Suburban Snapshots

Anticipating Kindergarten

2013-05-13T15:44:00.000-04:00

I picked up Anna's kindergarten registration papers back in March and promptly put them in the pile on my desk that I ignore until it cascades onto the floor. After a few weeks I filled out what felt like a thousand duplicates of the same guardian, medical, and emergency contact information, and put the blue folder in a less cluttered spot in my office.

On Friday, I tucked a utility bill and her birth certificate into the front pocket and carried the complete set to Anna's kindergarten evaluation. I was having pretty standard feelings about the day; excitement for her new adventure — my girl, already riding a two-wheeler and minus one tooth — pride at watching my now five-year-old walk confidently into the school and take her seat in line, and the hope that even when she's too tall for these small, plastic chairs, she will not have outgrown the friends she's already made.

A teacher came and ushered our fidgety children into a classroom while a woman from the PTA educated us on boxtops and fundraisers, and the school principal assured me that even with a full-time job I'd find time to volunteer making copies or popcorn or whatever needed doing to support her staff. It was all so optimistic and exciting. She mentioned that the kids would go to the library and the gym, have lunch in the cafeteria, and it seemed so far from the two rooms where Anna currently spends her preschool days — these halls of a big-kid school smelling of glue and pencils, the rows of desks, the walls papered with art projects.

And as we took the tour, winding through the halls, peeking into the classrooms, a thought: What are the escape routes? I wondered for a second how hard it would be for someone bent on harm to move from room to room in this floorplan, to slip in unnoticed. I caught myself scanning for safe hiding spaces, for solid doors and emergency exits. When we circled back to our chairs, the woman from the PTA showed us a past yearbook. I thought, These kids are no different than those kids. Sandy Hook could have been anyone's kids, Sandy Hook was everyone's kids.

Early on a September morning I'll no doubt be negotiating outfits, cereal, and the appropriateness of her shoes. Anna will be anxious to leave, she'll ignore me when I ask her to slow down and she'll run headlong for the friends we'll walk with to school. We parents will have our smiles on but our tissues ready, we'll have comforting good-byes on the tips of our tongues, and just the smallest nagging worry in the backs of our minds. On the first day of kindergarten we'll walk our own children to school and carry twenty more in our hearts.

Daughters Without Borders

2013-05-02T11:41:00.001-04:00

Every day when my husband comes home from work, he enters our side door, walks through the garage and to the door that leads into the kitchen, which I keep locked during the day. Every day, I hear him grab the knob, grumble when he realizes it's locked, and reach for his keys. Almost every day, he asks, "Why do you lock yourself in here like that?"

I don't know whether it's because he's a man and hasn't been trained to think this way — that he's a little more vulnerable working at home alone, even in a busy neighborhood — or whether he's just more laid back than I am. But we've had broad-daylight burglaries just a few blocks over, so the door stays deadbolted even when I'm home.

Ten years ago or so I left our cheap apartment in a pricey Boston suburb to take a three-mile walk. It was 11:00 on a sunny Saturday morning. I wore black yoga pants and a tank top, and back then carried an iPod that seems enormous now. I didn't yet own a cell phone.

I was almost done with my loop, walking past a gas station, pace set to whatever song was playing, when I felt a hand squeezing my ass. Though it didn't make any sense, I thought it had to be Steve or a friend playing a joke, and when I turned around to see a total stranger there, still grabbing me, I froze.

I don't know how I looked — furious, horrified — but he let go and as I silently walked away in shock, he caught up, put an arm around my shoulder and said, "Sorry, I thought you were someone else." I still wasn't really processing and half believed him. I slid out from under his arm and as he walked away he grabbed me again and said, "You got a nice ass, bitch." I yelled, "Fuck you!" at the back of his black t-shirt.

I didn't watch to see where he went — I think he was on a bike but there may have been a car. I walked the rest of the half-mile home sobbing, didn't stop at the police station as I passed, just needed Steve.

I told him what had happened and took a shower. Steve asked if I'd be okay if he left for a drive around the neighborhood. I assumed he wanted to find the guy and knew he wouldn't, and I said it was fine. I wasn't afraid to be alone, after all, it was just an ass grab, right? I felt silly getting so emotional about it. It took me years to become more angry at the guy for grabbing me than I was at myself for being slow to react.

Later we went to the police station and filed a report. The officer asked why I hadn't walked right to the station on my way home, and then rounded up any man in the vicinity with a passing resemblance to the description I'd given, but none were him. I learned that the way he'd touched me was a felony. That afternoon, I bought my first cell phone.

Sometimes I marvel at the difference in how Steve and I navigate the world; I don't know that he's ever wondered whether it's okay to walk home alone from a bar, or to take a shortcut through a wooded lot. I doubt he's ever peeked to be sure all the stalls are empty before using a public restroom, or quickly checked the back seat of his car before getting into it. I'm sure he's never owned a pepper spray key chain.

I don't feel unsafe in general, but I know when I need to be aware and alert. What I wonder is how to raise a daughter to understand that she should be able to take the shortcut, and feel safe in her car and her home, that she deserves to live in her beautiful, unarmed way forever, but that she just can't. How do I let her know what she's up against without darkening the world she inhabits?

It's a struggle to raise her with awareness but not fear, with optimism but not naïveté, with a wide-open, vulnerable girlhood in a world that's constantly tempting me to build walls around her.

Boston After the Fact

2013-04-25T09:54:00.001-04:00

Steve and I moved out of Boston when after ten years there he grew tired of city living. It's fair to say he dragged me from our sweet condo on the C and D lines and away from many good friends, though I knew it was either fight to stay and live with an unhappy spouse, or move — knowing I'd adapt — with a happier husband.

Most of those we left behind live within the limits of last Friday's lockdown. Some had their homes searched, they woke to SWAT teams in the streets. They heard shots, shouts and detonations. They were afraid of the potential danger but grateful for the police presence. I spent Friday waiting for updates from those I knew were closest to what I could only watch on television. I texted without expecting replies and though I knew they would all be safe, sat anxiously waiting for contact. It seemed impossible that there could be anything else happening in the world, and when friends in other parts of the country posted about their lunches or their weekend plans, it all seemed so out of context.

Taken from my friends' window Friday morning.

