Suburban Snapshots

I Googled "Episiotomy" for this Post. NEVER DO THAT.

2012-05-17T09:51:00.000-04:00

So, you know when you're pregnant and you've pretty much just stopped shaking and put down that tiny pee stick, and you've worked up the courage to start telling people, and then like the third person you tell congratulates you and immediately launches into the story about how she/her sister/her cousin's best friend's aunt had this unimaginably painful and traumatic labor and delivery, has an episiotomy scar that starts at her shoulders and ends at her chin, and just barely got out alive?

Why the eff to people DO that?

I know things don't always go as planned, but sometimes you know what a first-time mom needs? She needs flowers and rainbows blown up her ass about labor and delivery. She needs to know that the worst-case scenario rarely happens. She needs to know that even the sucky parts end pretty quickly. She needs a little reassurance, is all.

Photo taken 20 minutes before Anna arrived. Thank you, Modern Medicine!

This is a job for you guys. A friend of mine (and I'm sure you know plenty of expectant moms) is due this summer and is pretty anxious about the whole, beautiful, messy process of giving birth. So whether you're more comfortable emailing me or posting in the comments below, let's pull together a collection of happy birth stories, the ones where in the soft glow of your epidural, everyone in the room looked like George Clooney. The ones where you had your baby in four hours and only needed one stitch, the ones where your labor went on for twenty-five hours, but you surprised yourself with your own strength, where you were so focused on the moment you didn't have time to worry about the pain, or where having to toss out your birth plan all together turned out to be the best decision after all.

Please help me counteract the unsolicited horror stories of oversharing acquaintances with a little labor goodness. If you choose to email and want to remain anonymous, let me know in your note. And thank you.

It Was Either This or a Macaroni Necklace

2012-05-12T00:11:00.000-04:00

You can't ever buy your mom a big enough Mother's Day present. Every day there's something you do that you learned from her; before kids maybe it was the way you organized your dresser or how you drove, after kids you realize that almost every part of parenting — the stuff you keep and what you swear you'll never do — comes from your own parents. These moments are where you find your mom, these are the ways you thank her.

So we go about our day hearing our mothers' words falling from our lips a hundred times. She's there when I talk impatiently to Anna through clenched teeth, and when I pinch her rear-end just because it's within reach. Mom's around when I'm singing in the car and Anna tells me to be quiet. If I lose sight of Anna in a shop aisle, I remember my mom's story about being so sick and pregnant with my sister she sent me into a drug store alone when I was just four.

I think of Mom when I cut an X across Anna's PBJ and call it a butterfly, or show her how to press criss-crosses into peanut butter cookies. I don't let Anna taste my meatballs before they're cooked, when all the spices and meat smell so fresh and inviting, but Mom is there when Anna helps me shape them with her little hands. When I let her stay home from preschool because she looked at me the right way when she asked, I remember all the times Mom and I would go to Friendly's while the rest of my eighth-grade history class sat through Mr. Anderson's tedious lessons.

My mom's maybe always meant yes, and Anna is quickly learning that my policy is much the same (and that Grandma's hasn't changed). Mom's in dinnertime hugs and stories past bedtime, she's in grocery store treats and quarters for the carousel. Mom is in every minute of my day.

For every story my sisters and I have about being forgotten at the library, locked out of the house, chased with a wooden spoon or sent on field trips lunchless, there are a hundred more about how our mom taught us how to show love, how to be women and mothers. We don't tell those stories because we live them. That's where Mom is, that's our sincerest gratitude.

The idea for this post was sparked by Mommy Shorts' Mom is in the Little Things. Thank you, Ilana.

What a Girl Wants

2012-05-08T13:31:00.000-04:00

My Husband, the Garbage Man

2012-05-03T10:36:00.001-04:00

Partly because he lets me give him so much shit for the sake of amusing you people, and mostly because I sincerely mean it, I often tell Steve how proud I am of him for being willing to work so hard for this family. Though we both hold college degrees (equally as valuable in the job market -- his in Art History and mine in Literature, CHA-CHING!) Steve isn't a desk guy, so the jobs he holds are always trades involving lots of moving around and manual labor. The pay's decent, but considering what I make to maintain a website and cultivate a sizable dent in my office chair, and what he earns lifting twice his weight or hanging off the back of a garbage truck, it hardly seems fair.

