Suburban Snapshots

This One Will Make My Mom Cry

2012-01-27T11:00:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I was not The Hot Sister. I wasn't The Fun One, or even The Popular One. At different stages in adolescence I was probably The Smart One, The Tall One, and then I think around senior year I was The Probably Gay One. But I have a hot sister who also happened to be fun and smart, triple-threat bitch that she is, and let me tell you how that went well into my — well, my right now, as it turns out.

Because we're 5 years apart, Shannon and I were never in the same schools at the same time. I went through middle and high school mostly unnoticed, did my average work ("Smart, but lazy.") cut my hair in weird, unflattering ways, had my small group of friends. In high school I had unrequited crushes on a string of gay friends, spent weekends trying to get rides to the diner where we'd sit and spend sixty-five cents on coffees and stink the place up with clove cigarettes while our waitress glared at us knowing her tip wouldn't come close to paying rent on the space we were taking up. I wasn't adventurous then and I'm not today. I had no idea that people in high school actually did drugs and had sex, despite their daily dry-humping sessions against hallway lockers.

It seemed to me that Shannon would blink in the direction of any number of crushes and fifteen minutes later they'd be sitting on our couch cuddling over Taco Supremes that you know she didn't pay for.

In my memory, my sisters were never home. Steph, who's a year or so older than Shannon, got a car and I don't think I've seen her since. Together they had an entourage — a huge collection of BMX guys who'd congregate wherever bikes could go and do all the things I didn't think people did until college. They both have the kinds of stories that parents never, ever, ever want to hear from their kids and I kind of envy that.

When I moved to Boston I brought a photo of the three of us and kept it on desks at all of my short-lived jobs. Inevitably, any twenty-something male that worked with me would look it over, point Shannon out, and in a way that says, "Things with my girlfriend are totally casual..." ask, "Who's that?" After three straight years of this I considered telling them that she came with the frame.

All three of us are in our thirties now, we all have kids, one or two husbands apiece, saggier boobs and live states apart. Shannon is still fun, Steph still never gets out of her car, and I'm still not especially spontaneous (though I've definitely improved my hairstyle and my husband isn't gay). When we get together our faces ache from laughing and someone might pee a little.

I still notice how men react to Shannon — that my nearly six foot frame becomes practically invisible in the presence of her five-foot-two vortex of adorable — but now that we've all grown into ourselves, it just makes me proud to be her sister.

Photo above is hella old, but I bet you can figure out who's who.

Sh*t Preschoolers Say

2012-01-18T11:22:00.000-05:00

I'd like to tell you that this was my directorial debut, but somewhere in my parents' basement there are stacks of videos taken on a two-piece, eighty-pound VHS camera featuring movies I both choreographed and directed.

No child labor laws* were broken during the making of this film, though I'm totally cleaned out of Reese's Pieces and fear I have created a three-year-old diva. Enjoy Shit Preschoolers Say, inspired by Shit Girls Say and its hundreds of spin-offs.

*That I know of.

The Science of Toddlers

2012-01-10T10:56:00.000-05:00

If you've raised or are currently raising a toddler, it might seem they exist entirely in an alternate universe with no concept of things like time or gravity. This list might help you make sense of the small life form cohabiting with you.

1. An object in motion stays in motion, right up until it gets lodged, still beeping, just out of reach under the fridge.

2. An object at rest will almost immediately be covered in yogurt.

3. Nothing exists in a vacuum, except Cheerios, half your penny jar, and old raisins.

4. What goes up must come down, unless it’s edible, in which case it will stick to the ceiling indefinitely.

5. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction that most often results in a time out.

6. Diamond is the hardest substance found in nature, excluding whatever’s stuck in your kid’s hair.

7. Light travels faster than sound, except where toddlers wake before sunrise.

8. The oldest known fossil dates back 2.4 billion years. The second oldest is somewhere in your couch.

9. Glaciers move at approximately 4 miles per year, or twice the speed of a 3-year-old when you’re running late.

10. Matter cannot be created or destroyed, but it can be reduced to billion tiny shards pretty quickly, especially if it's sentimental.

I Found Jesus, He Was in the Play Kitchen

2012-01-02T21:55:00.000-05:00

During the months leading up to Christmas, Anna's class was busy practicing for their school's December pageant. Their song was Mariah Carey's version of Jesus, Oh What a Wonderful Child, and though Anna's actual part in the performance was a backup angel, at home she rehearsed the role of Mother Mary several times each day before school and repeatedly in the evening before bed. The pageant was over a week ago and she's still at it.

Yesterday as we packed away Christmas, she hid the manger and its cast of characters in her toy refrigerator and had a tantrum when I discovered and boxed them up.

Today as I browsed the interwebs for a kid-friendly manger and its inhabitants, it dawned on me that this whole religion thing is outside the realm of Parenting Topics in Which I'm Competent. I'm not even sure what my own beliefs are based on, and that class I took on The Old Testament with a charismatic, hippie professor hardly counts as religious education.

Ironically (or not), I'm more in favor of Anna having some kind of official religious education than Steve, who went through CCD and achieved all the rites my sisters and I missed — we're the ones still seated during Communion, and chances are we're only in church because someone decided to have a full-mass Catholic wedding, and it's probably not air conditioned and most likely it's August.

While it is nice to hear Anna using Jesus' name in contexts other than the expletive, I'm unsettled as to how we move forward. Not only do Steve and I need to get in sync, but I have to work out my own thoughts on the matter. It all feels pretty heavy. I have my ideas of God and Jesus, but what if I can't align them with official doctrine? And where do we start? And maybe Steve wants us to be Buddhists.