When they captured the fugitive bomber and residents took to the streets to thank those involved, I remembered how, from my condo, I always knew when the home team scored because cheers would erupt out of windows and ricochet off the sidewalks. I imagined how joyful that noise must have been in the living room of the old place and wished I could have heard it.

Throughout the week, people who I have to assume were distant from the events took to public forums to promote their own agendas; one Arkansas lawmaker's notorious tweet is by now widely known and ridiculed, but there's also a conspiracy theory about martial law that's wrapped in a pro-gun message and fearmongering over the loss of our personal rights. Seriously.

I haven't asked my friends who were told to evacuate their own home, carrying two little girls over a fence in the hours after midnight how they feel about the theories because it's an insult to their experience. But if I had been in their shoes, if we lived within the lockdown zone on Friday, where a fugitive who'd proven his utter disregard for human life was known to be hiding, I'd feel a hell of a lot safer seeing trained, armed SWAT teams and police officers from my window than roving, gun-toting conspiracy theorists wandering my streets.

There are true professionals with skills and training and the courage to put themselves directly in the line of palpable danger, and there are those who speculate about conspiracies from the comfort of their desk chairs. If you're at all uncertain who would be more likely to step up and save your life at their own peril, go ahead and ask someone from Boston.

How to Travel Like a Decent Human Being

2013-04-22T10:41:00.001-04:00

I'll preface this by confessing that I am borderline phobic about flying. I avoid it whenever I can, and I enjoy a pharmaceutical assist whenever I can't. So maybe I'm actually phobic, shut up, whatever. I make up for it by being generally awesome otherwise.

Two years ago I had a work conference at Disney World. The three of us flew down. In addition to my normal stress I was hoping and praying that Anna would enjoy herself and not be a pest to other travelers. The last thing I wanted was for her to pick up on my own anxiety; I could have won an Academy Award that day. So I packed a laptop full of movies, any and all non-contraband snacks, a pacifier (she was three but cabin pressure something something), I'd filled my phone with kid apps and left my husband to manage the logistics of our duffel bag, carry-on, seven-million pound car seat, tipping the skycap, and remembering where I'd parked the car.

If you haven't been on a flight to Orlando, Florida, then you don't know what it is to wait at your gate behind several strollers, wheelchairs, children and high school kids going on a summer field trip. It's just about three hours from where we are to Orlando, and other than rapid-fire requests for snacks, more movies, more volume, and her refusal to let me open the window shade, Anna did amazingly well on her first flight. I did pretty well too, on this my twentieth-or-so flight, as did the woman flying alone with five kids across the aisle.

Can I tell you who didn't do so great? It was the class trip. As I sat wearing my best Turbulence is Awesome face, pointing out familiar land masses miles below us, and laughing myself onto a no-fly list reading Bossypants, most of the high school kids made dramatic "WHOOOOOOAAAAAA" sounds with each bump. There were loud "OMIGOD"s and then someone asked if they were going to die. I felt bad for those kids, because they couldn't even order in-flight cocktails.

I felt bad for those kids the same way I sympathize with parents who are equally unsure of how their flight will go, because "Will my toddler spend 3 hours kicking the seat?" is the parent equivalent of a teenager wondering how often planes spontaneously nosedive.

There's endless advice on flying with kids, ideas for how to make the trip less stressful for both parents and offspring, because there's a huge difference between remembering your passport, enough underwear, and shoes you can easily slip off at security and having to carry on the accouterments that keep the preschool set occupied for hours, on top of the worry that the mere sight of your child will result in audible sighs from 150 strangers.

So I implore my happily no-kid friends, the next time you board a flight to your no-kid destination, don't take to Facebook before taxi to post about your preemptive annoyance over the potential fussiness of the baby next to you. Consider that while you breezed through the terminal Starbucks, your row-mate had to traverse the airport like a sherpa whose client wouldn't stop sprinting toward peril. Try to imagine what it might be like to have to control someone else's bladder mid-flight. We are all using a very public mode of transportation, one that's not especially accommodating to us breeders. Know that we are stressed, uncomfortable, and hoping like hell our kids don't behave like marsupials.

And remember mostly that we were all kids once, and as adults we could stand to do a little less whining.

A Day of Five, in Pictures

2013-04-16T11:01:00.000-04:00

I've definitely been feeling like five is a big milestone. The last traces of baby cheeks have melted into defined features and long legs, and though she still trips over her own shadow, gone are the clumsy grasps of unsure toddlerhood.

As I always do, I took Anna's portraits this year, but I also spent her birthday documenting what she's like right now. I think I'll plan to do this every year.

Five wakes up and asks for the iPad. (Five still sucks her thumb.)

Five adds the sprinkles all by herself.

Five gets herself dressed.

And carries the cupcakes to school.

Five is still small enough to be carried.

And big enough for her new two-wheeler.

Five is a real kid. Five is everything good in the world.

I Will Eat The One Who Breaks Her Heart

2013-04-12T10:28:00.001-04:00

I don't believe in soulmates. Based on pure population data, the chances that my husband is "meant" for me seem slim. And lately I've been a little bristly over the unrelenting stream of "true love" graphics coursing through my Facebook feed. The friends who post them are usually single, somewhere in their twenties. The images have quotes like, "If she's jealous, she cares," or "A real relationship has no secrets." I don't mean to be cynical because I believe in lasting love, I do.

Eventually I want Anna to experience what it is to be on that particular drug that makes her feel impossibly light, the one that pulls from the chest towards a flawless joy. I want her to experience what it is to have someone out-of-their-mind crazy about her, who loves her just for showing up. And when it's time, I also want her to know that this will fade, and that the chaos of love isn't something that can be summed up into the space of a viral graphic, that romance changes shape — at first it looks like flowers and picnics, and later it tastes like shared leftovers on the couch.

I hope her love starts in her belly, that it's flecked with hard kisses and torturous separations. And I hope it lasts into arguments over left-out dishes and forgotten bills. I want that one day she'll see that love is being able to hurt and then reconcile, that romance is sacrificing the better side of the bed or the last slice of cake, and that these are more substantial than all those movie-scene rushes to airports or boom-box serenades.

She should know that at some point she'll choose to stop looking, not because there's no one left, but because she's decided to make a life with someone. And when the day comes that she realizes this wasn't fate but a conscious choice, that she's still sure of herself.

