the recurring negative portrayal
of parents who make their children their “whole world.” Perhaps this modern parent has outgrown her party
days, all her friends also have kids, she is active in her community, and she finds
time for herself (her interests, her husband, her Hulu queue) when her toddler
is sleeping or with her parents, or while she is at work. And lately, I’m at work a lot. The rest of my time goes to my daughter,
and she knows she’s my world. It’s
fine. She doesn’t think she’s the center
of The World, or the center of the gas station attendant’s world, or of her
friend’s mommy’s world.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So before suggesting that “modern parents” are raising
pansies and primadonnas, maybe we should give proper heed to the nuances of
this conversation. And let’s circle back
in 20 years.</div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-90220764093514586062013-06-12T12:46:00.002-04:002013-06-12T15:38:51.799-04:00Why Technology Isn't Ruining Our Relationships<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have read many articles lately
bemoaning the effects of technology on true, personal interactions. These
arguments have irked me just a little bit more each time I came across them.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
It’s true, we no longer write
letters and send them snail mail. I’m sure the contents of our email
correspondence are less thoughtful, possibly shorter. We stare into our
phones, "liking" captioned pictures of cats and giving advice to
strangers, while sitting at a silent dinner with our spouses, who are doing the
same. We disappear into iPads on our commute home, neglecting to stop and
smell the “roses” (the urine-scented mold of the subway) and make small talk
with the friendly commuter beside us (a drunk, sweaty teen). We hide behind hashtags, acronyms and emoticons. We don’t call to set up a lunch date, even
though that quick phone call could lead to catching up in ways that we won’t
get to do over lunch. It’s easier to
text. We see our friends less often than
we’d like to, and substitute reunions with group email chains. Maybe
we shouldn’t be so “busy” all the time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But we also get to see pictures of college
roommates’ kids and pets daily, tell childhood friends details about our lives that
would not have made it on paper, and respond “unsubscribe” to emails from frat
boy cousins attaching unsavory pictures. We
email people who would never receive traditional mail from us, and text those
whom we would not bother calling. We wish happy birthdays to
otherwise forgotten high school classmates, and congratulate Facebook friends
on new jobs, apartments and accomplishments. Maybe “happy bday” from the
girl who sat behind you in 7<sup>th</sup> grade Social Studies is ultimately
meaningless to you; maybe not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because of the "obsession
with," "overreliance on," and "domination of" electronic
forms of communication, I know more about my friend’s daily activities in
Germany than about my neighbors’ lives. But no, that’s not exactly
what they mean when they complain about our online lives taking over. The
fact that I’m aware Masha had beer and olives for lunch does not come at the
expense of my involvement in my community at home. When my neighbors
and I have nothing in common but a zip code, I’ll spend my time reconnecting
with friends further away, and finding others who share my interest of
gardening, zebras, or French. We may even form true friendships.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, electronic communication also means
I don’t <i>have </i>to visit my friend to see her new
baby. After all, she live-tweeted the entire labor and delivery in
more detail than I would want to know about my own childbirth
experience. I can even have Amazon ship her a diaper bag; “gift
option”? yes, please. But I <i>should </i>visit her, it’s
what people do. When she starts accepting guests, I should come over
and help her break up the monotony of days with a newborn. I’ll
listen to her birth story (pretending I didn’t throw up in my mouth repeatedly when
I read about it online 5 minutes after it happened), and maybe even watch her
baby as she indulges in a much needed shower. And I assume she would
do that for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I don’t feel unconnected,
overconnected, or lonely, as they say I might, despite my hundreds of
"friends," "connections," or "followers,” and it would
be silly to attempt enumerating all the ways in which our real lives have been
enriched by our online existence. The list is endless and irrefutable,
and your phone book and community center have nothing on it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have our relationships with the
people physically closest suffered as a result? Perhaps, but only if
we have let this happen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin-bottom: 10.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What we are missing, and mourning
the loss of, is not pre-internet times of genuine connection between
people. Rather, it’s good old fashioned nostalgia; we miss the past,
inevitably better, because we were younger then. We are becoming hyper aware of the difference
between a game of paintball in the woods with 20 people, and a game of
"kill everyone" (I'm not up on video game trends but I think that's
the usual concept) alone in your room, against 100 others alone in their rooms.