I'd love to hear how you all navigated this part of raising humans into good people, whether or not religion played a part of the plan, how you incorporated it, and if your own beliefs changed once a child was involved.

Or maybe there's a loophole where we pawn this all off on the godparents.

The New Year and What We're Made Of

2011-12-27T22:18:00.000-05:00

It hasn't been the easiest year for us, it's been one of those years where you're forced to be an adult, to learn things about yourself, to look at your life in all its complicated pieces, to take inventory, to pay attention, to work hard, and to keep going.

It was a year of growing up and taking responsibility, a year with love and hurt. And because life is the way it is, even in the midst of all the serious business that needed our focused attention, there were still bills to be paid, dogs to be fed, car repairs, preschool projects, work trips, family trips, grocery trips.

We lost a beloved dog, friends lost parents, we lost friends.

But there were also new babies, and now we get to watch — from three and a half years in — our friends working parenthood into their lives. There were celebrations, parties, an actual, bona fide vacation, and the best Fourth of July I can remember having.

This was the year when Steve landed a job that he deserved and I started getting paid to write. We met good people in our neighborhood and I made actual, in-the-flesh friends through this crazy little blog.

Anna grew so much this year, sometimes it's hard to believe she's only three. She learned to write her name, she recognizes her letters and most of her numbers, she sings the days of the week in English and Spanish, she memorizes song lyrics and sings to herself in the mirror, she cracks jokes and strikes poses. And oh, does she have opinions.

As the new year approaches, we tend to want to hold the sweet memories and milestones and somehow leave the harder ones behind us. But it all comes with us, what was good and what hurt, and eventually we figure out what to make with it, and what it makes of us.

Happy new year to you and your loved ones.

If You Take a Three-Year-Old to the Movies

2011-12-13T14:48:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend, Steve and I experienced what must have been a Christmas-spirit-induced mutual delusion and decided it would be fun to take Anna to see The Muppets. Because I optimistically bought the tickets in advance, there was no turning back from the 3:30 matinee even after the child was overheard muttering, "Stupid Mommy" during a time out.

In the spirit of one of our favorite bedtime books, here's the recap.

If you take a three-year old to the movies, she'll be sure to skip her nap, eliminating her tolerance for just about anything except giant boxes of candy.

When she spots those giant boxes of candy — priced one dollar less than a week's worth of groceries — she will defiantly stomp hard enough to topple another patron's bag of popcorn.

When the popcorn has fallen to the floor, she'll try to eat it, and while she's down there she'll spot some old, hairy gum. You'll retrieve her in the nick of time.

Mid-tantrum, she'll remember that you often carry gum in your purse and insist on a piece, though today you have left it out in the car. She sentences you to death with a disgruntled furrow.

When you threaten to promptly remove her angry little self to the car, she will reluctantly march into the theater.

In the theater, you will be forced to contain your child through a six-hour series of previews that are as loud as an airshow and offer no distraction from the fact that every other kid in the audience has a bag of popcorn.

Defeated, you just go buy the freaking popcorn.

On your way to the popcorn, your three-year-old spots the restrooms. Suddenly, she feels a life-or-death need to pee.

While waiting outside the stalls, you hear small fingers touching every surface in their vicinity. You open the door to find her elbow-deep into the tampon disposal like it's a goddamned Christmas stocking.

The thought of Christmas reminds you that this is the perfect opportunity to use Santa as a threat. Once you've scrubbed her fingers-to-neck in the bathroom sink, you return to the popcorn counter, where you are now too late to buy any popcorn.

And so, caught between spending her college fund on a giant box of candy and suffering through the last half of the movie with a miserable child, you decide to cut your losses and head home for a nap.

It's a Miracle Anyone Eats Around Here

2011-12-09T14:43:00.000-05:00

Remember when someone else controlled most of your food intake, so you didn't have to think about things like calories, saturated fat, unhealthy ingredients, environmental impact, sad chickens, BPA content, or how it is exactly that meat can sit indefinitely at room temperature in cans? Oh, the halcyon days of Chef Boyardee and Kraft Deluxe.

When I realized for the first time that being out on my own meant I could put anything I wanted into my cart, in went Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Yoo Hoo, Cool Ranch Doritos, and some spinach to ward off a shame spiral.

Now I have two other people to consider: a healthy, growing three-and-a-half year-old who'd live on Pirate's Booty and Laffy Taffy if I'd let her, and Steve, whose daily caloric requirements will eventually force us to start ranching our own cattle. And I know too much to go back to Hamburger Helper, with its delicious sodium and seductive hydrolyzed oils.

Used to be I'd check labels' nutritional info and the length of the ingredients list. Now I only glance at those things, scanning instead for high-fructose corn syrup, aspartame, unpronounceable ingredients that start with 'x' and basically, that eliminates the entire convenience food aisle. I buy organic when I can (pay weeks), and avoid produce that's not in season (excepting bananas). I stalk packaged meat slowly, like a lion on live prey, looking for what's all natural, vegetarian-fed, and humanely raised. I have beef guilt and rarely cook it at home. Ditto pork — except you, bacon, I can't quit you.

And now the reports on sketchy apple juice and BPA in cans. Can a mom get a motherbleeping break around here?

Grocery shopping remains my favorite chore. I'm grateful that I'm in a position to be choosy about what I bring home to my family knowing there are people without that luxury. You'll still find cans of tomato soup in my basket and the occasional box of Funny Bones, but mostly you'll find me walking the aisles, squinting at the back of some box wondering what the hell pyridoxine hydrochloride is.

It's Always an Offer I Can't Refuse

2011-12-05T20:13:00.001-05:00

If you know how to look someone in the eye who you're not married to and haven't birthed, and say unequivocally, firmly, and definitively, "no" then I think a lot of us would like to learn your technique.

