Shape of my heart

The first boy I ever adored was named Jeffrey. I was twelve, and he was a tiny slip of a boy with smooth looking skin and long eyelashes. Word got around, as it tends to do in seventh grade, and to my great delight Jeffrey asked me to take a walk with him at our upcoming weekend school retreat. This was a big deal at my religious elementary school, and a bigger deal to me, who lived most of my early adolescent life behind Paula Danzinger books and Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. The biggest deal was the way he asked me. He took me outside our science fair and presented me with two soap hearts, which he had made at someone's "how to make soap" booth. I was floored, absolutely ecstatic, my own heart racing with the romance of it all. But alas, poor little Jeffrey developed "inflamed lungs" (I will never forget the diagnosis) and had to miss the retreat. I was without a date to walk with once Saturday afternoon rolled around and I caught the attention of the class slacker artist, a hottie with great hair and a bad attitude. I was suddenly smitten and he would prove to be enamoured of me for as long as the walk lasted. Once I got home, I shelved Jeffrey's hearts far away, along with any interest in a "nice" boy for the decade that followed. Until I met my husband.

A and I met after we had both been battered by the "not good enough for yous". On our first date, we smoked Ultra Lights and discussed our most recent affairs of the heart. He had a seven year toxic relationship that he could not seem to kick, and I waa dating my umpteenth emotionally unavailable attorney. I was charmed by A's goodness, and finally ready to receive it, to be good to myself. Thankfully, he was too.

In our years before kids, it was easy to lavish the love on each other, to celebrate every occassion with great fanfare, to spend dinners staring dreamily at each other and reveling in our luck. Now, while our love has grown, our time has shrunk. Where we used to hold hands, someone is pushing a stroller or carrying piggyback. Where we used to share long tales of each other's day, we are interrupted by shrieks of "mommy!" or "milk" or just plain "aiiiieeee!" In many ways, we are living the Cliffs Notes version of romance.

It is important to feel courted, regardless of gender, but most importantly for women. My father, despite limited comfort in sharing emotions, readily showers my mother with gifts. When he travels internationally, he spends hours at perfumaries, inhaling coffee beans in between whiffs of various crystal bottles, trying to find the best scents. He buys her bananas, her favorite breakfast staple, before she has time to notice they are gone. He arranges her vitamins in the shape of a smiley face. He used to shop for clothes for her, until she put her foot down, down hard on a crazy Norma Kamali number that included a swimsuit that he believed was a blouse. And she has purses so extravagant with names that are totally lost on her. For their thirtieth anniversary, he proposed again, with a huge Tiffany diamond, the kind where you always wonder "who actually buys these"? I suggested he go to the diamond district, and he scoffed. "There's just something about Tiffany's", he said. And he's right.

I am a believer that actions speak louder than words. It's not the diva in me, it's the romantic in me. It's not about how much you spend, but about the thought -- the steps you take to really consider what a person would enjoy. Women often will say, "Oh, I don't need anything, really." I believe this is bad practice. I think a woman should be courted forever, and sometimes, this means getting creative, spending more than you anticipated, and doing instead of saying. For my recent birthday, my sister later told me that A sent her frantic emails, with subject lines like RUNNING OUT OF TIME - NEED IDEAS and HOW ABOUT A SPA PACKAGE? She told me that he was thoroughly stressed about the best way to celebrate me. He knows what I want, and you can't find it online. I want planning and plotting and attention to detail. I want active listening, noticing what I notice in others. It all shows that you care enough to still want to thrill me. I believe that woman should always assert her worth, or else she will be offered far less. If that makes me high maintenance, so be it. Because whether the heart is made of soap or gold, when the love is there, it is worth sharing.

Vacation?

I've vacationed in Florida every year since I was six months old, so I dared to believe that, aside from a whole lotta nothin, there was not much to expect on my zillionth trip down there this past time.

Alas, any trip that starts with a plan to stay at my parents brand new house -- only to find that "brand new" in this definition meant no carpet, no couches, no hot water -- and evolves into a 12 day stay at an Embassy Suites is going to be anything but boring.


There were highs: Two perfect angels on the airplane that made even the surliest passengers salute in appreciation upon their departure, incredibly warm weather, time with my brother on the cusp on his engagement, a TJ Maxx that sells Seven jeans in reasonable sizes, kids who were so exhausted by the end of each day that they slept until 10:00, a daughter who put up with a ridiculously small travel crib, a son who finally defied his laz-boy demeanor and rolled onto his side (of course to visit me in the middle of the night, when he should be in HIS OWN CRIB), the Embassy Suites Manager's Party - where at 5:00 they have an open bar and snacks (we are instituting this at my house from now on), a king sized bed with room for four...

