Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

don’t forget the rice crispy treats

My mom was not talented in the culinary arts. It’s a miracle I can boil water, really. Aside from her being a terrible chef, my father refused to cook and I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen to do any experimenting on my own.

There were three staple items my mom could get on the table if push came to shove: grilled cheese sandwiches with canned tomato soup; scrambled eggs with cream cheese; mashed potato pancakes with melted parmesan. The cheese theme is clear, right? I’m starting to see where my dairy obsession comes from. The sandwich was always burnt, always. The sound of her running a butter knife over the crispy bits and the ping of the charred toast hitting the tin sink, along with that acidic, dark musty smell of burnt bread and butter on the cast iron pan–smells like home. She would make the tomato soup with milk and it would get that skin on top–you know the way that happens when you overheat milk or let it sit too long? The potato pancakes were her leftover creation. We always had steamed veggies and baked potatoes in the fridge. So, she’d cut up the veggies, mash the potatoes and grate some cheese over the flattened balls, throw them in the oven and it was heavenly. My brothers would smother them in ketchup but I liked them plain or with a little sour cream.

Yes, we ate very well in our household.

For a while I was trying to eat gluten-free, upon my doctor’s recommendation (I will never do that again–I was absolutely miserable for a month) and in an effort to make myself some gluten and sugar-free desserts I experimented with rice crispies (or, rather the health food version of those). Which I don’t recommend.

Anyhow, I tried adding peanut butter and unsweetened chocolate and honey and coconut oil and all sorts of shit. And, really all I wanted was rice crispy treats. Nothing compares, let’s be honest.

Turns out they are the most ridiculously simple dessert to make. Like, hilariously easy. How had I forgotten the 3 steps? Melt butter and marshies in pot, pour cereal in, empty pot onto greased pan. Voila! A miracle dessert. Really, I’ll be making these every week from now on.

Rice crispy treats were the one thing my mom could “bake.” Every bakesale, every holiday event, anytime there was a mandatory contribution in school or at a sporting event, or for the community theater or my sister’s dance troupe, we brought rice crispy treats. Every. Single. Time.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might appear as some sort of cop out. Kind of a slap in the face to the moms who brought handmade, “chocolate, peanut butter, caramel crunch bars.” Or, that it might have been a source of embarrassment for my mother. A kind of admission of maternal failure to be unable to do the most basic of motherly duties: bake. Nowadays moms, dads, parentals, can show up to a bake sale and say, “I suck at baking. I’ll help with the cleanup.” And, I don’t think anyone would bat an eye. There might even be some sympathetic nods and confessions of having used the pre-boxed mix for brownies. But, back then and in our small little section of the world, it was not done. Every mom baked. Not every parent. Every mom. Oh yeah, it was nice and gendered back then. Who are we kidding? It mostly still is.

So, we made a lot of rice crispy treats. And, my mom showed up with our plastic-wrapped desserts and proudly placed them on the bake sale table, handing over our one aluminum pan to the downcast eyes of some volunteer, PTA, supermom. She’d give us a half-smile and place them amongst the m&m, chocolate chip cookies, and the perfect chocolate, pecan fudge squares, the beautiful coconut-cream layer cakes and vanilla cupcakes with rainbow sprinkles. They always looked so sad next to everything else. But, those suckers sold. I tell you what, we always went home with an empty pan–much to my chagrin.

And, every time my mom would look down proudly at that empty tin and say, “We did it.” As if she’d just discovered the Higgs boson.

I didn’t know that this could, or should, have been a source of embarrassment for me. In fact, it was one of the only things I felt confident my mother could actually participate in–like a normal mom. Her ability to show up every time with a handmade dessert, to participate, to contribute–that felt so normal to me. It made me feel like we were actually part of something. One of them. You know, one of the normals–not outsiders, for once. We’d all crowd into the minivan, screaming and pushing, calling dibs on the front seat and then fighting over it anyway and one of us would call out, “Mom, don’t forget the rice crispy treats!” and off we would ride. Believing that the minivan and the slogan t-shirts, the hand-me-down sneakers and thrifted jeans, and most importantly the rice crispy treats, were some symbol of normalcy. Believing that we might actually be fitting in.

time

I’ve been thinking a lot about how we choose to spend our time. The royal we. You know, us.