Why is it so hard, that little two-letter word? It's probably the most danced around, over-explained little one-syllable word in the vernacular.

A few weeks ago I got a handful emails from different friends, each asking for what really were small favors: a quick photo, some editing, a proof-read, a little Photoshop. I agreed to each request because I love these people and could manage to make the time, and because I value having the skills to help.

It's in all of us, the need to feel useful, the satisfaction of being appreciated, not wanting to disappoint the people we care about. In the meantime, Steve noticed that I was on the computer later than usual, and in his very practical way of looking out for me he said, "Why didn't you just say 'no'?"

He may as well have given me that piece of advice in Mandarin. Just say no? DOES NOT COMPUTE. Often we begrudgingly say yes to someone — a neighbor who needs computer help or the friend with the horrible toddler whose babysitter canceled — we submit because it's just easier than saying no, or because we can't think of a good excuse fast enough, or sometimes because the excuse makes us feel guilty.

We do it out of diplomacy, sometimes we do it because we really want to help and realize too late that we've taken on too much — say, six batches into a thirty-batch preschool snickerdoodle fundraiser. Sometimes there are just certain people we can't refuse.

Maybe it all balances out — I'm sure I've been on the other end of the ask, needing a favor from a friend whose schedule was already keeping him at work too late or a ride from someone who wasn't headed in my direction. Maybe the satisfaction of being able to help is compensation for the sacrifices we make to squeeze in just one more task before bed.

Are you any good at no?

It's Not Like I'm Serving Frozen Pot Pies

2011-11-23T15:24:00.001-05:00

I'm not posting a list of things I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving, though it is lengthy and names just about everyone who's been a part of my life this year. Instead, I have a confession.

This year, I ordered my Thanksgiving dinner.

That's right, all of it. From the turkey to the cranberries to the pie. "What next?" you might be thinking, "A personal assistant?" But no. This year we had no idea what we'd do for Thanksgiving. My mom will be marching in the Macy's parade (as a safari clown, and despite standing in front of the TV through every tiresome dance routine, there will be no glimpse of her, and she probably won't have the opportunity to ask Anderson Cooper to flex for her or to see how tall Matt Lauer is in real life) which means she won't be cooking.

We try to stay local to get the most out of the long weekend and also because neither of us is particularly fond of spending eleven hours in the car for a four-hour trip (true story). Steve suggested that instead of hoping my sister's relatives would take us in and send us home with conveniently packaged leftovers, we host dinner ourselves. I was raised to believe that if there aren't fifteen people crammed around an eight-person table, if you can actually hear the conversation you're involved in, it's not a holiday.

I invited our neighborhood friends and any relatives whose plans might still be up in the air -- in my family, there's a good chance that plans are up in the air until someone's actually carving a turkey. And it turns out we'll have a nice group of six adults, three kids, and a small after-party to finish up our case of Two-Buck Chuck.

At first I wanted to attempt the fifty-mile Thanksgiving, where any food we ate would be raised or farmed within fifty miles of our town. Then I wanted an organic turkey, but that seemed silly when I also wanted my grandmother's stuffing, which uses an entire tube of Jimmy Dean sausage. And there has to be pasta and sauce.

Then a friend told me that a restaurant up the road was packaging entire dinners to go. I looked at my collection of pots, all of which were in the sink, opened my tiny, vegetarian oven, peered into my fridge, full but stocked only with questionable Rubbermaid containers and expired salad dressings, and I made the call.

I'll still prepare the pasta and meatballs myself, so even with someone else doing most of the cooking the mess in my kitchen will be authentic, and the gathering at my table will be raucous and joyful.

Happy Thanksgiving to every one of you and your families.

Fell in Love with a Girl

2011-11-16T14:17:00.001-05:00

I haven't written specifically about Anna lately mostly because she's been super awesome and I didn't want to be the mom who's like, "Oh my GAWD you guys, everything my kid does lately is the best thing EVAR!"

She's in ballet now, and my previous gender-neutral, zero-princess-tolerance self cannot even stand how sweet she looks in the pale pink leotard and tights, tall with thin arms and legs, no question that she's her father's daughter. She's still clumsy but eager to perform her improvised spins and leaps for the teachers, crash landing while the rest of the class practices plié-and-stretch.

She actually eats things — whole things — though some days those whole things might be whole bags of Pirate's Booty. She's found my sucker button, the one she's pushing when trying to stay up later than normal and she says to me, "Mama, I really missed you while you were away on that trip." She drops her head and looks at me out the very top of her eyes, lips in a perfect frown, buying herself ten more minutes on the couch.

Over the summer when she sat rapt through a two-plus hour local production of The Wizard of Oz, she also started paying attention through entire movies. Now I'll overhear her singing songs from Tangled, from school, from the radio, and I realize that she's picking up a lot more than either of us thought.

And she's funny as hell. Not just when she's being overly dramatic because I won't let her wear her ballet slippers outside, or when she's dancing like a tranq-darted wallaby, but on purpose. She writes her own material, "Mom, have you ever heard of a TOASTER crossing the road?" There's no punchline, but she laughs so hard I can count her teeth. When she tells these with friends it starts a chain of bad-joke telling and hysterics. I've witnessed it, and it makes me proud.

Three started off a little rough, but heading into four she's pretty much everything I imagined any daughter of mine would be. I still see each of us in her, but so much of what I glimpse is her own little self; her klutzy, joyous, beautiful little self.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

2011-11-09T14:08:00.000-05:00

Now that I'm not home by myself five nights a week armed only with my iPhone and a wooden spoon, I'm free to write about how badly it sucked being at home by myself five nights a week.