I hope she'll understand that years of love can mean days of needing space, that the separations become more mundane but that there's always happiness in the reunions.

I want her to feel all of these things, so she understands that we don't find "the one," but that we work and compromise and nurture to create them.

That One Week When My Kid Actually Ate Something

2013-04-02T21:30:00.000-04:00

I get emails from people all the time asking to guest post on this blog, or suggesting that their content is a 'good fit' for this audience (spoiler: it never is). Most of the time these letters are addressed to Blog Owner and while it's always nice to be thought of, I get tired of non-specific spam.

So when Chobani contacted me to say hey, we want to send you our new Chobani Champions and we think you're funny and we don't even care if you give us a review, I waited for the follow-up email telling me how to wire money to a Nigerian Prince in exchange for my yogurt. But it turns out this gig was legit. A few weeks later a box full of Chobani arrived at my house, and I ate one of the coffee-chip Chobani Bites with just my tongue before I'd even unpacked the rest.

All three of us loved the flavors; if it wasn't socially unacceptable for a grown man driving around in a city truck to suck yogurt from a tube, Steve would have gladly taken those to work. Instead he packed whatever cups I didn't hide in an effort to keep some for my-damn-self. Anna decimated the tubes in a day, refusing to eat just one at a time.

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Marry Me and My Mom Will Feel You Up

2013-03-28T21:26:00.001-04:00

I've written before that my husband is a thin guy. Strong and thin. And in the course of our relationship I've never weighed less than he does; right now I'm about fifteen pounds up on him, but it's gotten as high as thirty during some long, chowder-filled, New England winters.

In the fourteen years we've been together, I've fed him. I've developed my cooking skills with him as my subject — and sometimes victim (oh, the great caponata debacle of 2002, before the Internet had ratings on recipes and every Excite search was potentially lethal). My family literally shoves food down his throat, "Eat! You're so skinny!" and acquaintances think nothing of commenting on his lean physique.

Early on, I remember being amazed by the landscape of his toned stomach. My previous boyfriends had all been average-to-sedentary, with workout routines consisting mostly of lackluster sex. Steve took care of his body, and he still does. But lately, I've noticed something changing.

Lately when I hug him, his torso feels noticeably thicker. The defined bumps there have faded, and I can tell even with a beard that his cheeks have filled in. He gets self-conscious when I point out his new weight though I do it with sincere excitement, "I love your new belly," I say, rubbing circles around it with the palm of my hand. This softness on him is foreign to me. I proudly show it to my family like some beaming father-to-be, "Ma! Feel it, look at this, Steve has a gut! I'm serious, touch it -- Honey, stick it out." And because my family is comprised of butt-pinching cheek-squeezers, she does.

Although I know this new bulk can be attributed squarely to his upcoming 40th birthday and afternoons eating lunches from home supplemented by dollar-menu sandwiches and the occasional fountain Coke, I guess I take some of the credit. I tell myself he's finally gained some weight because he's happy, because I've helped him find contentment, because after almost killing him ten years ago with an inedible eggplant appetizer, I did finally learn to cook, because I could spend my life loving people and feeding them.

Steve is fond of the patch of grays that's started to sprout from my crown and infiltrate my bangs. He says they're a story of how we've changed since we met, and how we're slowly growing as old as dirt together (he didn't actually say "as old as dirt.") I'm equally sentimental about what his newly-acquired girth represents to me: that the man I know who's never stopped trying to improve himself might finally be getting comfortable in (more of) his own skin.

I'll Pass on the Jäger Nips, Thanks

2013-03-22T12:59:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago Steve and I stopped into a liquor store near our old Boston apartment. We were the only people through the door without an ID check, likely the only people in the store who were alive the last time skinny jeans were a thing.

But I don't think it was even age that was the most striking difference between us and the other patrons, it's that Steve and I are parents. Age could never define me more than having a child has. My 20s were good, my 30s have been amazing. I'll be 40 in September and I'm okay with leaving those decades behind.

Back in '98 when I used to print photos. Steve my then-roommate at left, my boyfriend at right. Spoiler: I didn't marry the boyfriend.

Still, you don't age out of those earlier decades and become brand new every 10 years. Your former selves grace you with lessons, regrets, and pleasures that you keep, even as everything changes.

I still turn the music up in my car so loud the mirrors vibrate, but sometimes it's Justin Bieber.
I get together often with my girlfriends; sometimes I still drink too much.
I still spend too much money eating out, and I spend even more on groceries for my family.
I still care what my body looks like, though I've finally stopped fighting its topography.
I still flirt with men, but with the experience to know I'm not missing anything.
I get more invitations to 40th birthdays than to weddings, and they're at least as much fun (and so much cheaper).
I enjoy sex, and the fact that I don't have to work very hard to get it.

The man I dated in my 20s and married in my 30s is his best yet approaching 40. Our marriage has been improved by age and strengthened by trials, because we are both imperfect but adult enough to accept each other as individuals.

So while chasing a 4-year-old around a liquor store occupied by only college students didn't exactly make me feel youthful, I wouldn't trade positions. Sure, I got a little nostalgic for those days when we thought we were broke and weren't really, when we had all of 3 regular bills, when we actually had to figure out how to spend free time.

But I stood in line to pay for our beer with the same guy who stood next to me the last time we were here -- back when we both still got carded -- trying to contain our new, small person who wanted nothing but all the eye-level gum, content in knowing exactly where we'd wake up in the morning.

Zen and the Art of Birthday Parties

2013-03-13T17:10:00.000-04:00

So far this year we've chaperoned Anna to six birthday parties. Six Saturdays. And while I'm grateful for parents who shell out to invite the entire preschool class I'm also holding up my white flag in surrender, because I'm just not cut out for this particular brand of chaos.

A couple of weeks ago Anna and I went to a classmate's bowling party. The kids LOVED it -- there was pizza, cake, unlimited opportunity to knock each other unconscious with candlepin balls and argue over the reset button. The lights were low and the disco ball spun and sparkled, the game room beeped and spat out prize tickets, and my daughter raced back and forth, abandoning dozens of tokens, half a slice of pizza and all but the frosting on her cake. I walked ten miles that day, from the lanes to the game room and back, standing guard outside the bathroom doors, bouncing from one token-eating machine to the next, eyeballing each exit door as an invitation for my daughter to disappear from the building. Despite her insistence that all I do is "chit-chat, chit-chat" with other moms, I had nothing but truncated conversations and shouted a few, "I SAID HAVE YOU SEEN ANNA!?"s as I whizzed past my friends. Guess who took the better nap once we got home? Not the kid eating a smuggled bag of claw machine Starburst, if you were wondering.