And the lows: A middle of the night hotel evacuation because some drunk fool pulled the fire alarm, blistering argument with my mother borne mainly of the fact that no one should vacation with their parents for this long regardless of how old they are, the awareness that if you are out of shape, wearing an out of shape bathing suit only makes you look worse, poop in the swim diaper (there is nothing more vile than this) and all you can eat buffets that pretty much kill that resolution to stop eating mini versions of things...

All in all, your typical family trip. I am glad to be home, sad to be home and just pretty much exhausted. I have some exciting topics that I would love some input on, including the topic of friendships and their return on investment and coping with the end of (spousal) courting. Stay tuned.

PS: New for 2008 - I also now blog here: http://svmomblog.typepad.com/nyc_moms/.
You can search me by name via the "categories" sidebar on the right, but I recommend perusing all of the entries. These are a great group of gals. This probably blows any shred of anonymity that I might have had, but after all I have shared here -- welcome to the family.

Puzzles

One of the million things that I currently love about my daughter Chloe is how comfortable she is just being herself -- and how she never tries to be anything different.

This became strikingly clear recently, at Parent-Teacher conferences at Chloe's school. Yes, even the academic life of two year olds require conferencing.


So A and I arrived at Chloe's class, and I sat in a tiny chair far too small for my post partum posterior (more on this later). Her two teachers faced me, and I waited for what I expected to be tons of compliments about my lovely little girl.


And I was right. They told us how sweet she was, how adorable. And then the unexpected.


"Until two weeks ago, Chloe did not speak a single word in class."


My heart sank. I could not believe it. I heard myself babbling on and on in her defense and in my own outrage. I told them how talkative and bossy she was at home, how she literally narrates the entire day. They quickly reassured me.

"She has a quiet confidence", the teacher said. "She was always busy. Even when she was not talking, she would not let anyone push her around. In fact, her first sentences in class were "No, that's mine" and "I don't want bread, I like Cheerios". Oh, and she is the best in the class at solving puzzles".

I was shocked. Every day for three months, Chloe happily went to school. She barely uttered a goodbye. She never asked to stay home. She could barely wait to get there, and immediately got to work on a table filled with puzzles. How could she be so excited to come to a place where she did not talk to anyone, and barely anyone talked to her? This would be my own private hell. I hated starting a new job, mainly because I would not know anyone and would not have anyone to talk to. I was always looking forward to the point where I knew everyone and had limitless people to chat with.

But as I listened to her teachers describe how she cheerfully, yet quietlu, goes to each activity, I began to understand. Chloe and I are different this way. While I could talk to a tree, Chloe truly blossoms only when she is completely comfortable. Where I would be sickened to go somewhere every day where I could not yammer up a storm, she is happy just doing her thing, being her independant self. Unlike me, she does not need a million friends around, she is happy doing her own thing. So she may not be head cheerleader or sorority president or all of the things that I ever wanted. She is happy just being who she is, no pretense, no apology.

I am intrigued by this moment in time when she is so carefree. I wonder if next year she will cry that she has no friends, trapped by her own independance. I try not to think about it. For now, I enjoy sitting back and admiring all of the things I never had as a child: bravery, confidence and comfort in the periphery of things.

When do we lose the ability to embrace ourselves so completely and without shame? Currently, my crisis is that of clothing. In my mind's eye, I am a size 26 skinny jean, in high heeled boots, a top that does not open for some sort of lactation and perfect highlights. In reality, I recently went to buy some jeans and demanded a "mid-rise" (they should call it "mom-rise"), I wear long shirts that are roomy enough to cover my midriff and be yanked over a screaming baby, and if I splurge on haircolor that is not applied at my sink, it is single process only. My penchant for perfume has been cast aside, for fear that my baby will smell like Bulgari. I am often in a ponytail. At a recent indulgence at a makeup counter, the saleswoman said that she was "concerned about my skin's dehydration". I nearly laughed, as I am often concerned about my life's dehydration, as I thirst for who I once was, at least on the outside.