I’ve also been thinking about the judgment around those choices. Judgment from family, friends, perceived judgment from strangers. But, mostly my own self-inflicted scrutiny.

Choosing to keep my daughter in daycare for an extra day, choosing to pick her up early when I can, choosing to watch television and zone out for hours, choosing to take a nap, to sit quietly and read, to go out with friends til all hours of the night.

It has always felt difficult to create extra time and space for myself. Add a child to the equation and it feels like there is very little wiggle room. Our schedules are so mapped out. I used to scoff at the idea of a shared calendar. Now, we couldn’t get by without one. “Did you see I added an extra PT appointment on Tuesday?” I ask my husband. “That means you’ll need to do pickup. Can you make that work?”

We often talk about how easy it is to become nothing but parenting partners. Because, you can, literally, spend ALL of your time planning and just getting by as parents. And we only have one! Don’t even get me started. So, somewhere between all of these conversations about who is doing drop off and who can do pickup and when he’s squeezing in a run and I’m fitting in a doctors appointment, it’s really easy to forget about doing something nice for yourself.

Any free minute “should” be spent doing a load of laundry, cleaning the bathroom, tidying the living room, doing dishes, writing a blog post… But, if that’s all we’re doing then what’s it all for? We both work too many hours. Our jobs and commutes take too much out of us. One of us always gets home too late to have a sit-down, family meal. So, our daughter often ends up eating alone. Which is so crappy.

And so, taking time out to do things for ourselves just seems so selfish. But, it must be done. It’s like on the plane when they’re doing the safety intro and they tell you to put your mask on before putting your child’s mask on. What bullshit. I’d totally put my kid’s mask on first. But, perhaps, therein lies the problem.

I think my husband would put his on first. Not because he’s a dick. Just because he’s practical and follows rules. He somehow always seems to find time to go on runs and have a drink with a friend. To duck out for a quick NYU brunch reunion or catch a Mets game. I’m getting much better–at least partially at his urging. It was so different when I was nursing but now that I’ve got my body back to myself, I have much more flexibility.

So, we’ve implemented a one-night-a-week plan. Where one of us does bedtime and stays home and the other one can go do…whatever. It’s not a weekly date night, which would be nice, but it’s a weekly “me-time” night. Which is pretty great, actually. A lot of couples that I know don’t set aside any time for themselves. They do a monthly date night, or a more regular one if they have family nearby, but don’t think to give each other much space to do their own thing. Hey, whatever works is great! But, we are definitely people who both like  alone time. So, this has been an amazing addition to our shared calendar.

I’m thinking of spending an evening sitting on a bench in Prospect Park, staring at the trees. Perhaps with a fall-themed beverage in hand. A pumpkin latte or something. Ah, yes. And, I’ll try really hard not to think about whether my daughter is being a tricksy little beast and delaying bedtime with all her new tricks or if there is a tantrum situation and my poor husband is suffering through it, white-knuckled and furious, confused and helpless. I will push those thoughts aside and take long, deep breaths, and roll my shoulders back, and undo the top button of my jeans and just sit. Alone.

 

parenting

I made dinner twice this week and felt like a total badass. It’s easier right now since I only work until 5:00 — then I pick my kid up from daycare and it takes us at least an hour to get home because we HAVE to stop by the playground and go on the RED swing and we ABSOLUTELY MUST smell every flower and jump in every puddle on the walk home — I’m not sure how we’ll eat once my schedule shifts to a 7:00 end time. Yikes.

Anyhow, yes, parenthood is a swift kick in the ego. And the stomach-hips-ass area, am I right?! I’m going to try and get to the gym more than, never, starting next week when I decrease to 3 days/week.