We’re increasingly sensitive to the need
to put our phones away once in a while. So
your preference for Candy Crush and Facebook poking instead of game nights and dating is your fault. There’s
a way to reap the benefits of technology without losing the human touch, and blame
yourself, not the existence of internet, if you can’t strike a balance. Real and cyber lives do not have to be
mutually exclusive; your internet interactions should be enjoyed responsibly.</span></div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-50816479933725536182013-05-01T12:51:00.003-04:002013-05-01T13:35:32.764-04:00NYC blunders<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">About a week ago, I rolled my eyes watching a young guy in slacks and a button down, clearly heading to work, bump into the turnstiles on his way into the subway- having forgotten to swipe. "Worth a shot," I snickered silently. The station was empty and the abrupt stop did not seem to return his mind to the present. I don't think he even saw me catch his awkward moment.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CgqP1U0waB0/UYE_RmIwI9I/AAAAAAAAAEs/gQfaDSLeoPM/s1600/turnstile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CgqP1U0waB0/UYE_RmIwI9I/AAAAAAAAAEs/gQfaDSLeoPM/s320/turnstile.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But, it seems, karma strikes even for sarcasm not vocalized, eye-rolling not seen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I pondered tonight's dinner, conjuring up an image of my fridge and seriously debating all the alternatives (all two alternatives), I, too, neglected to swipe my Metrocard. However, I was walking into a large station at rush hour, and in a massive crowd of purposeful commuters, professional New Yorkers, preparers of the Metrocard in advance. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The line doesn't stop for you; the next person swipes before you've even cleared the turnstile.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Therefore, the eager home-bound gentleman behind me inadvertently humped me (<i>intentional </i>humps are a different, sweet nuance of traveling the NYC subway system) just as we both realized my mistake, and as an insult to the non-physical but very real injury of marching into a turnstile that wasn't given the signal to turn. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I recovered gracefully, as anyone would do in my situation, and: (1) frantically rummaged through my Mary Poppins purse to find my card amid lunch containers, candy, socks, and mail, (2) swiped my card, and (3) proceeded onto the platform head down, weaving into the crowd to lose the humper and all witnesses - who, I'm sure, had no interest in following me.</span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-26836205606585543482013-04-17T17:08:00.004-04:002013-04-18T11:06:03.839-04:00Haircut, hold the sass<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I decided to go for a spontaneous haircut yesterday, and
told the lady to cut off a lot. I’ve
come a long way from the time I cried after a haircut, before I even got out of
the chair, and traumatized the relatively innocent hairdresser who was just
following my parents’ instructions (I believe they were: “make her look like a
boy” – maybe not verbatim). My resulting
fear of haircuts was marked by years of infrequent and unnoticeable trims
until, oddly, I just stopped caring. I
can’t even blame it on post-baby carelessness, although imperfect bangs are just not
going to break things for me at this point.