I should be thrilled. I have lost almost all of my baby weight, the crows feet have not yet landed around my eyes and at least my breastfeeding boobs are perky. And yet, I am somehow embarassed, that the life I have chosen, which is largely without time for indulgence or interest in bettering my body, is so much less than it was - or should be. There are moments when I am ashamed to admit that sitting on my bed in stained sweatpants, kissing my children's bare feet, feels better than the best moment in the office. And then I am equally ashamed when I long for a reason to wear my new heels, to spend four hours at the salon, to call a meeting when the participants are not in Pampers.

My new year's resolution is to embrace my new life, and the body that I use to travel through it, without such constant critique. I can be doing better, and I hope to make time for some crucial self improvement (or at least some crucial cardio)! But until then, I will take a chapter from Chloe, throw caution to the wind, and enjoy the puzzles right in front of me.

Wishing all of you a year filled with self acceptance. (I'll be back in 2008)!

Green mum

In my world, the only granola around is the kind I mix into yogurt. I am not the earth-mother type. I leave that to some of my friends who are much more enviornmentally aware, and socially conscious. I learn from their time at the Food Co-Op and I try to "co-op" some of their green ideas, but basically, this urbanite does not have a whole lotta crunch.

But if motherhood has taught me anything, it has been to be more caring, overall, of the world within and outside of your home. So I am sharing my two most recent findings that have given me pause and lead me to make smarter choices for the health of my children and the world around them.



1. MDF: Medium Density Fiberboard. Basically, it is faux wood. Particleboard. Looks like wood. But it's not. Many styles of children's furniture is made of MDF (including almost EVERYTHING at Pottery Barn Kids!). MDF emits formaldyhyde gases which slowly enter the air and cause health problems, especially for children. There is much written online about this:
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"WHY BE CONCERNED ABOUT MDF?
In all fiberboards, formaldehyde resins are used to bond together the constituent parts. This is usually urea formaldehyde, but some fibreboard including exterior or marine quality board will use stronger glues such as phenol formaldehyde.

Even at a low level, exposure to formaldehyde though inhalation can cause irritation to the eyes, nose, throat and mucous membrane. Formaldehyde can also affect the skin, leading to dermatitis, and the respiratory system causing asthma and rhinitis. The International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC), part of the World Health Organisation, quoted evidence that even short term exposure to formaldehyde, at far below the legal limit allowable in Britain, could cause irritation to the eyes, nose and throat.

The IARC's findings also stated that wood dust is a carcinogen' (cancer causing) and that 'formaldehyde is probably carcinogenic to humans'. IARC was also concerned about the reproductive hazards of formaldehyde'. " --www.childrensfurniture.uk
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To add insult to injury, real wood is hard to find! Especially when it comes to children's furniture. I am trying to replace all of my MDF furniture, which is thankfully only my kids table and chairs and changing table. The best way to find real wood is by googling "Amish furniture". Who knew the Amish were so busy creating all of this non toxic furniture? I am thrilled to have found this. I will buy something untreated to avoid the whole lead paint issue, which means it will likely be ugly but at least it will be safe.

By the way, if you find a furniture company that you like, don't just ask "Is this real wood?" because they will say yes, even if it includes particleboard and MDF. This happened to me at Pottery Barn Kids and finally someone printed out descriptions which are not available to the public which listed MDF as the "wood". You need to be specific.

2. Bisphonal-A: Bisphenol A is a chemical found in almost all baby bottles. When heated, bottles can leach this chemical into the liquids inside. Bisphenol A has been linked to cancer, diabetes, immune dysfunction, hyperactivity and an alarming range of other disorders.

With Chloe, I used Dr. Brown's bottles which contained Bisphenol-A. This time around, I found Green to Grow bottles (www.greentogrow.com), which are Bispehenol A-free and overall have a great mission and products (also phthalate free).

Aint it nice that I can package my neuroses in an eco-friendly brown bag?

From mother to mother

I lay awake last night, thinking about you. I was wrapped around my infant son, who was suffering from his first fever. As endless heat emanated between us, you entered my mind, chilling me briefly.

It has been a long time since I thought of you in this way, and I have to admit, it has been a relief. Last month marked 14 years since your son's death, and the first anniversary of the accident where I did not think about him. Last May, at my 10-year college reunion, I sat at a small memorial service for him, surrounded by the friends who had also surrounded me at his funeral. They cried softly, but I remained remarkably still. In a terrible way, it felt good that I could not exactly remember, even though we were walking the grounds where he lived.

The last time I heard from you was five years ago, a month past my wedding. It was right after September 11th, and you had sent a letter to my office. You had enclosed sunshine-shaped sequins, your trademark. They bulked the package in a way that made it appear suspicious at a time of high alert. It was torn apart, and then restored. Much like you, I hoped.