It sucked out loud.

It sucked far more for Steve, who actually had to be awake all night, then somehow manage to de-zombify long enough to keep Anna out of harm's way two days a week while also participating in fun family activities on weekends, when all his body wanted to do was collapse on itself and slip into a deep, quiet coma.

His shift was from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m., so he'd walk in the door just as Anna and I were waking up. Usually she'd want nothing to do with him and would figuratively and then literally kick him square in the nuts when he'd come to lie with us in the morning. I'd get her ready and off to school, then sit to work and listen to Steve's apneic breathing until around 2. It felt lonelier having him home and unconscious than it did having him off at work. When he accepted the third shift I thought, we are going to be together every. waking. hour. But I ended up seeing even less of him than if he'd been on the nine-to-five — turns out there weren't many waking hours.

In our previous routine I had a husband who was awake and lucid for several hours per day. He'd do dishes, laundry, he'd vacuum. And then his position changed and for three months he slept, and when he was awake he wanted to sleep, and when he was alert he was kind of cranky. We'd bicker more, the house was a mess, we couldn't go out to weeknight dinners or rent movies, we'd have rushed sex in the time between getting Anna to sleep and sending Steve out the door (admittedly this wasn't all bad.)

It was three months that felt like forever, they were exhausting, I kept remembering that this wasn't a temporary situation but an indefinite one and tried to get used to the idea. Steve really liked the work and after a tough year, he was feeling good about being out there hunting and gathering again.

Thankfully Steve landed a new job working half a mile from home with a schedule that gets him through the door by 3:30 p.m. He has real benefits that include time off and a 401(k), movies at night and spontaneous dinners out. Anna still doesn't want to see him in the morning, but I'm more than happy to not be alone at night (she types from a hotel room sixty miles away).

I'm happiest for him, glad that our family is on a reasonable schedule again, and I have a ton of respect for the tired, dedicated people who keep this place running while the rest of us tuck into empty beds, waiting to be woken by the sweet sound of your keys in the door.

Spousal Communications Decoded

2011-11-01T20:20:00.000-04:00

If you've been in a relationship for longer than twenty minutes, you know that many exchanges with a significant other require some interpretation. Below are helpful translations of common household interactions.

The Husband Subtext Decoder:

"I cleaned while you were gone." = "Anything I had to hand wash is still sitting in the sink fermenting what will eventually become the key ingredient in a herpes vaccine."

"It's not in there, I checked." = "When I opened the cabinet door and gingerly moved my head from right to left, then promptly exited the room, I didn't see the thing I was looking for."

"Do you want me to make dinner?" = "I'd rather cook than finish the hand-washing in the sink, because what the crap is growing on that stuff?"

"Does this shirt look okay?" = "Does this shirt increase my chances of having sex with you later?"

"I have to run to Home Depot, need anything while I'm out?" = "I hope you don't need anything while I'm out, because chances are I'll take longer than the Donner Party and I already forgot what you asked for."

The Wife Subtext Decoder:

"I'm making such a good dinner tonight." = "I'mma dirty every single pot and pan we own, even the good ones that need to be washed by hand."

"I did all the laundry." = "Which is now sitting in four laundry baskets getting wrinklier than Joan Rivers' real face."

"Give me five minutes, I just have to do a work thing." = "I just posted a picture to Facebook and I'm compulsively refreshing my page until somebody comments."

"Check out my new jeans." = "The comfort and fulfillment of your penis relies heavily on your reaction."

"I'm running to Target for a birthday card, I'll be right back." = "We have at least eighty dollars in the account, right?"

Five Signs of Kid Infestation

2011-10-26T22:22:00.001-04:00

Just before we left Boston, bed bug outbreaks in our neighborhood made national news. Broadcasts included helpful tips on what to look for, how to manage the spread, and alternatives to lighting all your belongings on fire and leaving town naked on a bicycle. Now that we live farther north we find there's an even bigger, more permanent problem: we've got a kid infestation. Here are five telltale signs:

1. Malfunctioning television refuses to broadcast any adult content. You find yourself ignorant to even the biggest news until you glimpse a headline as you run past the newspaper stand that happens to be positioned between the grocery store entrance and the dairy case.

2. Unexplained, illegible marks on all walls, three-feet or lower. Like termite damage, these types of markings accumulate over time. They may not compromise the integrity of your foundation, but can interfere with your desire to own anything nice, ever.

3. Disappearing furniture. You may notice your once-useful coffee table suddenly missing. One of the surest signs of acute kid infestation is finding this central piece of furniture replaced by two pairs of shoes, a pile of DVDs, and three Squinkies.

4. Car impounded, hoarding intervention. A concerned friend or relative noticed four pairs of shoes, six sippy cups, a week's worth of gummy bears, several hundred napkins, nineteen discarded Starbucks cups, and enough changes of clothes for a five-day camping trip, and called the authorities. The good news is that your stash isn't illegal and you're prepared for any natural disaster.

5. Filth Blindness. You realize only when it's time for your mother-in-law's summer visit or just as the babysitter's pulling in that your house has been overrun by herds of angry dust bunnies and heaps of petrified Cheerios. You wonder as you're hunched over the couch chiseling away half an inch of yogurt with your thumbnail, how it is you never noticed the mess before now.

Not Without My Mayo

2011-10-19T16:28:00.000-04:00

A year and a half ago, I joined Weight Watchers for the fourth time since eighth grade. In all my thirty-eight years I've lost weight repeatedly, usually by doing grossly unhealthy things like eating only salads for a month, sticking to a limit of five-hundred calories per day, or having a boyfriend whose blinding hotness made me too nervous to eat — unless I was drunk — for a good two weeks (true story).