It happened before, when I must have realized
that (a) if I tell them to make sure I can still put my hair up for the gym (it’s
ok…they don’t know me, and it makes me feel good to say that), ponytail-able
hair can’t be atrocious and (b) what’s that thing about hair? Oh yeah, it grows. So now I don’t think too much before going. I get fed up with my hair, schedule a cut,
and go to enjoy the wash/head massage, make small talk with the staff, and strut
around with my blown out hair for a few days afterwards. And, this time, rant to my friends about the judgmental
B that cut my hair.</span><br />
<div style="background-color: white;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXSPXdx4ubc/UW8PQqOeCNI/AAAAAAAAAEc/u9dY7IfJhOY/s1600/haircutting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXSPXdx4ubc/UW8PQqOeCNI/AAAAAAAAAEc/u9dY7IfJhOY/s1600/haircutting.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes lady, it’s been 6 months since I last got a
haircut. Actually, closer to 8 but I
told you 6. And I do, in fact, want you
to cut off more than you keep suggesting, but that’s because it’s the style I want now, and not in order to “go another 6 months.” When you ask how often I blow dry my hair and
then sympathetically offer a cut to accommodate my “busy lifestyle”
without knowing anything about my lifestyle, you make me want to give you $4.65
as a tip. If I wasn't leading a “busy
lifestyle” that just barely explains (but does not excuse) my less-than-daily
straight hair, what are you saying your low maintenance cut will accommodate? For some reason, you seem to have pegged me
as a lazy lesbian that accidentally stumbled into your upper west side venue. </span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">P.S. Your roots are grown out, and I think we
stopped wearing sunglasses as headbands all day, indoors, at work. It's not even summer yet.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And the haircut was decent, thanks.</span></div>
</div>
SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-37265305640031211632012-12-18T16:20:00.000-05:002012-12-18T16:25:55.469-05:00Shameful snacking<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had to get a Snickers bar. I usually get Twix (there were none left) and feel less ashamed
about it. First of all, I thoroughly dislike
the taste of Snickers, whereas I truly enjoy consumption of both Twix bars,
usually within 10 minutes of purchase.
Second, Snickers is the epitome of instant gratification, lack of self
control, embarrassing behavior (particularly because of #1- I hate Snickers). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<br />
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zKNXN8HYhFQ/UNDdlapDT9I/AAAAAAAAADc/H9_4NeBytsg/s1600/snickers1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="171" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zKNXN8HYhFQ/UNDdlapDT9I/AAAAAAAAADc/H9_4NeBytsg/s200/snickers1.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
“Hungry, why wait?” Well, because if you wait you can get
yourself a healthy snack. Perhaps an
apple or some peanuts not drenched in chemically processed caramel, nougat and
low quality chocolate. Maybe a granola
bar or cup of yogurt. Something that doesn't fall out of a brightly lit machine that stands arrogantly in the empty
cafeteria, still stinky from the lunch break.
Or at least a Twix. Getting a
Snickers is a statement, a statement I hid up my suit sleeve during the walk of
shame back from the vending machine to my office, where I immediately unwrapped
the bar and discarded the wrapper, instantly classing up my lapse in judgment. I devoured the Snickers before my office mate could return to his desk, and discarded a small piece for my homies.</span>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-27216833900793566442012-08-30T13:35:00.000-04:002012-08-30T13:35:06.549-04:00On Baby LaughterThere are few things more deliciously satisfying than making your baby laugh. Make a funny sound after a few monotonous ones, or kiss the side of her stomach in just the right place and mood, and you are rewarded with an eruption of giggles. Every sound and smile creates bubbles of happiness that seem to define the joy of youth, the weightlessness of parenting.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-njaNc1qh-BQ/UD-kO2toGhI/AAAAAAAAADI/wMsjdTEbGq0/s1600/random+baby.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-njaNc1qh-BQ/UD-kO2toGhI/AAAAAAAAADI/wMsjdTEbGq0/s320/random+baby.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Winding down from a good laugh, she gazes directly into your eyes, appreciative and expectant and with such pure love your heart literally skips a beat and I swear, you can feel it, the air in the narrow space between your face and hers is thick with love and you inhale, digging your nose into the little folds of her neck because in those moments that you wish would last forever, where else would you go for air. SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-60694794520225601112012-08-30T10:38:00.002-04:002012-08-30T10:38:44.235-04:00Kids of the SubwayOne of my favorite NYC subway moments is children stripper-dancing on the train.<br />