I used to be so judgmental of parents who had nannies especially when they were home for some of the time. Now, I’m like, hell yeah. Sign me up. Otherwise it’s constant multi-tasking and constantly dividing your attention and half-assing everything and feeling guilty because the house is a mess, or feeling guilty because you’re not giving your kid enough attention. And, oy. It’s just a lot of guilt.

I really do love it. And, it’s getting easier by the day, thank gods. But, let’s just acknowledge that parenting is not easy if you’re doing it right.

the joys of parenthood

Our apartment is wonderful. It is practically perfect. Sure, I could do without the two flights of stairs and I would KILL for some outdoor space. But, come on, it’s New York City. That’s how it goes.

The thing that is a real bummer. And, one that I think I’m justified in bringing up here, is the fact that we stare straight into our neighbors’ house from a distance of about five feet. Some architect had the brilliant idea to extract a few square feet of brick in between adjoining duplexes in order to provide more natural light. Now, this is wonderful in theory, don’t get me wrong. We get bright beams streaming through our kitchen glasses on the sun’s rise to noon. An eastern-facing apartment is a thing of beauty in Brooklyn.

However, an eastern-facing apartment with a large kitchen window that looks directly into our neighbors western-facing kitchen window is awkward at best.

Why haven’t we put up blinds? Well, it’s become somewhat of a stand-off. You want privacy? You pay for curtains. They’re giant panes and they didn’t come equipped with pre-installed blinds like the rest of our windows.

The problem isn’t that we see straight into their world and vice versa — though that is, admittedly, regrettable. The problem is that their lives are too dissimilar from ours for it to be ignorable. They are four, twenty-something women living the single life in New York City. If they were just, you know, another Park Slope family of three making dinner and listening to Raffi while ignoring their mirror images, it would be fine.

I’ve gotten amazingly good at not looking up, just pretending they’re not there. I can stand at my sink and wash an entire basin of dishes without even batting an eye when I hear their girly screeching from a few feet away. I couldn’t describe what these women look like if I had to. If the police came knocking on my door requesting a missing persons sketch I would literally have nothing to offer. “There’s, like, maybe four of them, I think.” How awkward would that conversation be? “Ma’am, your window stares straight into their apartment. You’re telling me you have no idea what they look like? You can’t possibly be serious.” And, I’d be all up on my high horse like, “Hey, man, it’s New York. This is how we live. I don’t get into their business, and they don’t get into mine.” Anyway, I don’t think there is such a thing as a missing persons sketch. At least not for middle-class women living in the city. I’m sure their images are all over the internets. But, you know, if there was…

So, anyway. I had a story I was trying to tell. It required this preamble but perhaps could have done without the whole police-knocking-on-my-door tangent. Anyhow, here we are. So, my kid is in her high chair eating her dinner. And it takes her forever to eat. So, I’ve already finished and I’m at the window, washing dishes. Staring down, into my steely sink when I hear her say, “Mama, you wanna take a bath with me?” And I think, ugh, it is so much more difficult to bathe with her than to just plop her in, real quick-like, and be done with the whole ordeal. Bedtime is already running late, we stayed on those damn swings too long (as usual) and now everything is about twenty minutes behind where I’d like them to be. And then I think, what is wrong with me? Yes, of course you should take a bath with your two-year-old. She is asking you to and there will not be many of these days left. They will pass quickly and without notice. One day very soon she will be a surly teenager screaming that I’ve once again used her special shampoo and when will we get a second bathroom because, uhhhhhggg, life is so hard!!

“Yes,” I quip. “Of course I will bathe with you, honey” As I push the image of her hating me (though, of course it is inevitable) out of my head.

To which she replies, in her most emphatic voice. Voice really being an understatement here. For whatever reason, she decides that these next words should be shouted. Screamed at the top of her lungs for all, near and far, to hear: “Mama, you have a VAGINA?!”