Needless to say it never stuck, and I'd always end up squeezing myself back into the two pairs of jeans that didn't suffocate me. I wasn't comfortable. I had lumps in places I didn't enjoy. I was self conscious, jiggly, and dimpled, and I never felt quite like I was rocking anything I wore.

This month marks a full year for me at my goal weight. In total I lost twenty-three or so pounds, depending on which day I'm weighing in. I still step on the scale once a week, and check-in at The Dub-Dub once a month. I still don't love working out. I still refuse to acknowledge fat-free "half and half" as a real thing. I still eat the fries Anna leaves on her plate. I still have a dent on my ass big enough to stage a moon landing, and I still have an ass big enough to accommodate that dent.

But things have definitely changed. I haven't cringed at a full-body photo of myself in over a year. This summer, I confidently wore a bikini in public. When I lie in bed, I don't curse myself because there's belly lying next to me, or because my thighs are putting my hands to sleep. When I walk, my rear-end doesn't feel like a horse trailer roped to a Yugo. I stand up straighter, I seek out form-fitting jeans, and now when I try something on that doesn't fit, I blame the manufacturer instead of myself.

I'm not here to evangelize for Weight Watchers or to tout the 'new me,' because I'm still the same me. I still have a thirty-eight-year-old body with ripples and wrinkles and dents. But with those twenty-something pounds I also lost the whole vocabulary I'd used to guilt myself, and that makes me feel lightest of all.

This is Where I Release Her Into the Wild

2011-10-13T22:20:00.000-04:00

Here's something I think when I watch Anna playing with her little friends: How will I know if she's the annoying kid?

We all know one. I think in my childhood I was her for a while — the one who talks too much, or too loudly, or laughs dramatically like some goddamned theater major, the one who's maybe a little too bossy or too precocious, the kid who's overbearing. I just wonder if as her mother I'd have the objectivity to recognize it in her, knowing that there's nothing I love more than everything she is.

I think about these things more now that she's been off making friends without my help. She's the littlest mayor of our block, stopping at three houses on our evening walks to goof around with friends and dodge mosquitoes. It's amazing to observe and to realize that she's probably going to grow up with these kids — that I'll be walking her to school in this neighborhood pack of bedraggled, caffeinated moms chaperoning their backpacked children off to the elementary down the street.

Last Saturday as we made our rounds from the farmers' market (Anna insisted we buy a small pumpkin from Hot Farmer and I really had no choice but to comply. She said "please.") to the playground, we stopped where two boys were horsing around on the soccer field. "Mom, can I go play with them?" I could tell the boys were older, maybe five, and were deeply engaged in a game of tackle kickball. I worried they'd ignore her, or worse, reject her. (Interestingly, I didn't worry about my three-and-a-half year old playing tackle with two older boys, so maybe I need to re-prioritize my concerns.) I told her to go ask if she could join them and watched as Anna inched toward the two, turning to wave me toward her as I shooed her forward. I held my breath, and the next thing I knew there was a tangled pile of three giggling kids at my feet and a soccer ball languishing in its goal.

They played together for a good ten minutes before the official soccer game started. I was proud of her courage at approaching the boys, I loved watching her being independently social, and I realized that this is really the start of something. This is the start of her really being out in the world.

You guys. Hold me.

My First Giveaway Will Make You Fat and Happy

2011-10-06T08:25:00.000-04:00

The cookbook was won by Allison Reid, whose go-to recipe is rice bowl of melting chard and two beans.

I didn't always have a feel for cooking. I once made overdone hamburgers on English muffins for a dinner date (spoiler: we broke up). I used to dump dried spices into canned tomatoes and call it sauce. Then there was the time I had to put an entire vat of what was supposed to have been caponata down my garbage disposal. Back in the day I couldn't tell a good recipe if Julia Child herself handed it to me.

To the delight of subsequent boyfriends, I developed the ability to cook and even have a repertoire of dishes I don't need recipes for — my sauce is outstanding. I cook almost every night for the three of us, and when I make new friends the second thing I to do (after Facebook stalking them) is feed them. Sometimes I use one of my by-heart recipes, but usually I flip open one of my collection of America's Test Kitchen cookbooks. Below is a totally un-Photoshopped but completely dorky picture of my baking cabinet (here's the adorable outtake).

I have never, ever, ever cooked up a dud from these books. My favorites are dog-eared and drip-stained. I go to them for everything from impressive dinner party ideas to simple salad dressings. While Steve insists on silence in the house during The McLaughlin Group, I shush everyone through episodes of America's Test Kitchen (wow, I bet you're clamoring to come hang out with us now.)

To win a copy of their newest offering, The Cook's Illustrated Cookbook — officially the biggest and heaviest cookbook I own — leave a comment below with just the name of your number one go-to recipe. Make sure to include your email address so I can contact you (I will not use it beyond this giveaway). I'll randomly pick a winner on Monday at 9:00 EST. You must live in the U.S. to win the book.

But Maybe We Can StillBe Facebook Friends

2011-09-29T23:08:00.000-04:00

Last week's post about making new friends got me wondering why it had taken me so long to do, what exactly was the deal with me and the other moms, and how I could possibly make something hilarious of it all. And so, my list of 5 reasons we may not be carpooling to Target together:

1. If you own a stroller that I'd have to finance over 4 years and can talk at length about its features, we might have a hard time making conversation. But call me if you have a yard sale.

2. If your vehicle has a set of those "My Family" stickers on it, well, we can probably still be friends but we're definitely taking my car.

