by mayberry on May 9, 2008
I first took Opie with me to New York when he was 6 months old. In the week we were there he mastered sitting up, practicing on the one small rug found on the sealed concrete floor of my cousin’s loft.
He also visited his first Lower East Side bar. Whenever I come to town it’s always an excuse for a happy hour outing with my friends at work. My cousin/nanny had some other commitment that night so she delivered the baby to me at work (plus, duh, always have to find a reason to parade a cute baby through the workplace) and he accompanied us all to the bar.
At six months, he was a fairly cheerful guy but only if he could maintain contact with one of a few trusted caregivers. I was, of course, at the top of that list. So after a long day of being forced to hang out with my cousin instead of me, he was not interested in any further separations. But after a few drinks (most of them of the “tap water” variety) I did need to use the restroom.
I had, at that point, mastered peeing with a baby on my lap (because desperation is the mother of … more desperation). But I didn’t think my skillz would carry over into the dingy stall in a bar. So I handed Opie over to a coworker, a very lovely and capable woman, and headed downstairs.
Bars are loud, right? Even when it’s only 5:30 and there aren’t that many people there. The music is pumping and people are talking and there’s huge ventilators whirring out white noise and traffic flying by just beyond the front door.
Do you think that was any match for one six-month-old baby? No. I could hear him screaming all the way down in the basement, from inside the ladies’ room. Little man was not having a very happy hour.
Dude, the LES is so over. Next time take me to Greenpoint.
The thing is, I really tried, with both my babies, not to not do things because I had a kid. I took Jo to a friend’s child’s birthday party that was a two-hour drive away, by myself, when she was two months old. Everyone there was astonished but I really, really wanted to see my friends, and my husband couldn’t go for some reason, so I packed up the baby and got on the road. She slept all the way there and back.
Maybe I was overconfident or lucky or stupid or all of the above as a rookie mom but it all worked out. As it did with Opie at the bar, once I’d quickly washed my hands and hotfooted it out of the restroom. And as I hope your new-mom outings did too.
by mayberry on April 27, 2008
Now that my mother is retired, she and my dad are traveling like crazy. A great deal of it is business (for her; she still does consulting and sits on corporate and nonprofit boards) and gigs (for him). My dad is 71 and incredibly fit and healthy but he seems to be very conscious of his advancing age. He is driven to travel a lot now because he is afraid that soon he will be unable to do so. Being recently diagnosed with prostate cancer didn’t help, even though it is in a very early stage and is slow-growing.
So right now they are on a nearly two-week cruise around the Canary Islands, Gibraltar, southern Spain, and Portugal. Because of the cancer thing, and because my brother was in the process of making a big career decision (Mr. Vegan is moving to the land of chicken & cheese!), and just because she’s an addict like the rest of us, Mom ponied up for some kind of international plan for her BlackBerry so she could stay in touch while she’s gone.
This morning I got this (I added the link):
I’m occupying my mind by doing this message because if I look out the window of the bus, I experience sheer terror. We are coming down a significant mountain on a tiny road full of scary switchbacks–what is a big tour bus doing on a road like this?! Madeira is gorgeous.
I really think Mom needs a blog. Or maybe she should skip right to Twitter.
For serious, though (and I’ve said this before), I feel blessed to have a mom with a Life. Selfishly, I’d love it if she lived close by and could babysit at the drop of a hat because she never had any other plans. But she’s given me (and my sister and my daughter) the gift of knowing that there are a lot of ways to be there for your children. Including ones that come with a keyboard the size of a credit card.
Thanks, Portraits of Mom photo contest and Parent Bloggers Network, for the opportunity to brag on my mom today! It’s a Blog Blast, so you can post your own for the chance to win a gift certificate to a local photography studio.
Also, free stuff alert: FOUR Earth Day giveaways at the Full Mommy!
by mayberry on April 19, 2008
For better or worse (usually worse), my sister-in-law is a very … direct person. You might even say “blunt” or “tactless.”
She is, however, a very good gift-giver, especially for the kids. She consistently picks spot-on presents, toys they enjoy right away and continue to play with often. Even this year, when she flat-out told us that she’d forgotten their birthdays up until three days before (see line 2 above). The gifts were obviously the product of a sweep through the Chinese discount store–random, inexpensive, and labeled entirely in Mandarin–and still the kids loved them. Fake bronze, fire truck-shaped pencil sharpener? Opie thinks it is awesome. Glue-backed, 99-cent Hello Kitty wall hooks? Jo oohed and aahed.