Anna's birthday is coming up and we've been trying to figure out a plan. We can never depend on spring weather -- one year we had glorious sunshine, the next we had a scaled-down version of Tough Mudder. This year my mom offered to pay for a party at Chuck E. Cheese's to which I may have replied with unintelligible shouts and a dramatic buckling of the knees. I love my kid, I believe in super special birthdays, but I'd sooner convert us all to Jehovah's Witnesses.

I prefer house parties; that's what I grew up with and as much work as it is to scrub the bathroom and feed a bunch of kids who hate everything but eat all your ranch dip with their fingers, it still comes in under $500 and feels more welcoming and intimate. These are the people in our life right now, this is not an obligatory list of guests we had to invite.

The cake will be beautiful, but I'm not crafting place settings or handmade streamers. I will feed the adult guests as well as the children, and I'll do it well. Anna will get her first brand-new two-wheeler and a skateboard with the money we won't spend on singing animatrons and greasy pizza, and my house will be torn apart by enough guests to violate local fire codes.

And even as I watch icing splatter on my floors and ceiling, and despite the inevitable arguments and injuries, I'll have more zen than I would trying to track one bouncing head among a sea of preschoolers trading in their 7,000 tickets for a measly bag of Skittles.

It's Okay to Ignore Your Children and Read This

2013-03-05T15:39:00.000-05:00

When I was little, my parents got divorced. My mom and stepdad were no-sugar-in-your-Kool-Aid broke, and my 2 younger sisters and I were tyrants.

Our parents worked. They worked and worked and worked, and when they weren't working they were cleaning up after us, or making dinner, or feeding dogs, or trying to find 3 minutes of peace and quiet. I was babysitting my sisters after school by 4th grade — my mom tried hiring people to watch us but we'd either drive them off or they cost too much or both.

We never thought we had enough of Mom's attention. We'd badger her when she locked herself in the bathroom to make calls. She couldn't shower alone or nap, she couldn't leave the house without at least one of us hanging off the cuffs of her pants. When she'd go to work, my sisters and I would argue and call her repeatedly to settle it, "Stephanie wants the volume at 8 but I want it at 7 so I can watch TV and do my homework!" "Shannon's not cleaning her room." "When I said I was calling you to tell on Steph, Shannon said she wanted to call you first," and so on. On weekends she'd drag all 3 of us to the laundromat with no-frills black garbage bags full of dirty clothes and we'd entertain ourselves in front of the strip mall, nagging in turn for quarters to feed the soda machine.

My mom would get up with me at 6 a.m. and type my book reports, she'd drive us to Taco Bell at 2 in the morning if we woke her up and said "please". She'd treat us to the 2-2-2 special at Friendly's if we managed to behave for more than 5 minutes. And we still didn't think we had enough of her attention.

When I was in 8th grade and my parents were at work, I accidentally set my bed on fire. We shared our house with a tenant who was able to drag the flaming mattress out the front door and onto the lawn while I called my mother at work, hysterical, convinced I'd be sent to a home for juvenile delinquents. Instead, my stepfather (who has never been afraid of discipline) said, "I think you already learned your lesson," and my mom cried that maybe she should quit her job.

Back then there was no Internet, and so no one could publicly reprimand my mom for working while her eldest child, clearly neglected and derelict, was at home lighting her sisters on fire. There wasn't a platform for sanctimonious posts like this one to go viral, heaping on the guilt that parents already feel for not having their hearts and eyeballs fixed on their children every precious second of every fleeting day. There was no one to post a Youtube video of my sister and I toppling a metal grocery cart with our toddler sibling perched in front, spinning as she hit the sidewalk face-first, and no comments from anonymous users about how inattentive our mother must have been.

This post is for my mom and all the moms, because now I know how many sacrifices it took to raise us, and now I understand the unshakable guilt in parenting, and now I realize that I had all the attention I could ever need, and that moms deserve time when they're not tending to kids, and that no one has a right to say how moms spend that time — no one gets to decide what's worthy and what's wasted.

Moms, the kids are all right. It's the people trying to convince us otherwise who are in desperate need of attention.

Where I Cry Over Spilt Coffee

2013-02-27T12:40:00.001-05:00

This morning my husband used the last of the milk making himself a chai latte, because although he won't let me dress him like my "handsome, gay friends," he's inclined to enjoy their hot beverages. He also requested that I take our dachshund to get his nails trimmed. So I did, and I grabbed myself a coffee on the way back, and walking in the front door carrying both the dog and the fresh, hot coffee I'd taken 2 sips of, I dropped my cup:

All that to say I'm super crabby right now, and while I recognize the triviality of my complaints, I'm going to let them rip nonetheless.

I'm sick of being mildly sick. I've had some form of 8 different colds since Christmas, so eff you, Santa.
I'm sick of needing 3 remotes to operate 1 television.
I'm tired of losing the stupid twisty thing to the bread bag.
I'm done with this cloudy, shitty weather. Bring the snow, bring the cold, just leave me some sun.
I'm sick of being told to like things on Facebook.
I'm tired of letting Anna watch too much TV because the alternative is suiting her up for 20 minutes to play outside for 5.
I'm done with paying for oil heat and still keeping the thermostat on Almost Barely Comfortable (If Wearing a Windbreaker).
I could not be more sick of loading and unloading the dishwasher
And of picking up little socks and dog poop.
I'm all set with standing next to my car in the cold rain waiting for Anna to buckle up.
I'm annoyed by my lack of motivation
And the 4 stubborn pounds I keep sabotaging myself out of losing.
I'm sick of the crappy movie selection on Netflix streaming.
I hate that my once firmer-than-firm mattress is now a ridge with 2 gullies.
And I don't know why all my t-shirts smell like man shirts.

I'm sure there's more, but I've just had some goodness sent my way in the form of a neighbor who brought me milk, and there's a hot French press at my elbow waiting to be drunk.