Steve will get up at whatever hour he needs to be at work and come home whenever they say he's finished, and lift, drive, move, or tolerate anything in those in-between hours that makes him feel useful and puts money in the bank. He's an official employee of our city now, picking up decaying yard waste in the rain, taking unmentionable money shots to the face from the trash compactor and keeping downtown looking quaint, and he rarely complains (making me feel like kind of a dick for being all, "Oh man honey, I had SO many meetings today and...what's that in your beard?")

Sometimes before school, Anna and I use my ~~stalking~~ GPS app to go Daddy hunting. She's giddy when she spots one of the big, yellow trucks and sees Steve darting back and forth across the street emptying pails or riding the platform. We'll watch him for a few minutes -- today it was in miserable, drizzling rain -- before he says a quick hello and we're off to school.

He'll often see neighborhood kids and I hear from friends how they think it's the coolest thing that "Anna's dad gets to be the garbage man." Anna thinks it's cool too, but I wonder if the day will come when she's embarrassed by her dad's work. When she's thirteen, will she wish he wore a suit instead of a reflective city uniform? I imagine it's inevitable, as probably when she's thirteen everything we do will constitute part of our plot to ruin her entire life, OMG! I guess when it happens it's just another one of those phases you roll with until it passes.

This is where those of you with teenagers tell me how it's not actually as heartbreaking as it seems having your kid be mortified by your very existence, though I remember my sister once telling our mother that she was embarrassed by an outfit Mom planned to wear to teacher conferences and I think my mom cried for like a week. Maybe what I really need is a list of retorts along the lines of, "You can thank your dad's 'totally embarrassing job' for that new iPad50 you just got for class, missy!" Got any?

Etiquette is for Suckers

2012-05-01T09:49:00.000-04:00

Sexy Is a Learned Behavior

2012-04-22T22:12:00.000-04:00

When the email dropped to my inbox last week asking if I'd participate in the Parents Connect Sexy Mom Bloggers month, I was still covered in sweat, sitting at my computer wearing what would be best described as spandex knickers, a sports bra and one Rollerblade. That's a story for another entry, but suffice it to say I wasn't exactly feeling it. I agreed though, because sexy doesn't come easily or naturally -- it took me 30-plus years to find it myself, and if a nerd like me can learn to strut my stuff, anyone can.

5 Tips for Feeling Sexy that You Won't Find in Some Ridiculous Cosmo Article

1. Fake it 'til you make it. You know that feeling you get when you're in a Halloween costume or dressed for an 80s party and you slip so gracefully into the persona? Find that, practice it. Make your persona an unflappable badass, then see if she sticks. Or spend time each day doing something you're awesome at, be the boss of it, feel powerful. If you're still not there, go put on that one thing you own that's kind of impractical but makes you feel like a goddamned rockstar.

2. Wear good undergarments. Bad underwear suck. They can sabotage your favorite jeans, dresses and skirts. Ill-fitting bras make lumps that bother you all day long. Treat yourself to some good ones. If you have a little extra money, go for the pricey bra and a professional fitting (yes, they kind of touch your boobs but they're practically doctors, people). Alternately, lose the underwear all together. You can't have awkward panty lines when you're not wearing any.

3. Be in your shape. I'll never be a small person, but before I lost weight I always felt uncomfortably big and unpleasantly soft. I knew my best, maintainable weight and got myself there slowly, deliberately, over several months. I'm still not a small person but I enjoy my body, even the still-squishy parts. I set a reasonable and attainable goal, and I got there and it feels really damn good.

4. Validation isn't just for parking. Everyone enjoys a compliment, and in marriages where conversations about bills, kids, and the asshole neighbors often preempt sweet talk, it's especially important to remember these little affections. It's too easy to take one another for granted, to stop really seeing our partners. Give as well as you get and if you need more, skip talking about the neighbors and ask for it. It's important.

5. Have sex (admittedly this probably would be in Cosmo but might read something like "Have 80 Mind-blowing Orgasms Tonight!"). Do it while Dora's blaring from another room, do it after date night or just before daylight, do it on whatever schedule works for you but find the time. Sometimes it feels like another to-do, I'm totally with you. But the effort pays off, you get your brain and body back in the game and the next thing you know, swerve=on.