3. If you use "summer" in the verb form, chances are we don't have a ton in common. Still, I'm not averse to an invitation to the waterfront villa in which you summer-as-a-verb.

4. If I bump into you at the grocery store and your cart contains only produce and organic milk, your toddler's not face-first in a bag of Cheetos, and your hair isn't in one of those half-assed bun/ponytail hybrids, we definitely can't be friends. I just don't need that kind of pressure.

5. If you spend all your time at the playground making calls and texting, we can't be friends, because who's going to keep an eye on the kids while I Facebook?

As It Turns Out, I'm Not a Total Pariah

2011-09-22T20:26:00.000-04:00

Back when Anna was pretty tiny I attempted to, failed at, and wrote about my efforts at making friends with other moms. Lots of you guys related to that post and a follow-up I wrote a bit later.

Since then I've made some friends, the kind who trust me with the secret location of their spare house key and the safekeeping of their children — fine, their goldfish, but still. I've made friends with moms who drink and curse and struggle with guilt and unruly nether regions. Suddenly, I know people in my own neighborhood and they're fun and down to earth, and they're the parents of the kids my kid's going to grow up with.

I'm writing this to give hope to those people who are struggling, because I tried to make friends and it wasn't working. You know that one friend of yours, the only single one left in your circle who's always trying to find a relationship? And all you want to do is sit him down and say, "Stop trying so hard." It's the same with finding mom friends.

The women I met just kind of showed up — one in response to something I'd posted online for sale who happened to live four doors down with a kid Anna's age, and another whose house I wandered into volunteering for a block party. You can feel almost immediatly how things will go; you know by the way you relate whether or not you'll be carpooling to Target and rummaging through each other's refrigerators, wondering why neither of you have eggs or milk but are fully stocked on stuffed olives.

It definitely helps having a kid who can talk and being past the point where your life is consumed by changing diapers and washing breast pumps. You can send your kids into another room to play dress up, then talk about grown up things like the brand new meat shop or the sexy tomato guy at the Saturday farmers' market.

It was a dry few years and I missed the easy familiarity of the friends I'd left when we moved. It was hard working from home, not being able to grab lunch with a co-worker or talk about shows on the cable channels I don't have.

Organized meet-ups didn't work out for me. If they're not working out for you, or if you don't relate to the moms at your playground or music classes, don't sweat it. You'll find your next real friend when her mail is accidentally delivered to your house, or when your kid runs off with her kid's beach toy, or when you're both standing around nonchalantly checking out that hot new tomato guy at the Saturday farmers' market.

Choosy Love

2011-09-15T21:18:00.000-04:00

Here's the scene: It is evening. I am lying on the couch buried beneath thirty combined pounds of dog and one laptop. I am deeply and visibly engrossed in a ~~Facebook/Pinterest wormhole~~ news item. Steve is in the kitchen. He stands at the fridge holding a half-gallon container of lemonade in one hand, a cup in the other. The child stands mere feet from him, and yet she exits the kitchen, walks to me, leans in — elbow pestle-ing my right nipple, face just an inch from my own — and sweetly asks, "Mama, can you please get me some lemonade?"

At this point I very calmly point out that the other household resident, who also loves and serves her, happens to be poised to respond immediately to this very need while I am mostly incapacitated by both the weight and breath of the animals, and highly engaged in — ahem — current events.

This is her M.O. lately; if both Steve and I are at home, Anna will almost always ask me to come to the bathroom, to watch her, to rub her back, read her stories, cut her chicken. If she climbs into my bed in the morning, nestling in behind me, she'll insist, "Mama! Put your face out!"

It's sweet in a way, but also frustrating. As soon as I'm in her line of sight I hear the inevitable, "Mama?" I can't walk from one room to the next without being asked to fetch something. I thought maybe she was trying to compensate for the hours she's home with me when I'm working and off-limits, but a friend who works outside the house tells me it's the same scenario at their place where her son has equal time with both parents.

It's a Mommy phase and it carries over to her treatment of Steve. Not only will she usually prefer my attention to his if we're both at home, but she'll deny him even the smallest affection. As the parent who spends more one-on-one time with her and who works the harder job with way shittier hours, I imagine it's tough to drag himself through the front door, into the bedroom where Anna and I lay watching Clifford only to be greeted with, "No Daddy! Don't look at me!" And I know the hugs she gives after I peel her off of me and insist she be nice to her daddy don't feel the same as the unsolicited ones.

Maybe it's the good cop/bad cop thing. Maybe it's the difference in the ways we show affection. Hell, maybe it's just because she's a girl or because she's three. I know it's a phase, I just wonder how long it will last.

An Open Letter to the Hiring Manager

2011-09-08T14:14:00.002-04:00

Dear Human Resources Personnel and Supervisor of the Position to Which My Husband Has Applied:

I know that we're lucky my husband is currently employed. We're lucky that our house isn't in foreclosure, that our oil tank has at least a puddle in it to get us through until the next paycheck, that we can put our daughter in preschool a few days a week so that when he comes through the door as the rest of the coast is just waking up, my husband can collapse into sleep after collecting Anna's cold-shouldered rejection or squeals and kisses, depending on her mood that morning. I know we are not bad off.

Still, while he slept off his shift on the guest bed in my office, I arranged his résumé to make it clear his experience matches the requirements you seek to fulfill. I spent three hours editing his cover letter, spell-checking, and dropping your application PDF into Photoshop in order to type the information clearly and neatly. With Steve asleep behind me, covered in dogs and dead to the world, I added three references — good ones — and emailed the résumé to your office. After that I slipped out, bought ink for my printer, and printed out a hard copy to hand-deliver (I hope you appreciated the printed envelope, because being unfamiliar with the fickle nature of my printer you might not know what a colossal b-curse it is to get it properly aligned).