“Yes, sweetheart. That’s right,” I say calmly without looking up, without even turning around. We talk about parts. All our parts. It’s no big deal. I mean, I could do without the snickering of twenty-somethings from across the way but, whatever.

“You got a vagina just like meee?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“And, papa got a PENIS, right?! And, me and you we got VAGINAS?” Her inflection on questions is like an exaggerated slide whistle on it’s way up.

“Yep, that’s it. That’s how it goes,” I say, turning around to look at her like it’s just a regular conversation. Which it is. It just happens to be in front of an audience.

“Except you got a HAIRY vagina and mine’s NOT hairy, riiiiiiiiiiiiight?” she asks, holding onto the last word like a multi-syllabic lyric.

“That is true,” I say, whirling around and swooping her up out of her chair, escorting us both out of the kitchen and into the solitude of our bathroom. Where we can pick up this scintillating dialogue about our genitalia without our poor, horrified and most likely very traumatized neighbors listening in.

toddlerdom

Living with a toddler is what I imagine it must be like living with extreme, untreated bipolar disorder.

One minute you’re riding high and life is good and nothing can stop you. We are SUPER parents! We have everything we need and she’s in a great mood and we’ve planned a fabulous outing and it’s going to be the BEST DAY EVER. Life with a little one is great, you think. We are so lucky.

And then, in an instant, you are at your lowest. You are attempting to hold back a volcano of frustration and your eyes are wide with anger and everything is ruined and why did you even think that your day was going to be great when everything always turns to shit? She’s a mess, everyone’s looking, you should have this under control but you have LOST ALL POWER. And, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Clearly, you’re the worst parent ever and your kid is the biggest shit of all times.

And then, she turns it around. All of a sudden she’s listening to your words, respecting your authority. She’s adhering to boundaries and respecting the limits you’ve set. All is right in the world. Up is up and down is down. Obviously. Why did it seem like up was down a minute ago? And, why were we so overwhelmed? She always gets it together in the end. We can do anything. Go anywhere. We’ve got this. We are, like, parenting rockstars. She’s the best kid in the world!

You know what I mean?

It’s insane.

And it’s all of these, “How do we let ourselves get so frustrated with her when most of the time she is so damn perfect?” conversations where you beat yourself up for being human. But then also, some of the “Wait, are we totally indulgent? Should we be more strict? How do we impose time-outs in public?” discussions. And, this constant negotiating of social norms and expectations and the desire to raise an empathetic and considerate human who thinks about how her actions effect the people around her. With also wanting to raise a strong and empowered woman who is not constantly apologizing to the world around her and who is not afraid to push boundaries and ask questions and explore and be herself.

And then there is the tricky business of navigating the moments when your instincts differ from your partners (if you are co-parenting with someone). “I would have just ignored that behavior,” I say. “Who cares if she pulls out all her dress-up clothes as long as we ensure she puts them all back? But, now we have to see this power struggle through and be consistent with what you just said. So, this oughta be fun.” Which is not to say that I don’t look back on my own actions sometimes and think, shit, I really wish I hadn’t just said ‘no’ or set that boundary. It just makes my life harder and it isn’t actually something that I care about on a long-term level.

But, that’s the fun of being human. We aren’t robots raising children. We’re complicated beings, prone to mistakes. We are inconsistent animals with fluctuating emotions. We have highs and lows too. Good days at work and terrible ones. Aching bodies that scream at us and make us feel grumpy. We forget to eat and get short-tempered. We try to do more than we can handle. We set our expectations too high or too low. We don’t get enough sleep and feel like zombies. We don’t communicate well and get confused. Life, you know?