I Felt Inadequate Before Pinterest Made It Cool

2012-04-17T17:53:00.000-04:00

Last week another well-written, thoughtful blog entry made its way around The Facebooks. The writer points out how as parents, we tend to let media, friends and even family make us feel like we aren't doing enough or being perfect enough, clever enough or crafty enough. The piece alludes to Pinterest, where Moms Who Aren't Me build illuminated unicorn fountains out of upcycled pizza boxes while I often break a sweat just trying to get lids onto Tupperware containers.

I definitely have Pinterest envy, seeing photo after photo of homes bathed in natural light from all directions while clean, happy kids play in their cleverly constructed closet beds with adorable handmade pantyhose dolls. But I think I'm either realistic enough or cynical enough to recognize when I don't have the skill or the time to pull that shit together. (I'm too busy trying to entertain you people and keeping my daughter off the pole, isn't that enough?!)

When Anna's birthday started approaching, I checked Pinterest for party ideas. I found a great cake that my cousin volunteered to make, and then fell down an inevitable wormhole where I discovered a DIY playhouse loft bed. I presented the blueprints to Steve and we roped in my other cousin, a builder.

Everything came together beautifully. I know Steve is proud of the bed -- it's sturdy and beautiful and Anna loves it. The cake was the talk of the party with all its gorgeous pink swirls and sweet fudge. All of it was more work than even the awesome Pac Man themed party my mom pulled together for me in 5th grade, but it wasn't just Anna who appreciated our efforts. Steve got to work hard at a job for someone who paid him in pure delight, I got to get creative just for fun, with no critiques or approvals from anyone but myself.

It's probably true that Anna didn't need a new bed, or a pink swirly cake and handmade party invitations, but ultimately we did all of those things for ourselves as much as for her, for the sense of accomplishment, for being able to get creative on our own terms, and knowing that our little client would be grateful for (video) whatever we had made.

Sometimes, in our desire to get to perfect, we end up realizing that happy and adequate is actually a better place to be.

What I Do When I'm Not At My Other Two Jobs

2012-04-12T20:53:00.000-04:00

I don't usually talk about my life as a photographer here, mostly because where would I fit that in between the hilarious antics of my ever-gropey husband and back-talking daughter? But after a couple of inquiries this week from potential photo clients, I wanted to shed a little light on how we work, why we charge what we do, and what to do if you want to hire a professional, location photographer for your family.

A couple of days ago two women contacted me separately, referred by a frequent client of mine, to get some information about my fees. They'd seen my work and had glowing testimonials, but I could tell by their quick replies to my rate information that I likely wouldn't hear from them again. I know I ought not take it personally, but I admit that it irks me, not least of all because I have the luxury — unlike full-time photographers with no other source of income — of being very reasonably priced.

My story is this: I started posing and shooting family members at the tender age of nine, using a Kodak Disk camera. I graduated to shooting in a mall studio after a stint selling cameras and equipment (also in the mall) during high school. Lacking confidence, I majored in literature rather than photography because I didn't think my portfolio was good enough. Then, after working professionally as a web designer for eight years (shooting on the side all the while), I completed an amazing digital photography program in Boston, went $20,000 in debt, spent another few thousand on equipment, quit my job and hoped for clients.

I've since photographed for hundreds of hours, hundreds of subjects, and am still thousands in debt. It took me years to feel I was good enough to refer to myself as a photographer, but I know now I have the skill and experience to back it up.

So when I can tell that a potential client is going to bargain shop for the next photographer who shows up on a Google search, I do take it a little personally. There's plenty a rate doesn't tell you, like how this person will treat a client, the clients' kids, dogs or their ornery great-grandfather. What does this photographer know about client service beyond delivering great images? How much pride does she take in her work?

If you're looking for someone in your area to photograph an event or a portrait, know that there's plenty wrapped into that rate that won't be apparent. If the work is beautiful, if it moves you, if you flip through the online portfolio and sigh, talk to that photographer, get a sense for how you'd work with them, then figure out your budget.

Most of us, self-taught or otherwise, take great pride in our work. We're professionals who feel privileged being paid to do what we love, we don't expect to get rich. We're trained not only in technical nerdery, but in human interaction. We only want you to love your photos as much as we love making them.