I'm Probably Judging You Right Now

2013-02-18T21:41:00.001-05:00

There's a woman who has a daughter in Anna's gymnastics class. She is bleached blonde, fit, maybe a couple years younger than I am, has great taste in expensive boots, and is always 100% pulled together. Naturally the first few times I saw her in class I thought things like, "Hm. Must be nice to have a pile of money." "I bet the nanny watches her kid while she goes for her highlights." Then I heard myself and realized how ugly my automatic monologue was, how I wouldn't want to hang out with a friend who talked this way about other people. I got pretty sick of my shit.

Last week I posted a status update letting my readers know that we'd had to put our dog down that afternoon, but I worded it in a way that for some suggested I'd euthanized the dog because he'd bitten Anna -- he did bite Anna, 4 years ago, and we kept him and worked it out. I came back to my page an hour later and it had EXPLODED with comments from people calling me a "bad parent and bad dog owner", going on about how irresponsible I was, and to equally as many comments from others defending me. You all who chimed in there were calm and civil, and I truly appreciate that.

I'm just so tired of it, and I'm a total hypocrite about it. I'm judgmental and I have judgement fatigue. We are all guilty and I feel like the Internet has made it that much easier, blogging has made so many easy targets. It can be wonderful and connecting and it can bring out the ugly side of people with nothing of value to contribute. And I'm especially exhausted by the mom-bashing, and by the hype about competition and cattiness.

Sure, it totally exists. Just last week I read a post by a blogger criticizing other writers for complaining too much about their kids (I'd written a similar post back when I was a rookie). I got exhausted reading the blog of a man who spent thousands of words outlining in detail the reasons he didn't care for another writer. Even if his reasons had been legit, it was a tiring diatribe. Ain't nobody got time for that.

I don't believe this is who we really are, even those of us who spout nothing but misguided criticisms from our eager fingertips. My relationships with other women in real life are pretty amazing; even my relationship with bloggers I've never met have been nothing but supportive and genuine (and OMG hilarious).

So I guess I'm trying to remember what I really know about the relationships I have, and the friendships that only exist online. I'm sure I'll still wear my Hello, My Name is Judgy McJudgerson nametag often but I'm conscious of it, I'll check myself and say, "Judgy, don't be an asshole. You don't know what her life is really like."

Because isn't it true, aren't we always finding out that every one of us has a secret struggle?

A Thank You Note for Preschool

2013-02-05T06:57:00.000-05:00

Thank you, parents whose children sport borderline dreadlocks because you, too have given up that fight.

Thanks to the personal trainer dad for making aware of my posture each morning at drop off.

And to the put-together mothers who ensure I don't show up in pajamas.

Thanks to the mom who has resigned herself to losing the rainboots-to-school battle.

Thank you, cook who tricked preschoolers into eating broccoli by adding ranch dip.

Thanks to the parent bulletin board, which has been uncharacteristically empty this flu season.

Thanks to the good teachers, who show up for work through lice scares, stomach bugs, and snow storms.

And thanks to the jaded, cynical teachers who gave us such appreciation for the dedicated ones.

Thanks to preschoolers past whose donated clothes and coats we've had to borrow more than once.

Thank you, mom wrangling 2, who patiently holds the door while my 1 meanders her way through it.

Thanks to the guy who leaves his car running at bitter cold drop-offs so I'm not the only asshole ignoring the "No Idling" sign.

Thanks to my friends' kids, who pounce on me with hugs and beg for playdates, "Anna's mom! Anna's mom!"

Thanks to the parents who read this blog for not mentioning all the stuff I write about my sex life.

Thanks to the infant room, where I donate Anna's baby things because giving them totally away would definitely jinx my uterus.

And thank you, preschool accountant, for randomly cashing 2 of my checks in 1 week, ensuring that my overdraft protection remains active.

Advice for New Moms I May be Unqualified to Dispense

2013-01-24T11:48:00.000-05:00

When we came home from our soft cocoon of the hospital with brand-new Anna, I was terrified. Not of the usual stuff - I knew she'd be able to breathe all night on her own, that she was eating, I was okay with the knowledge that I'd surely fuck something up - but I kept worrying that I might suddenly stop loving her. Because I'm normal.

This is to say that when I dispense advice it's not from some platform of how cool, calm and collected I was in the months after she was born, but to let you know that I too was as sticky and messy as the tarry diapers she produced at such an alarming rate.

I don't have a lot of friends who are still in their baby-having years. I mean sure, they could biologically go on having babies but mostly they've moved onto the big bliss of getting ever closer to the end of childcare expenses. Still I have a few, and for those who are expecting their blessed bundles, here are some things I found personally helpful and that your mother-in-law might completely disagree with.

1. Please take yourself and/or your baby out of the house. If you have a healthy, full-term baby, the outside is a great place to be. I know, it can be scary taking that perfectly pure little body into the big, wide world, but it's scarier being holed up in one room watching reality shows about porcupine hunters, staring at a sleeping or crying infant and waiting for something to happen.

2. Yes! You can still shower! This is why God invented bouncy seats and transparent shower curtains. It might be a short shower, maybe the water won't even have time to warm up, but it's really okay if your wee one cries a little while you rinse those last soap bubbles out of your hair.

3. Yes! You can still go out to eat! You might be tired as hell, and you might have to plan it around the hour your baby isn't colicky, but these are the halcyon days when your child is totally immobile.

4. Using a bottle doesn't mean you love your baby less. It might mean your tits hurt, or you don't want to nurse in front of the cable guy, or that you'd like your partner to get their ass up at 3 a.m. for a change.

5. Pay attention, because this is important: YOU DO KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. There's enough information telling you how to do it better, how not to do it, how to do it like Gwyneth (this one involves kale I think) but no one else is raising your baby.

Then again you may want to ignore all of this - I totally let my kid nap in her Boppy.

Everybody Has a Story

2013-01-15T07:28:00.001-05:00

I was having coffee with a friend the other morning and while I checked work emails and Facebook updates, she was trying to come up with something to say about herself at an upcoming staff meeting.

"This would be so easy for you — you're a photographer, you have the blog, you're so funny. I have nothing interesting to tell them."

This friend of mine has traveled to India, she's related by marriage to someone in a band I love, she's been in bar fights, has two great kids, and never has a single dish in her goddamned sink, ever. And I still can't hate her.