We both understand that with these kinds of openings there's usually a brother-in-law or friend-of who's got some of the qualifications and all of the connections to be a shoo-in. There's a guy who submitted his application for show, though his DNA and a handshake could easily land him the job. Knowing Steve as I have in all his jobs and roles, I can guarantee you this: no one you're considering will work harder than he will. No one will be as meticulous, or reliable, or as willing. Chances are other guys will be bigger, but they won't be stronger. They'll know what they're doing but they won't be smarter. They'll get the work done but they won't do it better.

All I want for my husband is a break. I want him to sleep when regular people sleep, and be able to take time off sometimes or call in sick or travel with me for work once a year — he hasn't had a non-lay-off-induced vacation since our honeymoon seven years ago. He needs this. He deserves it.

So please, when the supervisor's cousin sits down to interview, or the mayor's nephew's best friend hands you his résumé, remember there's a guy who's relatively new to town, who's got grease permanently embedded in the cracks of his hands and a rock-solid work ethic, and he's years overdue for a break.

Sincerely,
His Wife

Update: On Thursday, September 29th, Steve had a third interview for this position and was sent home with the job.

I'm only going to say this once

2011-08-30T22:23:00.002-04:00

My boss was surprised today when, as I tried to avoid my way out of a cross-country flight, I revealed that I've dealt with anxiety on and off since I was 19 years old. I've only hinted at it here, not wanting to give it any air time or more presence in my life than it deserves, like an asshole cousin who only shows up at your favorite aunt's house when he needs money, then eats half her pantry before leaving with a handful of twenties and her car.

Not surprisingly it runs in my family. We're a bunch of sarcastic, hilarious people with copious love to give and a tendency to over-worry under stress. And we run the gamut: the constant worriers, the obsessors, the panicky. But we're all resilient. We're genuinely happy. We enjoy our lives, we understand our flaws, and we go right on laughing.

But you know how some people facing their own struggles tend to say they wouldn't change things? Well, I'd be more than happy to ditch this crap, far away along some dusty, isolated road and well out of my life. Sure, I've learned really excellent coping mechanisms for all kinds of stress, I've learned that humor really is some of the best medicine, I've learned that I'm stronger than I think. But I've also probably been harder on myself than I need to be, I've missed out on things because I thought I was too anxious to take them on, and mostly, I will be heartbroken if Anna has to deal with more than the standard-issue level of anxiety.

So when I'm trying extra hard to keep my game face on during a flight, or feeling sensitive to Anna's fears, part of my concern is that I don't trip whatever brain wire seems so reactive in my line of DNA. When she is afraid I look for the most practical and common sense ways of soothing her. I breathe deeply and talk reassuringly. I help her to be brave and she helps me to be calm, and I guess that works out pretty well.

Her Bed Time Stories End in Cupcakes

2011-08-24T22:40:00.000-04:00

I really want to be better at bed time. I imagine Steve peeking in the doorway and finding me snuggled with Anna, patiently and enthusiastically reading Go Dog, Go! and pausing a minute to genuflect before the overwhelming wholesomeness.

But as any number of my report cards will show, I've never been much of a disciplined reader.

Anna's pretty good at getting to bed. She spends too long choosing her toothbrush and asks for a roster of comforts before we can leave her room, but generally she goes in and stays in until climbing into my bed at 6 a.m. saying, "Let's watch some tee-vee, Mama." I don't hurry this process along because I know it's some of the only one-on-one time she has with me between school, the end of my work day, and bed time.

By the time I've patiently watched her debate the merits of the Tigger toothbrush versus the Cars toothbrush, spit, wipe, ask for a back rub, a belly rub, a snuggle, "Lay with me, Mama," "My nightlight is too bright," "Flatter-out my blankie," I've got little left in me for The Cat in the Hat (who I can't read without hearing Martin Short, thank you, PBSKids) or Llama Llama. I skip pages at a time in her collection of goodnight poems and have been known to donate books I can no longer stand reading — Fox in Socks is long extinct in this region.

What doesn't help is her tendency to hop around the room as I read, ignoring the words but protesting the second my lips stop moving. At that point I figure the book isn't enrichment as much as it's another tactic to keep me in her room until it's even more past bed time, cutting more into my grown-up, unwind time.

The compromise I've come to lately is telling her stories, asking her to add her own little thoughts and words. The exchange usually sounds something like a MadLibs All-Unicorns-and-Cupcakes Edition, and I love how her brain works at this age. The back and forth feels more like the time she wants from me, rather than me frustratedly reading while watching her tear apart her toy box and counting the minutes until I can kiss her and slip out.

I still look forward to that good night and some quiet Facebook time, the whole two hours I can spend as a single adult, not working or cleaning or hell, moving, at least until that goddamned Cat in the Hat comes on at 6 a.m.

So, You're Expecting a Preschooler

2011-08-16T01:01:00.002-04:00

I'm still at an age where friends are having first babies despite being past the age of getting invites to adult-only wedding receptions with open bars and stumble-distance hotel rooms. My procreative peers always want to know what to include on their baby registries and it got me thinking about what the registry for a three-year-old might look like. Here are a few essentials for those of you anticipating the joyful arrival of a preschooler.

1. Several million Band-Aids. Not to worry, your three-year-old won't be injury prone, just really into wasting hundreds of dollars in first aid, particularly if you're fool enough to buy the character-branded kind. Rookie.

2. Carbon offset credits. These will compensate your utility companies for all the left-on lights, running water, ignored televisions, and empty dishwashers run on the Industrial PowerCleanse cycle by precocious, illiterate children.