My Reward Chart Was Previously a Bit Optimistic

2012-04-03T13:06:00.000-04:00

Last month Anna disconnected her ears. It's the only explanation I can conjure for her back-talking and defiance. Per usual I consulted parenting experts (hello, Facebook) who suggested a reward chart. We bought one, and while it has made a difference, I've found I've had to lower my expectations a bit when it comes to the preschooler's behavior. Below, my more realistic interpretation of Anna's board.

This Was Too Long for a Twitter Response

2012-03-28T22:36:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I hopped onto a Twitter conversation between a group of women talking about what would constitute a dealbreaker in their relationships — specifically, whether "sexting" would fall under a strict zero-tolerance policy. Most said that yes, they'd be packed and out under those circumstances, no discussion, no evaluation, no second chances.

I respect the decisiveness of the group, and the right of anyone to decide what they're willing to tolerate. But I still have to argue the point, because what might be a dealbreaker after a year of dating might be a heated discussion and a week on the couch after a year of marriage. It might be a month of counseling once there are kids involved. And regardless of the stage of your relationship, you just don't know your dealbreakers until you're faced with a difficult situation.

The other day I joked to Facebook that I could never date a guy who didn't know how to parallel park, and you know what? In my early 20s that actually might have contributed to the end of a relationship, or at least stopped the start of one. Back then I had no mingled history, I had the luxury of being flighty, I hadn't contributed half the DNA of an entire other human or half the down payment on an entire house.

What I don't mean to say is that anyone should put up with crap they don't deserve or "stay together for the kids" if everything else has gone to hell. I just don't think we can predict the choices we'll make in hypothetical circumstances.

Long-term partnerships are all variables and attachments, the commitments we make as couples encompass far more than two people, and if a marriage lasts as it's meant to for years, conflict is inevitable.

I just think we'd do better to anticipate the struggles rather than predict our reactions.

Lazy Moms are Rarely Overscheduled

2012-03-19T22:17:00.000-04:00

Last week or so a friend of mine posted a link to this article about prioritizing time. The gist is that we're not actually all that busy, we just don't prioritize the things we don't feel like doing — I haven't been too busy to blog in over a week, I've just been obsessively pinning birthday party ideas and prioritizing work above writing anything of substance. It happens.

Anyway, the whole thing got me thinking about how I spend my own time and how I use it (or waste it) over the course of my week. Admittedly, lots of it isn't a conscious prioritization as it is a bad habit or sheer laziness, like when I'm due for a workout but feel an undeniable urge to alphabetize the liquor cabinet.

Laundry is low on my list. I'm usually in an all-out underwear crisis before I trudge to the basement to get it done, right after I send Anna off to school dressed in a pillowcase. But each morning before I do almost anything else, I make Anna's bed, make ours, and straighten the kitchen. I walk around the house putting away what's been left out of place (why isn't there a Roomba that can do this?). I can't settle into work until my immediate environment is mostly in order.

That said, I haven't dusted in a month or so — whenever it was I ran out of those Pledge wipes, which I now feel too much enviro-guilt to buy again.

We have a neighbor who leaf-blows his driveway every single morning. His yard is immaculate. Last week he came to us about having some of the branches cut from our trees that overhang his property. This is clearly one of his priorities. We keep our lawn mowed and rake the leaves once this neighbor's unrelenting hints start making us uncomfortable — or when we find him actually raking for us, which is awkward. As far as I'm concerned, as long as there's nothing on blocks or on fire on our lawn, we're maintaining good neighbor status.

I often forget to bathe Anna — or forget when her last bath was — until I notice that her hair looks dull. But I make sure that she gets squeezed and hugged and pinched every day, and told she's beautiful, and scolded when she's fresh, and fed after school, and listened to when someone's hurt her feelings. I could stand to prioritize playing dollhouse more often above checking Facebook, and I know Steve would prefer I prioritize sex above sleeping (or cleaning, being gainfully employed, etc.), but overall I think I strike a pretty good balance. I don't frequently feel over-taxed and am usually able to give people the time they need from me.

Do your priorities fall into place, or do you find you've got to plan and work at it? What do you let slide?