Regarding the questioning of our parenting choices — I hate this trend of women out there who are always focusing on their mistakes and on their guilt. Stop hating on yourself. Stop questioning every choice. You are kicking so much ass. There is a lot of self-congratulating in my world. It isn’t all self-doubt and regret. “Bravo”, I tell myself. “Ignoring that was the way to go!” and “Excellent choice on the calm conversation down at eye level,” I say to myself. “Woohoo, that timeout went smoothly and was definitely justified given the offense,” I think. I am actually pretty damn confident in how I am raising my kid. Mostly because she is really cool. And, really funny. And, a lot of her acting out is just normal, developmental stuff. Phases that will pass. The good and the bad.

A lot of parenting is just about letting go and creating an environment in which your kid feels safe to be themselves — and to figure out who that is. We do so many things that are fun and that are silly and that are educational too. But, we also give her space to be independent and  expect her to find ways to entertain herself. We fill her days with love and affection but listen when she is setting boundaries. We try to model the behavior we expect from her: we try to be kind and honest, communicative and clear, creative and fun, easygoing but organized, you get the point. We love her completely and fully. We do our best. But  And, we are human.

musical indoctrination

At dinner last night my daughter requested “Harry” which meant that she wanted to listen to Harry Nilsson. Of course I obliged —  he is, after all, one of my all-time favorite musicians. She recognized “Me and my Arrow” as being from The Point. She got particularly excited during the “Coconut” song, “That’s a funny song, Mama,” she kept saying. And, lost interest by “Without Her.” Which, I can’t blame her for. You really can’t dance to that one.

She then requested, “the corn song” which is code for Arthur Russel’s “Close My Eyes.” We listened to that song and a few others off the same record. We then moved on to Tusk, one of my favorite (underrated) Fleetwood Mac albums. Which, she adored. “Who’s this, Mama?” she kept asking.

“It’s Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks is singing. She’s a really good singer, huh?”

“Mmm hmmm. Yep,” she’d say while vigorously shaking her head.

As a kid, I had zero exposure to my parents musical preferences, and no musical education. My life and the adults lives were kept totally separate. Separate bedrooms, separate dining rooms, separate kitchen areas. Separate worlds.

My dad fancied himself a humble and humorous person. And with those false conceptions of self, asked for a Birthday Roast for his 50th. I was nine years old. I didn’t hate him yet. I feared him. And, I didn’t understand him. But, I still craved his attention and love.

My sister and I decided to put together a little play for the party. Our “roast” of sorts. We came up with this skit in which we dressed up like flies and flew around touching things and making them “dirty, tainted, unclean, poison!”

“HP, HP!” we shouted. “Someone get the hydrogen peroxide and clean this! My daughter has touched it and now it is unclean!” we screamed in unison, flapping our arms wearing huge grins.

We thought it was hilarious. We didn’t quite understand the depths of just how twisted the whole thing was. His friends, community members, sat wide-eyed, jaws slackened. They could not believe what we were doing. Perhaps they were surprised and embarrassed that we had noticed how they treated us. Perhaps it highlighted for them just how messed up the dynamic between kids and adults was. Or, perhaps they were just struck by how sad it all seemed.

My kid got too close to my food, so now I can’t eat it. My child touched my hand so now I must wash it. My son sat in my chair and now it must be cleansed. My daughter entered the dining room, the door knob must be disinfected. My children dared pass the “invisible line” into the kitchen. They must be punished.

It took me years and years and years to feel comfortable going into anyone’s kitchen. And, when I did, I would wash my hands profusely before touching anything. I would get permission before opening the fridge or rummaging for a glass in the cabinet. I would linger, just at the edge of the kitchen and innocently ask for things. Like a wounded pet, begging for sustenance.

My mother’s hands were always red and rough. The skin on her knuckles would flake and peel and she had permanent callouses partly from the housework, but, mostly from how frequently she washed her hands.

We kept a bottle of hydrogen peroxide at the sink to spray on our bare hands every time we washed them. Dishes had to be separated by “mouth” and “stove” so that pots and pans were washed separately from things that had touched the human mouth. There were two separate dirty dish counters. One for kids and one for adults. Dishes had to be cleaned three times. Once, scrubbed in burning hot water and soap. Twice dipped in a bleach and hot water solution. And, thrice, run through the dishwasher on the longest and hottest setting.