So sitting there I listed off all the stuff that I felt was interesting about her, and each time she had a reason why it wouldn't work. It made me think of our own perspectives and how we see ourselves — I love my life, my family, my work - but I don't find myself particularly interesting. I'm kind of just, regular, you know?

Sure, I can hold a conversation about lots of things, but compared to some of my friends my knowledge is superficial at best. I know about different parts of the world, but I know more people who've gone to live in other parts of the world. I'm a homebody who hates flying and tiny hotel shampoos I have too much hair for. I'm funny, but I'm not particularly intellectual. I can hit a baseball surprisingly well but I'm not someone you'd call athletic.

This isn't an after school special about the girl with no self-esteem; I really do like myself. I appreciate my ability to make people feel comfortable and loved. I am proud every day that I make someone laugh. I'm doing a pretty good job raising a future member of society, and though I haven't been perfect or close, I am a damn fine wife.

If I were put on the spot to rattle off one interesting fact about myself, what would I say? Maybe that my husband and I are both left-handed, that all but one of my grandparents are still living, that my eyesight is 20/400, or that the only part of my Long Island accent I can't shake is the way I say "mirror". I guess it depends on the audience.

So tell me, what would you say? I know you're interesting. Everyone's got a story.

Navigating Your Child-Centered Social Life

2013-01-02T15:44:00.003-05:00

Anna's social circle has been growing year by year. In December alone we attended 5 birthday parties and yes I once took cake right out of some kid's mouth because my own daughter didn't save me any pizza.

The side effect of acting as your kid's entourage is mingling with other parents, and sometimes all you have in common is parenthood. I've created some helpful guidelines for navigating these social engagements.

1. Until we've gone out for drinks together, it's perfectly acceptable that we refer to each other using the formula [Kid's Name] + [Mom or Dad], know what I mean, Isabella's Mom?

2. If I bring a gift to a party in a playspace that smells like a locker room where I am required to remove my shoes and am fed greasy pizza, I anticipate a thank-you note.

3. If I invite you to a party in a playspace that smells like a locker room and require you to eat greasy pizza that I have to order and pay for in advance, I expect a timely RSVP.

4. When ~~re-gifting~~ shopping for the present I'll bring to your kid's birthday party, I always think, "Would I want this in my house?" Please exercise the same judgement or I will fill your gas tank with Moon Sand.

5. I will always treat, "Should I bring wine?" as a rhetorical question.

6. I am willing and happy to help you out in a childcare pinch, but know that you've just opened a tab.

7. If your child is super sensitive, please don't expect other parents to force apologies at every meltdown, then everyone will get a complex and no one can afford all that therapy.

8. If we've exchanged niceties at drop-off for 3+ years, I expect you to hold the door open for me. I may not always brush my hair but I promise I'm not a vagrant trespassing for the free applesauce.

9. When organizing get-togethers or outings, remember that dads are parents too and not penis-wielding creepers who tag along with the moms.

10. Please clearly label your nannies. I feel better when it's a 19-year-old au pair making me feel fat and matronly and not a peer.

Disagree? See something I missed? Have your own list of guidelines? Leave them in the comments.

A Guide to Practical Kindness

2012-12-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

I love that so many people are taking part in the 26 days of kindness that's been going on in the wake of the Newtown tragedies. Friends have been covering the tolls and drive-thru orders of strangers behind them; everyone is trying to bring a little more peace and light in the wake of such a massive heartbreak.

I haven't bought coffee for a stranger in line or paid another driver's toll, mostly because I'm cheap but also because I know there are things I can do consistently, all the time, to help spread good will and reduce some of our collective negative energy pollution. Here are 10 ideas for practical kindness:

Compliment a stranger - if you like that sweater, or hair cut, or the way that dad just comforted his kid, tell them.
Honk less - some people are bad drivers, some are just confused. Let the guy who didn't merge until the last possible second get ahead of you, and thank the woman who let you cut over in traffic.
Make small talk - the mom sitting alone at gymnastics is probably intimidated by the regulars. Ask her how long she's been coming, or which gymnast is hers.
Give the benefit of the doubt - sometimes, people do inconsiderate things on purpose, but more often it's out of ignorance. Forgiveness feels better than a grudge.
Be a good guest - show up with wine, and don't leave before helping with the dishes.
Be patient - yes, the person in front of you has too many items in express, the guy in the fast lane is doing the speed limit. If you're not in late-stage labor, you can wait.
Hug hello - I love a good hug, and I will hug the hell out of you. If ever there were a time to be more affectionate than usual, this is it. Just don't get all Creepy Uncle.
Have company - open your home to new friends, make someone feel welcome. Comfort goes such a long way.
Wave to your neighbors - the old man who walks his dog past your house, the kids on their bikes, the mailman. Don't feel weird, I'm from New York and I manage to do it.
Put your gadgets down - your attention is more of a gift than you know. I am such an offender here, but I promise to try.

Let's all just be a little bit better to each other, for a very long time. Merry Christmas to all of you.

The Slow Return to Our New Normal

2012-12-16T22:57:00.001-05:00

I think we all tried to push through the fog and funk of knowing the depth of what happened in Newtown, Connecticut on Friday. We had holiday parties and pageants, bought and decorated trees, made cookies, and posted the pictures to Facebook. And now it's Sunday night, and all of us parents are faced with sending our kids off to school tomorrow morning, and we know it will be all right. But we can't shake a little unease, we'll probably sleep badly, we'll definitely take more time getting out the door and into class. We are heavy with apprehension and grief.

This morning, 2 days of the gentlest, most appreciative parenting I could manage had to come to an end. Anna's room needed to be cleaned. She was asking for and then not eating different breakfasts, she called us mean because we wouldn't let her watch cartoons.

And so, as would happen on any day that hadn't been preceded by a tragedy beyond the worst nightmare, I counted to 3. I refused her bargaining, I rejected her stall tactics, and Steve got her started lining up her shoes and putting dirty clothes in the laundry.

If you haven't already, you'll eventually come back to the routine of raising a child who is present, even if you've been given a brutal, stinging reminder of how quickly that could change. I want you to know that it's okay. It's still love. It doesn't mean you don't appreciate how lucky you are to be able to hold a warm, beating body tight before bedtime.

Part of being present is not being aware that you're present. We don't stop every few minutes and ask, Am I appreciating this enough? Am I giving enough love? because then we're so consumed with the concept that we're forgetting the gestures. We live in passive recognition of our blessings, and when it comes to our children, love is at the root of everything we do.