Something to Save

2012-03-07T11:14:00.000-05:00

Back when I first wrote about Steve and me going to counseling, I got really amazing responses from you readers, from people who'd been there or were considering it, and I got some frustrated replies from those of you who felt your marriages could benefit from the help but whose spouses couldn't be convinced to go.

When Steve read the comments he looked at me with genuine bewilderment and said, "If your wife is coming to you saying she wants counseling, then obviously there's something wrong, obviously you need to listen to her," and he's right. "I want us to get counseling" says, "I love you, but we can't fix this on our own." I won't speculate on the reasons men* resist -- or as other friends have experienced, tell their wives to go alone -- because I'm sure they're more complex than any of my generalizations.

It's been a hard year for friends of ours -- not one particular set of friends, but a good handful of couples who have found themselves struggling. Our weddings are memories, the kids are a joy but often a chore, and our days as a unit consist of orchestrated routines and nightly scrambles. Maybe we're too busy, or we mean to listen but someone needs a wipe or a bath, we let stuff go. Sometimes it's fine, eventually we get our relationship back on track and it's no worse for the wear.

But sometimes it's not fine. We spend months or years slipping into insidious habits: he's on the couch because the kids sleep better in your bed, she's spent her day catering to children and the last thing she wants is another body to please; he doesn't have time to notice how stressful her days have become, she feels invisible. It just happens.

We're a bunch of flawed humans trying to blend our lives harmoniously forever, and while we expect compromise and even sacrifice we often don't anticipate resentment or disappointment, we underestimate change. How can we not want a little help sometimes?

If you're trying to convince your partner that counseling might be what you need, keep trying until you get the message across. Fifty minutes isn't much to ask considering the work you've done and all you have ahead. Sometimes we just need a reminder of what we have to hold onto.

*I talk about this issue almost exclusively with women friends, I'm interested in what the men have to say.

Snow Day Drinking Game

2012-03-01T23:24:00.000-05:00

Anna had a snow day today, which I only realized as I pulled into the conspicuously empty school parking lot at 8:00 this morning. (Her daycare doesn't post closings on Facebook, apparently.) I did the best I could to work — which included two conference calls and a website launch — while she played hours of streaming kid shows on Netflix. Our day together inspired me to come up with this drinking game.

You can use coffee or vodka but please, parent responsibly.

Rules:

Take one drink each time Caillou whines about the injustices of being a balding, white kid who says, "Aboot."

Take a second drink when your daughter announces, "This is my new most favorite show!"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Have a swig each time your kid screams "SWIPER NO SWIPING" while you're on a conference call.

Have three when she picks up the second extension to tell you she has to poop.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Down a shot when you discover that while you went to pee, your three-year-old sent an email reading, "wrgr33whijwege 235295r egn wnge1"

Down another when you realize she replied-all to the company-wide newsletter.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Throw one back each time she asks you to play with her and you feel guilty that you can't.

Do a chaser when you then spend fifteen minutes updating your Facebook timeline.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Hoist one each time she's left to her own devices because you need to finish one more report.

Swallow two more before you explain to your husband why she's missing an eyebrow.

If They Think My Kid's Bad, They Should Meet My Dogs

2012-02-22T12:10:00.000-05:00

I want to thank the strangers and passersby who take the time to critique the parenting of others, who care enough to offer helpful suggestions, who make blunt, smug observations of the behavior of children they haven't raised.

Specifically, I want to express my gratitude to the family of five? Six? who glared at us for the duration of their meal at an adjacent table last night, making obvious their displeasure at the boisterousness of our playing three-year-olds.

Anna wasn't on her best public behavior — she was squealing, she refused to keep her damned shoes on, she was hugging and chasing her younger friend around the mostly-empty dining room as I attempted to wrangle her — while we parents had the audacity to try and complete our sentences.

The kids were loud, they were mobile, they were rambunctious — you know, they were kids. I understand that people don't like to be disturbed during a meal out, I hear that, but I also know that there are better methods than our fellow patrons used to request a little peace and quiet.

We all judge, but most people choose to do it silently. Most people observe quietly and complain to their partners out of earshot back in the car. But the parents one table over felt it their moral duty to verbally scold us. And they waited, standing in their group of five (six? I was too busy shoving my daughter's shoes on for the fourth time to take an accurate headcount) as they left. They stood staring, waiting to catch our eyes, hoping for a moment to vent their frustrations directly to people they knew nothing about, to pass judgement on kids they'd spent all of twenty minutes with.