3. Only one (1) of each of the following: pair of shoes, socks, pants, skirt, dress, shirt, underpants, toothbrush, pajamas. This may seem impractical, even ill-advised, but during the "I choose!" months this will be the only thing getting you out of the house (almost) on time.

4. Magic Erasers, bulk. Your preschooler is learning to write her name! Oh, so sweet! On the only thing you own that qualifies as an heirloom! Oh. Oh, hell no.

5. Compost bin and/or garbage disposal. Quickly and easily eliminate the hundreds of pounds of food your child will ask for and then refuse to eat the second it's lovingly cut into adorable animal shapes and placed before him.

6. High-quality French cheese, for pairing with the sudden abundance of whine.

7. Corner office, expense account. Your new boss won't settle for less, but may accept Chuck E. Cheese tokens in lieu of a credit line for expenditures.

8. Duct tape. Not for the use you might be considering, but can be employed to keep shoes fastened at least until child is buckled into car seat. If you'd like footwear to remain in place for a ride over 5 minutes in duration, Gorilla Glue is sold in the same aisle.

9. Digital or reel-to-reel recorder. Put your most often uttered phrases on an endless loop without wasting a single breath. Create hours of, "Don't forget to wipe" and, "Stop licking that" in just seconds.

10. Jumper cables. Because oh my God, so much stalling.

My Best Intentions Are All Shot To Hell

2011-08-11T22:21:00.002-04:00

I just don't learn. I don't learn and I end up frustrated, annoyed, — mostly at myself — and exhausted.

We've been having a really good time this summer, getting out and spending time together, making plans for overnights and theme parks, taking spontaneous ice cream runs after dinner and walks around the block before bed. While we've overall enjoyed this together-time, I think sometimes we expect a little too much from the three-year-old, like an attention span.

Steve takes the collapse of our plans in stride. He doles out the discipline, collects the offending preschooler and initiates the exit strategy. I, on the other hand, feel defeated, failed, I wonder if other families really have quality time or if they just don't post the tantrum pictures to Facebook.

The scenario follows a familiar pattern: we decide on an activity Anna enjoys, we initiate said activity with all the optimism of people who've never actually taken a three-year-old out of the house, halfway through activity we observe things beginning to go to hell, activity ends in sweat, tears, and kid-friendly swear alternatives.

Tonight it was the ice cream stand. It's a perfect night, crickets chirping, a warm breeze, a gorgeous sunset, I didn't feel bloated. Anna was so excited at the prospect of her own cone with sprinkles (let's never mention "jimmies") that she ate almost an entire half sandwich at my first request. She marched to the car and buckled without twenty minutes of stalling, she held my hand as we crossed the parking lot to the order window. She charmed the teenager at the counter with her giant smile and polite, enthusiastic request for vanilla with sprinkles; the whole scene was so New England Summer I half expected a J. Crew photo shoot to break out around us.

Then she took her cone and sprinted away from me across three parking spaces. I wrangled her to our table where she abandoned her ice cream in favor of unstacking all the booster seats and reorganizing the rack of tourist brochures. All I wanted was ten minutes to ~~fellate~~ enjoy some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and instead it puddled at the table while I helped Anna put the dining room back together. This wasn't how I pictured our evening out. I'd been punk'd.

So what am I doing wrong? Maybe I need to lower my expectations, maybe I'm not firm enough, or maybe no one has a kid whose ice cream gets eaten right down to the pointy end of the cone. I'm going to think about it while I suck the rest of this hot fudge from under my fingernails.

Blame it on the Radio

2011-08-03T07:00:00.005-04:00

Last week I took Anna dress shopping. As we stood jockeying around each other in the Marshall's dressing room, Anna critiqued my selections with helpful input like, "Mama, I like your buns!" "Mama, I can see your boobs!" and, "Vuh-giiiiii-NUH!" Around the third dress — a clingy, black, Calvin Klein number (on clearance, holla!) she said, "Mama, that is so sexy." And of course since I was mortified wondering how many other mothers were in earshot of me and Anna-from-the-Block, she said it several more times.

When we got back to the car I called Steve to ask if he had any idea where she'd heard it. I called my sister to blame her kids because, well, even if they didn't teach Anna "sexy" they probably taught her some other devious skill that will manifest in the next few weeks, so better that I get the call out of the way regardless. I took a few minutes to explain that "sexy" isn't really a bad word, but that it's for grown ups. The message stuck, because when I turned on the radio Anna alerted me to each instance of "sexy" in song, which — if you haven't listened to top-forty radio lately — is approximately every third lyric.

Anna and I returned home where Steve had just changed into non-work clothes. I greeted him with, "Hey, Hon. You look super sexy in that t-shirt." I was swiftly reprimanded by my hip-high censor and would have been at least given a stern look by Steve if he weren't busy trying to capitalize on the compliment.

So it would seem that just as we got the dammits and chrissakeses under control, we've got sexy to deal with, and sexy feels more urgent to me. I'm sure to Anna it's just another word that gets our attention, but to me it's a gateway swear to developments and conversations it's way too early to have.

It's also a milestone for me, one of those events when you realize that you think like a parent no matter how much you might feel like you just play one on t.v. I'm the censor now, I'm in charge of changing Rihanna even when Anna protests — loudly, for miles — or making sure Steve turns off his underground rap station when we walk in the door (I consider Anna having never dropped an f-bomb a total coup. Aim high, parents!)

Anna's constantly understanding more about her world, and as much as I love to watch her grow it makes me realize how little time I have left to be her filter. Right now I can switch off Ke$ha, but sooner than I'd like she'll be able to push those buttons on her own.