Oh, and that’s also how I came to live with 20 totally realistic looking plastic stag beetles (link NSF the weak-stomached).
And even though it is hard to top those creepy crawlers, they are not the best gift the SIL has ever given. Nope, that was when she went ahead and pointed out (I told you, she will say anything) that it was dumb for us to give gifts to each other, when we were pretty much just swapping one gift card for another. She gave me the gift of cutting her off my gift list and that, my friends, is a pretty present indeed.
I am quite sure I don’t want to get in my SIL’s head, but the idea of a site to help men give good gifts to the women in their lives is a cause I can certainly support. Thanks to Parent Bloggers Network for this week’s Blog Blast.
by mayberry on March 7, 2008
Recently my mom mentioned that she still has my boxed set of Little House on the Prairie books, and noted that soon I’d be able to begin reading them to Jo.
I can’t wait! When I was 8 or 9 (and probably 10 or 12 too) I’d start with Little House in the Big Woods and continue right through to The First Four Years without stopping. Then I’d go back to the Big Woods and start all over again. My set came in a yellow cardboard box and all the spines of the books were yellow too, with cover art and interior illustrations by Garth Williams. The set looked so impressive there on my bookshelf.
I remember watching the TV show, too, but it was the books that really enthralled me. I even got to visit the Laura Ingalls Wilder Historic Home & Museum. I still remember I had a souvenir mug that I took to school for show and tell. I wrapped it carefully in a dishtowel for the walk, but I still dropped and broke it–a terrible loss.
There are legitimate concerns about the depictions of Native Americans in the books. I hope that I can use them to start discussions about racism and the way people feel about those who are different. I still believe that the books are an incredible window into American history. And they are a pleasure to read, which is more than I can say for many of the other books I slog through for the sake of my kids (Magic Tree House, anyone? For the love of god, Mary Pope Osborne … you are writing for beginning readers. Why must you litter the page with sentence fragments?). I know I’ll smile when I see that big yellow box on my daughter’s bookshelf.
Inspired by today’s blog blast on behalf of Highlights High Five (which I reviewed yesterday). Write your own post by midnight PST–that still gives you four hours!–for a chance to win a subscription to the magazine.
by mayberry on February 29, 2008
Even before they’re born we try to find similarities between ourselves and our children. He’s a night owl, like his daddy. She never stops kicking; she’s going to be athletic just like me. We peer at their scrunchy newborn faces and look for family resemblances in noses, chins, eyes.
And then—lookalikes or not—they go ahead and prove how different they are every day. Still I’m amazed when my children display talents I never had. Where I was a skinny, weak klutz, my daughter is strong and athletic. My academic strengths were in reading, writing, foreign language; she finds Spanish class “boring.” She can read, but she prefers not to (although, thank goodness, she still likes to listen to read-aloud books).
But give her a page of math problems or tell her to count to 100 and she’s off to the races. Where did this child come from? I don’t know, but I’m pretty excited to find out where she’s going.
(Want to brag about your child? Blog blast today … or just tell me in the comments, because I am almost as proud of your little monkeys as I am of my own.)
by mayberry on November 9, 2007
I confess to being overly laidback about the toy recalls up to this point. So far, the only recalled products we have are several of the Thomas trains and accessories. We opted not to return them, out of laziness since our kids don’t put anything (except thumbs and pacifiers, sigh) in their mouths anymore.
But this week’s news that the CPSC only has one person testing toys (link via WhyMommy), and that a hugely popular toy may be laced with a date-rape drug? OK, that got my attention. So I’m participating in today’s blog blast on toy safety, a joint effort of the Parent Bloggers Network and the Consumers Union.
As it is, I am constantly looking for ways to discourage relatives from giving my kids so much stuff (I know, cry me a river). I rarely buy my children anything (for special occasions or just because) because their grandparents and other family members are so generous. I mean, one sent a big box full of stuff for Halloween! Wasn’t the door-to-door begging enough?
I hope I can use this toy disaster as a way to encourage the family to buy fewer, but more meaningful (and, hello, safer) gifts for us all. We already have far, far more than we need. At the same time, I know that giving is just as much about the giver as the receiver. I don’t want to deny the grandmas the great pleasure they get from shopping for the kids.