"I had kids, and I never let them behave this way," he sneered at me.
"It was really a bit much," she added.
"OMFG our parents are totally mortifying us right now," said the daughters' faces.

If only that disgruntled father had given me a moment to collect his parenting medal from the bottom of my purse. And the mother, whose children's behavior never pushed those limits of patience that every parent — except she, apparently — is so familiar with.

In the moment I wished I'd had a better comeback, something that would have left them speechless or apologetic. But I didn't, because I knew the kids were loud, I knew I could have done more to contain Anna, and because I was stunned by how deliberate it all was, how condescending. Who does that?

Ironically, even after the running, giggling and general disobedience, it was the behavior of two grown adults that proved to be the most disruptive.

How to Be Broke Like a Real Person

2012-02-19T09:11:00.000-05:00

During the sixty-five eternities it seemed like we had no money, it seemed like no one else had money either. Every news show and morning magazine had their own 'expert' tips on surviving tough times, with helpful advice like, "Make sure you save at least two months worth of expenses in a back up account." and "Take the yacht on local jaunts instead of Mediterranean cruises."

We'd done all of their suggestions even before things got super tight; we hadn't had full cable for years, we were always on a programmable thermostat and Steve is genetically predisposed to turning lights off and unplugging electronics. The news wasn't telling us anything we didn't already know.

A whole lot of us are still living week to week, so following are actually helpful things I did to stretch our money without resorting to extreme couponing, because fine, maybe all that food in your basement was free, but how much barbecue sauce does one family need?

1. Modify your mortgage. The process was long, frustrating, often redundant, and it knocked our credit down, but in the end it's been worth it. Our monthly payment was reduced by five-hundred dollars when it was all finally over.

2. Barter when you can. I offered my photo or web design skills for perks like landscaping, painting and even a personal chef. Not entirely necessary, but good for networking and the perks made us feel less broke.

3. Trade babysitting with neighbors. We didn't go out much, but if we felt like hitting up happy hour for three-dollar beers, we'd exchange a couple hours here or there with neighbors. They like this arrangement better than us showing up with Anna and drinking all their booze.

4. Don't fear the dent rack. At our grocery store, we have the day-old bread, dented box and can, and "Manager's Special" meat and veggies racks. I'd shop on Thursdays when things were about to turn over and get dollar boxes of cereal, half-off bread and discounted meat, which I'd either cook that night or immediately freeze.

5. Institute pasta/vegetarian night. Once or twice a week dinner was pasta with whatever combination of beans and vegetables I had on hand. I learned from my mom how to make a delicious meal out of almost nothing, it's a skill I rely on not just when we have no cash, but when I'm too damn lazy to go to the grocery store.

6. Use Craigslist/Ebay. About once a month we'd turn over Anna's baby stuff and clean out the basement and garage. I'd pluck things I thought I could sell and make a few extra bucks that way. If you're with the IRS, of course I paid taxes on that income.

7. Second-hand is your friend. We had some really generous friends and family who gave us clothes for Anna, but when I needed to fill in the gaps or wanted to get her a special little treat, I'd check Craigslist or Goodwill. Sometimes I'd find something nice for myself, too.

When your kid gets four million toys she doesn't need at Christmas or birthdays, stash what she won't notice and re-gift for those preschool birthday parties.

8. Eat your damned leftovers. I hate wasted food in general, and when things are tight I hate it ten times as much. Knowing Steve doesn't love leftovers, I'd re-heat and plate them for him so he wouldn't have the chance to raid the fridge, ignoring the three servings of last night's dinner staring him in the face.

9. Use your neighborhood library. We have a great, amazing library with all kinds of free programs and a huge selection of books. While Steve was out of work he'd spend chilly afternoons there with Anna bumping into neighborhood friends and teaching her about current electrical code.

We'd also spend a dollar for coffee and use the McDonald's indoor Playspace for hours. Germophobes and people who aren't comfortable telling some stranger's feral kid to stop biting should skip this piece of advice.