<br />
I guess I’ll take a step back.<br />
<br />
The poles in the middle of the train cars seem to be irresistible to restless young commuters, and there’s not much one can do with a pole except slide down it. Creatively.<br />
<br />
Last week, a tourist family laughed hysterically as their little girl took center stage in a relatively empty car. The fact that their amusement encouraged her to keep dancing made it only slightly more awkward. The young father I saw this morning was less amused. He stood there with another father-son pair, talking to the adult as his son gracefully slid down the pole they were all gathered around. He pulled the boy up and told him to stop, with visibly dwindling patience as it happened a few more times.<br />
<br />
Maybe I’d find it less funny if it was my own 7 year old boy with his hands wrapped tightly around the subway pole, lowering himself to the ground. Either way, it’s not the innocent behavior of active kids that’s amusing; its the reactions of their less pure-minded guardians that forces me to pretend I read something funny while accidentally glancing over and noticing their pole-dancing youth.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-14059519559359594102012-08-20T16:41:00.004-04:002012-08-20T17:05:34.606-04:00On embarrassing momentsIt turns out, embarrassing moments do not end in high school. I thought they would; I thought I resolved them away. In an enlightened moment, following a particularly ungraceful one, I resolved not to dwell embarrassing moments hours after they occurred.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.someecards.com/usercards/viewcard/MjAxMi05YThiZjM4ZGUwNjQ1NjM2"><img alt="If you can't laugh at yourself, I'll do it for you. " src="http://static.someecards.com/someecards/usercards/1341272961163_9421683.png" style="margin-top: 5px;" /></a><br />
<br />
The first bell rang, announcing the end of the period. I was heading to my locker, located in the basement. The lunchroom was also in the basement, and students were rushing out en masse. It was bad enough that I was moving against the flow of traffic, my hands fully occupied with books and snacks. (This makes me sound like a nerdy fatty. I can clarify that I was holding my bookbag, a textbook, and a bag of pretzels but go ahead and imagine me loaded up with history books and donuts falling out of my pockets). Then my heel misses the stair on my way down and suddenly the throngs of noisy 15-18 year olds disappear and it’s just me, my inability to grab on to a handrail, and the boy with deer-in-headlights eyes standing directly below me, in the middle of the flight of stairs I was about to descend untraditionally, with elbows and knees. Whether he meant to or not, he broke my fall. Luckily, he didn’t fall himself, and the crowds slowed for just a moment before continuing to race against the second bell. I saw myself plummeting in slow motion, imagining ahead of time exactly what would happen as my fingertips tingled with the loss of balance. <br />
<br />
But it just wasn’t that mortifying. <br />
<br />
So, when I stumbled backwards off the last step of the physics lecture hall (those long, short steps), ridiculously slowly, onto the hottest guy in the room (and a senior, at that), my normally eager-to-flush-beet-red face smiled it off despite the fact that it seemed like I was slowly, obnoxiously, and with increasing force leaning against him.<br />
<br />
Now, it looks like the workplace is the new high school. Will elaborate after I dry off.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-8202361518469487652012-08-15T15:26:00.004-04:002012-08-15T15:30:04.215-04:00Repice: Spaghetti Squash SaladIt’s weird for me to consider a salad “recipe.” I have a hard time following recipes in general, and especially not a salad one. To me, salads are about the vegetables in your fridge and the dressing category you’re in the mood for (mayo-y or olive oil-y, sweet or salty). I tend to approximate, ignore ingredients that I don’t have, make often-inaccurate substitutions, and “fix” the recipe to accommodate my culinary preferences. I’ve had some success in doing so, but not enough to keep me from resolving to follow recipes more conscientiously. In that spirit, here’s my formal recipe. I got into spaghetti squash just recently and stumbled upon this idea while throwing together ingredients from my fridge. In the structured, measured way of “handfuls,” “pinches” and “bunches,” of course. Occasional cups and spoons, but no “ounces” involved.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fi0bgOigKt0/UCv2Y-HaW4I/AAAAAAAAACw/PAvcF1YwO7s/s1600/IMG00072-20120809-1304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" mda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fi0bgOigKt0/UCv2Y-HaW4I/AAAAAAAAACw/PAvcF1YwO7s/s320/IMG00072-20120809-1304.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Ingredients:</strong></div><br />
<strong>Salad:</strong><br />
<br />
1 spaghetti squash, halved and seeded<br />
2 handfuls (or 1 ½ cups) of cherry tomatoes (or 2 stem tomatoes, diced)<br />
1 medium red onion, diced<br />