Lettuce was triple-washed. Vegetables were grown only in our garden. No meat. No dairy. No processed goods. We baked our own bread. We ground our own flour. We soaked and cooked our own beans. This didn’t last forever. But, it was a long time before they started feeding the kids “typical” kid meals like lasagna and grilled cheese. The adults kept to a strict diet regimen. I was about seven years old, at a friends’ house for a playdate, when she opened a can of refried beans. She scooped the contents into a pot and heated it over the stove and I gagged at the stench. I thought she was playing a practical joke on me. Get the commune girl to eat cat food, that’ll be hilarious.

It wasn’t just food. It was exposure to anything outside of our 10-acre radius.

My dad was convinced that if you left the compound for any amount of time, particularly if you left unattended — without your designated buddy, who could vouch for your whereabouts and actions — you would most certainly return with AIDS.

He was sure of it.

You would contract AIDS and die of AIDS but not before infecting everyone else first.

Travel had to be authorized through him, activities required pre-approval, no adults were to leave alone (with or without kids) and anyone in his inner circle was not allowed to leave town for any period of time. Not for a dying father, the birth of a niece, a brother’s wedding, nothing. No exceptions. Or, you were out.

There were months, years even, where he was more lenient on these terms. He would concede some ground but then tightly pull in the reigns the next minute. There was no consistency from one year to the next. And, the women just had to keep figuring it out. Often through one of them making a mistake and shouldering the consequences.

I wonder how my life might have been different if I’d been allowed to go on some of the auditions I’d scored in Los Angeles or the family vacations with friends. If I’d been exposed to the outside world earlier and more fully.

Well, I wasn’t. But, I had my dream. My vision of life in New York. And, it got me through. Through elementary school, through the hellfire that was middle school. Through high school and into college. Beyond my mother’s illness and my own physical struggles. And, here I am.

Living my dream.

poor choices and the friends with whom you make them // present

Age and experience certainly change your perspective on yourself and on the world. But, mistakes continue to be made well into adulthood. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever stop making them. The good thing is that those big, scary mistakes are all behind me (I hope) and the little ones are really not such a big deal. I can recover from an ill-informed decision every now and again. A silly purchase, a non-refundable fee, a bad movie, a terrible meal, a baking project gone terribly wrong, a pair of shoes I swear fit perfectly in the store. These are bummers in the moment but not life-altering moments in time. Not the kind of decisions you look back on and think, That was a crossroad. And, I chose to go one way instead of the other.

A size-too-small pair of heels will not make or break me.

My language around choice has shifted. My comprehension of consequence has comfortably settled into a spacious, well-lit corner of my mind. My actions have equal and opposite reactions. I realize this. I live with this knowledge. I find myself making a decision and thinking, yes, I am comfortable with the possible outcomes. They are not all great but, I can live with any one of them.

I just read this Op-Ed by David Brooks about making life-altering choices and he had this to say, “When faced with a transformational choice the weakest question may be, What do I desire? Our desires change all the time. The strongest question may be: Which path will make me a better person?”

I am not someone who shies away from change. I’m not afraid of my life being different from what it is now, I’m not afraid of switching up my daily routine. It doesn’t fill me with fear to consider changing jobs. I’m not afraid to move, or make new friends. I don’t love moving but I’m never sad to do it. I don’t mourn places, I don’t mourn stuff. I’m really good at getting rid of clutter and not getting overly attached to tangible objects. I don’t tend to be overly nostalgic or sensitive. I have been known to be a bit of an, “out of sight, out of mind” kind of a gal. I don’t list these qualities as positive or negative attributes. They are just an honest assessment of who I am in this world.

My husband and I are both from California. Most of our family is out there. Quite a few of our friends are there too. We love the weather and the geographical diversity California has to offer. We miss the produce and the access to nature. We miss a lot of things. But, we also love New York. We love the easy access to amenities, the incredible public transportation, the food, the architecture, the anonymity, the never-ending list of things to see and do and hear and eat.