Your letter wished me well for my marriage, the news of which you had read in the paper. "I'm sorry I did not respond to your last note," you wrote. "It's just hard to find the words sometimes." We had traded words in letters for years on and off since your son, my friend, was killed in an accident just three months into his college career. I was by no means the closest to him, but I had been the newest, a romance just beginning to bloom. "He told us how you had watched a movie together," you had written in your first letter. I remember thinking how amazing it was that he had shared that with you, the hours we spent entwined in darkness, hearts and hormones racing. I would write back in an adolescent attempt to soothe a mother's wounds that were unreachably deep. You called me once, left a message, wanting to talk. I am ashamed that I never returned the call. I was too scared to hear your voice, to embrace the full measure of a pain that I could never understand.

Last night my mind returned to you, to a nuance that I had forgotten from that time. I needed a black dress for the funeral, and I had claimed that I had nothing to wear. Days before I had worn a black dress for Halloween, when friends and I dressed as slutty witches. This is what you do in college, when you are young and silly and carefree. That was the very last time we could be classified in those terms, as we were immediately aged and hardened by death. I would borrow a friends dress, and it would prove too tight, as I remember standing at the funeral, unable to breathe.

So I thought about that dress, and then it all flooded back, the music of that time, the searing emotions, your letters, the pain. These images entered me in the dense darkness of night, in that vulnerable place when you are neither asleep nor awake. I did not understand why now, of all times, I was back there again.

In the light of day, as my son's fever has come down and the sun has come up, it is clear to me now why I thought of you then. Now, I am a mother too. With a girl first, then a boy, just like you. I have never handled my children's illnesses well, yet there is something even more terrifying about my son when he is sick. He embodies a vulnerability that my daughter has never really shown, a neediness from the very core of him. I am his protector, in every sense of the word. And as he gripped my finger in his fat fist, burning up beyond belief, I dared to imagine losing him. And with that thought, came one of you and of your son who I barely knew. I wish I knew then what I know now. When the sunshine of your life was gone, the fact that you went on breathing, much less writing, and remembering, is miraculous. And just like my teenage words on looseleaf paper, I know my admiration does not dilute the pain. But from mother to mother, you are my hero.

Great-Full

I was 18, it was summer, and my friend G was driving us back to camp. We were counselors on a day off which we spent at our friend Denise's house on Long Island. It was a precarious time, the last vestages of childhood slowly giving way. It was G's birthday that day, August 5. At the time, G and I were merely a fragment of the friends that we are today, but friends enough to share a long dark ride to camp in comfortable silence.

She was driving, and suddenly, tears began to slip silently down her tanned cheeks. I was stunned, unable to imagine what was upsetting her. After all, she had the two things that I believed were the key to ultimate happiness: perfect skin and boys by the bundle.

I asked her what was wrong.


"I'm okay," she assured. "It's just my birthday. I cry sometimes, thinking about where I was last year, where I am now, birthdays gone by. It's just...alot."


I nodded, and probably did not say much more, though I hope that I patted her back while she drove, or smoothed her long hair.


The truth was that I did not understand the emotionality surrounding a birthday retrospective. Birthdays never meant much to me. I remember them fondly but barely at all. I can't tell you how I turned 21, or 10 or even 30. But Thanksgivings -- I remember Thanksgivings.


In the 70s and 80s, my family's Thanksgivings were regal. My grandma Flo would would cook up a storm. She was an incredible chef -- the rare breed who cook and bake equally well. Everything she created was divine. And she was fancy and immaculate -- silky napkins, crystal goblets, extravagant flower arrangements. The table was a sight to behold, sparkling and gilded. This was her way. Twenty years later, we would be tipped off to her dementia when the food she cooked tasted off and crumbs appeared in her corners. And now she is 93, as energetic as ever but with little memory of the time when she was Queen of the Kitchen.


In those days, family would gather from far and wide for Thanksgiving, where the table needed its extra leaves and kids sat at an adjacent card table in plastic chairs. When the dinners moved to our house and grandma Flo stopped cooking, the guest list shrank. Food was hearty but simple. The kids would bolt away as soon as dessert was served to watch TV. The opulance was over, but the togetherness was still there.