Do you face this issue? What do you do about it?
by mayberry on October 12, 2007
Snack duty this week
Daughter insists on lunchmeat
Just like Grace’s mom brought
But wait there is more
We must use cookie cutters
To style our turkey
Guess what? Turkey’s thin
Rips, shreds, grease on my fingers
Kid, never again
True story! Our turn to bring snack and we have to live up to the Platonic ideal set by Grace’s mom, who brought some unspecified “meat” and cheese slices cut into acorn and leaf shapes. I at least talked Jo into storebought, pre-cut cheese but no such luck in the meat category. Trying to be healthful, I bought thickly sliced turkey. Word to the wise: It totally fell apart. Next time you need to cut lunchmeat into cute shapes, I recommend salami or bologna. Just FYI.
What are your kids learning in school?
by mayberry on September 7, 2007
God only knows why
This shapeless sack of rayon
Wastes good closet space
I’m only showing it to you because I’m participating in today’s Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast for the new book The Little Black Book of Style, by Nina Garcia of ELLE and Project Runway fame.
I decided it would be too easy to bring out the forest green velvet bridesmaid dress from 1993 or anything maternity. Anyway this particular example is pretty bad on its own. Nina would roll her eyes all the way back into her head if she saw this gem, which I’ve been toting around since before the first (and I don’t mean Bill vs. Hillary) Clinton administration. I wore it for my college graduation party and somewhere there is a picture of me and about 5 of my friends at that occasion. Each one of us is wearing a print dress of this ilk and let me tell you, it’s a pretty scary sight.
So. What’ve you got? It’s worth a $250 gift certificate to Coach, so bring it on (anytime before midnight PST). And just for fun, caption it with a haiku!
by mayberry on August 24, 2007
An open letter to my car, and a fervent effort to turn a moment of stupidity into a cool prize from CarBlabber via today’s Blog Blast.
I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Please don’t hold a grudge. I need you to take me and the kids to day care, play dates, the flippin’ orthodontist, and the grocery store. I know you don’t want to go back there, and I wish we didn’t have to, but it is inevitable. The bike trailer can only hold so much.
I promise I won’t be as dumb as I was that day. It’s just that the cart was sitting up on the sidewalk by the store when I pulled up. I took it inside and filled it with liquid crack Honest Tea, diapers, and a few other essentials. It was only natural that when I finished my shopping, I put the cart back where I’d found it. I mean I knew it wasn’t properly corraled in one of those iron chutes. I hate it when people leave carts randomly strewn in the parking lot. But I thought I was safe. I thought you were safe.
I promise you I cringed when, just as we were backing out, I saw that cart roll ever-so-slowly, but unavoidably, unstoppably, across the sidewalk and off the curb, slamming right into your rear passenger door. I never meant to hurt you. You were the car we bought because we had a baby. You’ve served us well for over five years and 70,000 miles. I’m just sorry that karma bit you on the ass side instead of me.
How can I make it up to you?
Grovelingly yours,
Mayberry Mom
by mayberry on May 11, 2007
Ever since Parent Bloggers and Light Iris posed the question “What makes you a mother?” I’ve been thinking about how I’d answer. I knew right away it had very little to do with carrying and birthing my babies. Though I love to trade pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding war stories as much as the next mom, I believe that adoptive, foster, and stepmothers, along with other mother figures (like the grandmother and three childless aunts who helped raise my husband alongside his “birth” mom) are every bit as motherly as I am.
What really makes me a mom, I thought, are two things: sacrifice and bodily fluids. I’m a mother because I’ve given up hours–weeks–of sleep to my children. I’ve slowed my career, changed my name and my financial priorities, moved to Mayberry. My body has been permanently scarred and temporarily bruised. Every meal I eat is interrupted, and eligible for sharing whether I want to give it away or not. There’s no one else I’d do all that for.
And I know you know what I mean about the fluids. Sure I picked up dog poop before I had kids. I changed diapers often when I babysat. But before I had kids I never had the pleasure of hearing a poop blowout happen from the front seat of the car, then extricating a craptastic little baby out of a car seat, carrying her inside face down and at arms’ length, peeling off her clothes without befouling her hair, and spending a half-hour bleaching everything in sight. I never knew how it felt to stuff my bra with nursing pads (and still wake up with soaked pajamas every morning). I never leaped across the back seat of a speeding car to catch another person’s vomit.
Yeah. Motherhood. It’s pretty gross. But these two make me a mother, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Now you go: Put up a post about what makes you a mom and you could win a $100 GC to Spafinders.com. You could use it for a glute massage! Get all the details at Parent Bloggers Network.
Dude, the LES is so over. Next time take me to Greenpoint.