10. Treat yourself. Being broke sucks balls. It's hard, it puts stress on everyone. So now and then, use some money you shouldn't be using to go out to dinner. Go walk around the mall sipping a nine-dollar coffee, get a manicure, buy new music. Try to think about things besides your bank accounts.

Eventually, things will get better again.

Lies I Tell My Daughter

2012-02-07T22:35:00.000-05:00

Last night as I pulled the meat from a whole roasted chicken and prepared it for the stock pot, Anna walked into the kitchen and scooted her stool up next to me.

From my elbow she asked, "Mama, what's that chicken's name?"

I looked at the chicken for probably a beat too long and said as matter-of-factly as I could — being careful not to betray that as usual, this almost-four-year-old had accidentally hit on one of the parental dilemmas I hadn't quite sorted out yet — "The chickens we eat don't really have names, Baby."

I didn't like my answer or the rest of the sad chicken story that I didn't tell her. I didn't tell her that our dinner used to look just like the chick we'd watched starting to hatch on a friend's YouTube video.

Kids have this beautiful, accidental wisdom. In between their unrelenting and arbitrary "Why?"s, there are the questions asked in the purest, most innocent way that force parents to really have to think, to come up with an answer we hadn't even thought to prepare.

Over the summer my five-year-old niece was visiting. With no context, in the midst of baking cookies or eating mac and cheese she asked, "Aunt Bren, when you're in love with somebody that means you broke their heart, right?" I cleared the lump in my throat with a hard swallow and said that yes, sometimes it does mean exactly that.

After our dog died, we didn't bother to correct Anna's assumption that Stella was actually recovering at the vet's office. She'd occasionally ask when Stella would be home and finally, without using The D Word, I told her that Stella could never come home. Despite further elaborations on dog heaven, she'll still ask, and I still won't really tell her.

Eventually she'll learn about the origins of dinner meat, she'll have a broken heart and she'll break one, she'll understand that there's no chance of her sweet, scruffy dog finding her way back to our door. As she grows I'll try to find the answers she needs. I'll fail more than a few times.

For now though I'll lie to her, and let her live in her own sweet world of gentler truths.

Still Cheaper Than a Baby

2012-01-31T14:50:00.000-05:00

When you spend five years waiting for your quality of life to improve the way you hoped it would when you left the city, and when it seems to take forever for that to happen despite your best efforts, and when you're tired of needing handouts from generous and loving relatives and then finally, FINALLY you catch a break, well, what do you do?

You impulsively spend thousands of dollars. Duh.

October marked the first time since we moved out of Boston that both Steve and I are simultaneously employed full-time by people other than ourselves. We immediately started noticing the perks: Sitting to pay the bills ALL AT ONCE, in full. Confidently dropping off Anna's daycare check every Friday. Running my car almost completely out of gas and then simply pulling up to the pump and filling it with the 93 octane it requires (gah, Germans!) Going to the grocery store multiple times per week and ordering the occasional pizza without checking to see what might bounce as a result. Life was sweet.

We weren't used to it. Despite alternating pay weeks, I kept waiting to find our checking account at sixty cents (I think our record was actually seven cents). I could see Steve's entire body clench if I walked in the door with a bag from Target, wise to their eighty-dollar cover charge.

But soon we started enjoying ourselves a little more, finding ourselves daydreaming about luxuries like a savings account and 401(k) contributions; turning the heat up to sixty-FIVE.

In the lean times, Steve definitely sacrificed more than I did. He's not one to spend money on himself and would only reluctantly accept the jeans I'd buy him on clearance or the Manchego that wasn't on sale. I'd get by on an occasional five-dollar latte just to remember what disposable income felt like.

So when he started bookmarking vintage motorcycles he'd find on Craigslist and researching them online, I got a little excited. I wanted something fun and spontaneous and kind of stupid for both of us, but mostly I wanted Steve to treat himself to something totally impractical. When we went to the dealership to "just look," the owner made us such a great deal that I may have body-checked Steve into the office to see about financing. He was approved.

Right now the motorcycle is sitting in heated storage at my parents' house, waiting for the thaw. Every now and then Steve and I look at each other and wonder what the hell we were thinking (it's just like that one time I got pregnant).

We're on a new budget to ensure we build some savings, and it's actually been nice to tighten our belts voluntarily for a change. The bike might not be the smartest investment we could have made, but you have to live a little, right?

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?