2 handfuls arugula<br />
1 avocado, cubed<br />
<br />
<strong>Dressing:</strong><br />
<br />
Juice from ½ small lime<br />
1 tbsp garlic powder<br />
1 tbsp salt<br />
¼ cup olive oil (or to taste)<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
<strong>Directions</strong></div><br />
1. Cut spaghetti squash lengthwise. (First, eat your wheaties, ‘cause this can be tough). Remove seeds and pulp. Be thorough about the pulp removal. I wasn’t, the first time around, and it led to a bunch of the strands still being connected to the pulp after cooking. It’s not chewable and looks gross.<br />
<br />
2. Bake, rind side up for 30-40 minutes at 375 F.<br />
<br />
3. Once the squash is tender, remove from oven and let cool. Then separate the strands by running a fork through the flesh. It’s pretty cool the first time you do it.<br />
<br />
The rest is easy (it is salad, after all). Combine the spaghetti squash with the rest of the salad ingredients. Add the dressing ingredients. You can prepare the dressing separately and add later, but I find this just gets more dishes dirty.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><strong>Playing around with it (other options):</strong></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Dressing:</div><ul><li>Add 2 tbsp balsamic vinegar</li>
<li>Add ½ tbsp maple syrup or agave nectar</li>
<li>Replace the 1 tbsp of salt with 1 tbsp soy sauce</li>
</ul><div style="text-align: center;">Salad:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jBG3WmNTCOU/UCv2bv73hYI/AAAAAAAAAC4/rmSAXN4WRlU/s1600/IMG_0594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jBG3WmNTCOU/UCv2bv73hYI/AAAAAAAAAC4/rmSAXN4WRlU/s320/IMG_0594.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<ul><li>Add diced cucumbers, 3 tbsp feta cheese (or as much as you prefer- can’t go wrong with feta), ½ cup pitted kalamata olives. Don’t replace salt with soy sauce if you do this, though, and get rid of the salt in the dressing altogether if the olives are salty enough.</li>
<li>Add 2 cloves finely chopped garlic</li>
<li>Remove arugula. Add baby spinach. Or no greens at all. I made this last week and wanted greens, but had neither spinach nor arugula nor green gummy worms. I did have broccoli sitting in my fridge for an almost unacceptably long period of time. I removed a few florets, chopped finely, and it added some green and some crunch. Delicious.</li>
</ul><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fi0bgOigKt0/UCv2Y-HaW4I/AAAAAAAAACw/PAvcF1YwO7s/s1600/IMG00072-20120809-1304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><strong>Spaghetti Squash/Salad: Tips</strong></div><ul><li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">At the grocery store: Choose an even light yellow squash; no bruises. </li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Making its way home: Store whole at room temperature for up to 3 weeks.</li>
<li style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Making it: Spaghetti squash can also be prepared by steaming (after cutting it lengthwise, and in quarters if you want shorter strands or to fit it in the pot, and steaming until tender- about 10 to 15 min), boiling or even microwaving. Can be baked whole by piercing it with a fork a few times throughout, and leaving it in the oven for a bit longer (about an hour).</li>
<li>FYI: the lime in the dressing keeps the avocado from going dark, which keeps the salad looking scrumptious, as they say, even as leftovers or next-day lunch.</li>
</ul>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-64534904633313967752012-08-09T13:14:00.001-04:002012-08-10T14:14:07.896-04:00Top o' the morningWhat kind of morning is it? It's the kind of summer morning that starts out deceptively cool. A moment too long getting dressed, and I end up running for the train, clutching papers and bags, hoping not to lose a shoe. Stumbling onto the platform, nauseous and out of breath, I take a look at my watch, then at the train schedule. I'm 10 minutes early. I'm sweating in the most attractive manner, and the sun persists in its heavy-handed application of heat to my forehead. I send a quick text to my husband, thanking him for his morning meeting, and for his resulting inability to drive me to the train. I don't recall whether it was polite.<br />
<br />
On my morning coffee run, which is not a daily occurrence but a necessary one today, I stop at the pharmacy. Return teething pills, pick up Pedialyte. Until now, Pedialyte was the liquid that my friend gives her Yorkie after the beach. My sleepless night with a feverish infant, and Google, taught me otherwise. As I reach for my wallet, my arm brushes against the dry cleaning instructions attached to the seam of my shirt. Most wear that tag on the other side.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-70761528114751345792012-08-07T12:41:00.002-04:002012-08-07T12:41:15.277-04:00An Affair (9/16/09)I decided to cheat on my dentist. I am confessing this to relieve my guilt, at the cost of some judgment. I expect that few have such loose morals, so my confession also serves as a rare glance into the feeling of another dentist's chair.