In a few weeks, you might leave your child at the door to school and rush to work, you might forget to say, "I love you." It will be a normal day, and it's all right to have a normal day. Our kids aren't capable of knowing how much we love them. I don't think they can know, despite our anxieties and best intentions, despite morning I-love-yous and bedtime stories, hugs tight enough they struggle against the affection, they just can't. But they know enough.

As we start having normal days again, let's not doubt ourselves as parents. Let's not waste time questioning or being deliberate. Let's just love our kids and know that we're all doing our best.

How to Scare Friends and Horrify People

2012-12-13T22:30:00.000-05:00

We all need that one person in our lives and/or newsfeed who reminds us that hey, maybe we're not as crazy as we think we are. Today, I'd like to be that friend for you. Prepare to feel more emotionally stable than you have in months.

Over the summer, Steve, Anna and I were at our local playground. It was a rare Saturday when we didn't bump into someone we know or Anna didn't excitedly drag us over to a little friend from school while Steve and I tried desperately to remember the parents' names before the distance closed between us. But after a few minutes, as kids do, she met a little girl named Ally. They hit it off, and after listening to the two of them talk, then watching them walk everywhere heart-achingly hand-in-hand, I kind of wanted to adopt the kid — or at least get her on a standing playdate schedule.

Note: tiny blond is not Ally.

Steve and I talked with Ally's grandfather while we all watched the pair play. Between our sentences, sweet little snips of the girls' conversation would drift over, "Anna, you can climb up with me, it's okay, try it, I'll be right here." "Ally I can ride a 2 wheeler but that's okay if you can't I'll teach you so we can ride bikes at my house." They shared the same brand of clumsy enthusiasm, they seemed to be burst from the same star. It was one of those scenes you catch your kids in and feel at once sentimental and a little sad, because you know that this sweet kind of friend-making doesn't last long.

We learned from Ally's grandfather that she and Anna were about a month apart, that they'd eventually attend the same kindergarten, and that they visited this playground often though it was the first time we'd met them. Figuring we'd bump into them again and not wanting to dump my crazy, "I want these girls to be total BFF can we please have your vital information and hey let's go get ice cream right now!" on him, we all left the park and headed home.

We didn't see them the following weekends, or again. I had enough information to know where the little girl went to preschool, but after polling saner friends decided that leaving a note there for Ally's mother would cross some boundaries.

Then in November our town paper ran a slideshow of local families heading to the polls. And there was Ally, sliding a ballot into the machine while her parents looked on, and there was the caption listing their last name.

People, you know I immediately typed that shit into Facebook. I found her mom right away, debated whether or not to write her, decided to write, then spent forever trying to find the best way to convince someone I'd just stalked on Facebook that I'm not actually a stalker I'm just really good at the Internet. I kept it short and closed with, "You have a great kid, maybe we'll see you around town."

It's been a month with no reply, and I won't write again. Instead I'll call the elementary school and petition to have Ally and Anna in the same kindergarten class.

What? Too much?

Giveaway: This Magical Timer Will Trick Your Children

2012-12-06T21:15:00.001-05:00

If I remember correctly I was into hour 3 of Anna's morning socks routine when I got an email from Whitney at Stoplight Golight asking if I'd consider a giveaway of their ingenious little task timer. I finished revoking the last of Anna's privileges and replied, "PLEASE YES GOD SEND ME HELP." It was highly professional.

2 days later my timer (and one for you!) arrived. I plugged it in and laughed hysterically — and silently, because I do have a soul — watching Anna frantically brushing her teeth before the light turned from red to green. The next morning I set it in her room and she darted from shirt to pants to socks like someone in a Benny Hill chase scene. I've used it at bath time to keep her from growing barnacles and in time out where I may have set it to 5 minutes but told her it was at 2 because I'm the mom, that's why.

If you need more convincing that this is an excellent little gadget, aside from helping you fool your still-illiterate children, it may also come in handy as:

A foreplay timer - "Above the waist until that light's green, honey."
A conversation ender - "Oh look! We're done talking about the bills now."
Facebook police - "Green light, say goodbye to Grumpy Cat."

The possibilities are limitless! To win your own timer, tell me what you'll use it for in a comment below. I'll choose a totally random winner at 9am EST on Monday, December 10th.

Averting Catastrophe

2012-11-26T22:21:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine posted a quote to Facebook about the habit of catastrophic thinking versus living in the moment. Some of it was sadly familiar to me; in uncomfortable situations I'm the one checking for the nearest exits in case someone spontaneously combusts, scanning for sketchy characters in a crowded subway car, wondering which of the other boats on the lake is being helmed by a frat boy who's been drinking since sunrise. As events progress I forget to worry about unlikely tragedies and genuinely enjoy myself, but recognizing this habit I try to appear nothing but calm around Anna, "Hey! Look at that boat coming right at us! They must want to say hello — let's just tighten up this life jacket."

I thought I was doing a good job avoiding using fear in trying to keep her out of harm's way; when she took off and vanished at a crowded theme park, I didn't shake her and yell, "SOMEONE COULD HAVE STOLEN YOU!" though it was my brain's first, desperate output. When she asked why she had to continue taking swimming lessons instead of tap I said, "So you can learn to surf with Daddy one day" and not, "Because watching you run headlong into 3-foot waves at the beach makes me want to flagrantly defy the no-alcohol ordinance." I realized that in these bigger, more abstract situations I do okay — when we flew to Florida, I clapped and giggled during takeoff while my synapses pleaded for another Xanax — it's the small, day-to-day stuff I need to work on. The more I listened to my words the more I realized that hey, maybe this is where all the catastrophic stuff comes out. Maybe as kids we hear too much, Don't dance on the table, it could flip over. Stop teasing the dog before she bites you! Never, ever run away from me in a parking lot, you could get hit by a car! We don't play hide-and-seek in the mall, what happens if I can't find you?

She's already started what-iffing. A few weeks ago, overtired and tucked in bed, she started worrying that she might lose both of her security blankets — here I toe the line between Meh, we'll just get you a new one, they make plenty of 'em! and teaching her to take good care of her belongings because her parents aren't made of money. But she kept undoing my answers, "Well, what if I lose brown blankie?" "Then you still have blue blankie." "But what if I lose both blankies?" "Then we'll go to the store and get a new one." "But what if the store doesn't have any more?" and so on. She finally fell asleep and it never came up after that.