Later still, my maternal grandparents died. First my grandfather, the spiritual center of my family. He had been the one to create a holiday prayer, a religious moment in a secular holiday. Then my grandmother passed, in 2001, just a week away from Thanksgiving. When the day did arrive, we ate bland turkey take-out. In an effort to lift spirits, my uncle's girlfriend brought sprinkle-covered candy apples. I still haven't forgiven her.

Since then, Thanksgiving has been erratic. My brother missed a few, a doctor in his residency. We spent one at grandma Flo's nursing home, eating boiled turkey and cranberry jelly from tiny packets. Some have been good, some have been less. But they have all brought us together, for the sake of family if not for food.

Three Thanksgivings ago, I announced that I was pregnant with would-be Chloe after struggling with infertility. At his turn to share what he was thankful for, my husband passed the sonogram picture to my doctor brother, who yelled "No fucking way!". An hour earlier, I secretly told my sister first, and we cried on grandma Flo's gorgeous green velvet couch which now lives in my parents library. Last year on Thanksgiving day, the second line appeared faintly on the EPT test. That time, it would just be our secret, A and I, until we would receive that black fuzzy photo of the orb that would eight months later become Dylan.

Every Thanksgiving a part of me wept, thinking of where I had been last. Just like G on her 19th birthday, Thanksgiving was always bittersweet -- heavy with memories of simpler times, when family was young, robust and intact. This year was the first time where, aside from this post, I stayed firmly in the present, and happily so. Our table was once again full, and this time, there were three babies. My nephew, Jacob, was finally walking. My daughter Chloe, was eating with a fork. And my son Dylan cooed and smiled in a manner that was nothing short of miraculous, considering that he was relegated to a carseat on the floor. Grandma Flo held him, long enough to believe that she was still spry enough to babysit. My brother, a self proclaimed bachelor for life, was whispering into the ear of the woman he will soon marry, another doctor. My parents looked young and acted younger, likely because they chose to cater dinner this year. A took his Thanksgiving nap wrapped around Chloe in an upstairs room. In a word, it was great -- full of great. And I am grateful -- that this year, this time, I stopped looking back.

Help, I need somebody

The belated nanny post (3 months ago):
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We have hired a nanny.

If you are neurotic about caregivers, the best thing you can do is have two children under two-ish. Things will get so crazy that you will leave consider leaving the the kids with a homeless person, the doorman, the parking garage attendant. Goodbye neuroses, since someone on a message board advised me to "accept help from anyone, even if you don't like them".

Well, luckily I did not need to make any deals with the proverbial devil because we hired a lovely woman who I will call E for the sake of this site. She immediately put me at ease, but it does not take much these days - a kind stranger wants to come to your home and give you a moment to, let's say, go to the bathroom and immediately your heart turns to goo.

The night before her arrival was particularly hard. My husband was away, and I was exhaused. I called him crying and reached him at the airport. I felt all at once guilty and resentful for needing the help that would likely bankrupt us and at the same time, desperate for her to start. "We are all good at different things," he said. "You were amazing at managing a whole department of adults. You need help with the home stuff."

It sounds condescending as I type it, but he is right. I love being a mother, but the accessories of the job overwhelm me. I am a sucky cook, my diaper bag is never stocked nor organized, and mess paralyzes me. I get it all done, but by the end of the day, the exhaustion and anxiety can rattle me. I long for time to cook dinner, to finish thank you notes, to organize closets. I don't enjoy any of these things, but leaving them undone in the face of pizza, overdue gratitude and drawers that don't close keep me up at night. It's tough to be a Type A underachiever.

Oh, and there's that part time job I took that seemed like a great idea at the time, and now, I cannot fathom when the hell I am going to get any work done that does not allow me to wear a ponytail and unclipped nursing bra. To make any of this work, I needed a hand...two hands...any hands...

E has no children of her own but 16 siblings, a kind voice, loving lap and was not terrified by a surly toddler who glared at her beneath lowered eyelids while kicking the couch. Her hands are always open, loving, non judgemental. And best of all, just as neurotic as I am!

So day one is over, and while I am more exhausted than ever after a carefully choreographed meet and greet, the kitchen is clean, the rug decrumbed, and I had the confidence to give both children a bath. We had our moments*, especially Chloe, and there is an innate awkwardness involved in the employer/employee relationship when the business is babies, but all in all it worked. We have a long way to go -- but for now, I am happy to embrace the unknown in the arms of a stranger.

*E still stuck around even after, in a fit of outrage, Chloe bit me on the breast. Yes, folks, I was changing her shirt and she bit me right atop Dylan's "plate", so to speak. Top that.