<br />
<br />
I didn't have the courage to stray far from what I've known. This dentist, too, was a middle aged Russian man. Ignoring the implications of my visit and judging me favorably, he skipped all formalities but the basic first-visit medical questionnaire. I was the only person in the office (which should have been a sign, I later realized, but one that I ignored in my wide-eyed wonder), so I didn’t get to sit in the waiting room, or to evaluate the comfort of his waiting room seats or the relevance of his waiting room posters.<br />
<br />
Easing myself into his chair, my arms fell into an all-too-familiar position. If he intended the experience to resemble that of, let's just call him #1, he would have turned on some classical music and started softly humming along, close to my ear (due to the nature of his task) but not to me. Instead, it was the far more unsettling Russian radio that was audible in the background. The radio must have been located in the adjacent safe room where the doctor goes to flip on the x-ray switch and hide as you lay in the chair with a lead blanket and oddly exposed head.<br />
<br />
He held the xrays up to the light machine, shook his head deliberately and professionally, aware of my attention, and poured out flattery regarding the dismal (or splendid, whatever) condition of my teeth. I zoned out, wondering what he looked like under the mask and whether at the end of the day, his trimmed beard suffered from the "hat hair" effect. He brought me back to current events by displaying the x-rays, handing me a mirror, and briefing me on my mouth's internal affairs. I learned a little about reading teeth xrays.<br />
<br />
Diligence and stupidity are not easily discernable when it comes to a drawn-out drilling process.<br />
<br />
After summarizing my oral situation, he consulted me on our first course of action. I do not expect to act, so the course should not be “ours.” I expect to come, sit, have some decision made for me, and to leave with a sense of accomplishment, with one less problem, and drooling a little from my numb side.<br />
<br />
As he started drilling, I realized I was tenser than usual- the chair was far too upright, requiring me to arch my neck awkwardly and unnaturally. C'mon doc, isn’t this the first thing you learn in school? In grade school. The chair should be comfortable. But it wasn’t, and it wasn’t long before I began reminiscing about my old dentist’s hum, his pleasing choice of music, and of course his perfectly positioned chair. I focused my energy on ignoring the Russian radio conversation in the radiation-free room. This helped keep my mind off thoughts about how bad turtlenecks would look on me if my neck stays like this forever. He partially redeemed himself by applying the water suction thing sparingly. The constant struggle to prevent one side of my mouth from drowning and the other side from dryly crumbling into sand disappeared. As did any chance of my returning to him when he accidentally drilled too far. Surprises are good, but I just wasn’t dressed for a root canal.SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597935088598338233.post-42116886779683074932012-05-22T13:45:00.001-04:002012-08-07T12:54:17.275-04:00Bursting bubbles.<div>
Reaching out of my shower, water dripping off my hand and creating an excess-water situation to which I will not own up when the time comes, I felt around the bathroom sink for facewash- rejecting toothpaste, soap, foot scrub (that shouldn't be on the sink, right?), and a cell phone (just in case... someone calls). My usual face wash must have run out, because I ended up with some Neutrogena/Noxema/whatever crap, now with bursting bubbles! This was likely a remnant of my sister's move back home from college. Only college students, with their senses slowly dulled by loud music, limited cleanliness and borderline alcoholism would spread something that smells like cheap air freshener (or awesome detergent) all over their face. I gave in to the orange-scented soap, letting it work its magic as it battled oily skin and grass stains, wondering how many shots the girls in those commercials take before pretending to enjoy this pungent dishwashing liquid routine. </div>SayShenaniganshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12754081332882130075noreply@blogger.com0