So I'm trying, since reading that quote, to watch how I warn her away from danger; how I teach her to tuck her head when she flips across the sofa, not "because you could hurt your neck" but "because that's how your gymnastics teachers want you to do it." I'll make sure she buckles up in the car "because I want you to be extra safe" and not "because sometimes people drive like assholes." On the way to school we play a new kind of what-if game. I'll start with, "Anna, what if today is the best day you ever had at school?" or "What if someone tells you how awesome you are today?"

I'm trying. I may not be able to totally break the habit in me, but with any luck I can keep it from forming in her. Oh guys, I hope.

My Preschooler Might Be on the Rag

2012-11-20T12:17:00.001-05:00

First off, I hate the saying "on the rag," but so much of Anna's behavior lately — namely that she can be a tyrant who does little but contradict even the most innocuous statements ("Oh Anna, it's such a sunny, beautiful day out!" "Well no it ISN'T mama. Because I have to go to SCHOOL and YOU'RE MEAN.") — I'm kind of at a loss for a more apt phrase.

I remember when Anna was tiny and I was talking with my friend about her own daughter who was 3 at the time. She said, "Emily is being such a bitch today," and my naive, righteous, brand-new-mom to a pretty easy baby brain thought, Wow, that's harsh.

And now guess what? My kid is being a real bitch, or to be more equal opportunity about it, sometimes she's an asshole.

I've commiserated with friends, I've asked 2 different Facebook groups, I've whined to my husband, my sister, my mom, and some of the best words of wisdom I've heard so far were from Allison of Motherhood, WTF? who said, "She doesn't have a personality problem. She has an age problem. 4-year-olds are assholes." I'm clinging to that because it suggests this is a phase and not a gene handed down from stubborn family members on both sides of her tree.

Anna tends to be at her worst in the morning and evening. She's alone with me before school, and then argues with us both about everything from what's on her dinner plate to how much Ruby Gloom she's allowed to watch to why she deserves dessert. It is exhausting. This morning at drop-off I heaved her into the room, sighed at her teacher and said some pathetic thing like, "I can't do right by her today. Good luck."

But there are days when she is glorious, like when we go out for breakfast together before school and we talk, she eats most of the meal she's had me pay for, she comes and goes without a struggle, sits, she buckles, and I am almost lulled into thinking, "I could totally be a SAHM!" I know she can't be her best self all the time but I feel like I've had to tell her too often lately that even when I seem mad, I still love her. I've had to swallow my outdoor voice too hard and too many times.

You guys can't fix this, and I know I'm not alone, that it's probably a phase. And I have some ideas on how to change things. It's just so frustrating, so draining to have to count to 3 endlessly just to get her to put shoes on, to feel like I'm always revoking privileges or threatening to (100% follow-through, if you were wondering). I love my girl, but man she knows just how to wear me out in the worst way.

This Giveaway is Totally Mint(ed)

2012-11-12T17:19:00.001-05:00

I just had an exchange with Kim over at Let Me Start By Saying about the use of the term "mint" in grade school, as in, "Oh my GOD Kenny Chapman (this name has not been changed to protect the innocent object of my 8th grade affection) is SO MINT!" I thought it was strictly a Long Island thing, but I digress.

You already know I'm a total raving lunatic when it comes to getting my holiday cards together, so it was kismet that just after I wrote the post about verbally abusing my family in order to get half-decent, card-worthy photos, I had the opportunity to sample and review Minted.com

To be honest, Minted is the kind of company I normally consider, drool over, and decide is out of my league; the kind of boutique-y shop reserved for people who don't create dog-themed holiday cards that read,"Season's Greetings, Bitches,"or threaten to withhold sex if their spouse continues to blink in EVERY BLEEPING PHOTO I MEAN COME ON.

I chose the one decent family shot from our first attempt and started browsing the Minted templates. Some were too classy for our mugs, others too sappy for my snark, but they were all gorgeous, all so well designed, and created by independent designers from around the world who clearly have talent to spare.

My cards arrived 3 days after I placed my order. The paper is beautiful and warm, the colors in my photos are spot-on, and I can't wait to be the annoying asshole who sends her Christmas cards out way too early this year.

So, want some? In the comments below tell me your favorite middle-school slang, and if you feel like it, give my Facebook page the thumbs-up (optional). One winner chosen at random gets $50 toward a Minted order with free shipping. I'll choose at 9 a.m. eastern on Friday, November 18th.

*Minted provided me 25 of the cards shown above so I could give a fair review of their site and product. The opinions and inappropriate language here are my own.

And Names Have Sometimes Hurt Me

2012-11-06T16:19:00.000-05:00

This post is written as part of a bully-shaming project started by Toulouse and Tonic. Visit her site to see more, or her Facebook page to submit.

I remember during recess in 4th grade when a kid whose long, Italian name I still know by heart walked over to me, called me fat and spit on my shoe. I remember the way that insult landed squarely on the tip of my sneaker and glinted in the sun.

I was teased on the bus, in the cafeteria, walking through the halls. I hated walking up stairs with anyone behind me. I was tall and meaty, my rear-end always the object of jokes and taunts. I had just a few friends, I was a good student, I made an easy target.

In September Anna will start kindergarten. She's got her dad's thin build, but she's a goofball with an overbite and a penchant for dressing like a hobo. I love her for all of these things and hate worrying that any one of them might single her out. I'm torn between wanting her to be her unique self and hoping she fits in -- that she finds a seat easily in the cafeteria, that trays and bodies don't close the spaces where she lingers.

School was still okay for me. I survived years of being called "Linebacker Butt" and "Thunder Thighs" by keeping a tight circle of friends and avoiding eye contact between classes. The rest of my world had been filled with so much love, encouragement and affection that I knew those mean kids were wrong. I knew I wasn't the one with the problem. I work hard to give Anna that same sense of security, so though she may not always feel beautiful she will always know she is ferociously, unconditionally loved.

I can't make mean kids and bullies stop being cruel, I can't hug and reassure every kid who dreads taking the bus and tell them that they matter more, but I can try to instill enough confidence in my own so that she understands that she's not the one who's flawed, and how to have empathy for the ones who truly are.