But, since having the baby…you know where this is going…it’s been very difficult to justify this lifestyle. We aren’t going out every weekend, or taking advantage of all that this great city has to offer. We hardly ever eat out, we never go to bars, we might go to a museum once every few months when there’s an exhibit we can’t miss. We work all the time, our rent is outrageous and we have no outdoor space, which feels really crummy for someone who loved being outdoors as a kid.

We’ve always talked about going back to California. It’s always been a conversation but it wasn’t a serious one until I got pregnant. Let’s see how it goes, we decided when we found out I was pregnant. We’ll see if we can’t make New York work for us with a baby, we’d agreed. Well, we’re two years into the experiment and it is both an incredible place for child-rearing and a horrendously, awful one. On the one hand, you have access to incredible stuff, a lot of which is free or cheap. On the other hand, childcare is SO expensive and schlepping your kid and a stroller and the bazillion things you need as a parent, is exhausting, to say the least.

So, this leads me to the question of what to do. Do we stay? Do we go? And, it brings me back to this Brooks article and the query of what will make me a better person. What will make my daughter a better person? Diversity and culture, access and education? Or, family, nature, clean air, and a slower pace of living? I honestly don’t know the answer but it plagues me daily. Am I a better mother with familial support, a house and a backyard to run around in? Or, am I a more contented person living in a city where I can have a fulfilling career and lead a life brimming with excitement?

It’s a crossroads, for sure. And, whatever decision we make, I hope to not look back on it with any regret. We will bide our time and determine what is right for our family, with the knowledge, also, that nothing is permanent. A step in one direction does not have to determine the rest of our lives. And, mistakes are inevitable. Desires change, realities shift. For now, we live in Brooklyn and are pretty darn happy in our day-to-day lives. Although, I must admit, that California sun will be looking pretty enticing once winter rears its ugly head.

seven things i love about my husband

1. He is the most honest human on the planet. Almost to a fault (not like, ugh, I wish he was a liar but, maybe a teeny white lie wouldn’t hurt…?). He is good and he is ethical (maybe it’s a journalist thing?) and he will always adhere to his moral compass. Even when it is so very tempting to be bad.

2. He is hilarious. And witty. It’s not immediately obvious because he is so well-mannered but he is a total goofball and the most fun person I have ever known.

3. He is up for anything. He is adventurous but practical, which is the best of both worlds because it means he dreams big and plans accordingly. I don’t think I have booked my own flight in ten years. If we get divorced I will be seriously lacking in holiday-planning skills. I will live out my days as a couch potato.

4. He is scary smart. Like, so intelligent that sometimes I get a tiny bit self-conscious about my vocabulary (or lack thereof) and the way I stumble through sentences and forget words or just lose track of what I’m actually trying to say. But, then he tells me that I’m brilliant and I know he really believes it because he is ALWAYS honest, even when you don’t want him to be, and so I feel better.

5.  He is really good at making the people around him feel loved. He tells me every day how much he loves and appreciates me. He calls out all the things I do and doesn’t ever take me for granted.

6. He lets me be me. He loves my idiosyncrasies and never makes me feel bad about the parts of my personality that I see as faults or flaws. He finds it adorable that I don’t know common American phrases. When I say things like, “Happy as a crab,” he cackles. Then listens when I defend my position because, really, crabs DO seem much happier than clams.

7. I love watching him with our daughter because I know that she has the best father in the whole entire world (kind, patient, hard-working, intelligent, hilarious, creative) and I am so grateful that he is the person I chose to create a human with. We are so lucky, she and I.

 

the napping house

You’ve all heard parents talk about that magical time during their day where they get a ton of stuff done, right? You know, they answer emails and cook meals. They do laundry and call friends. Doze by the television…

That magical hour (or two or three! if you’re lucky) is called the daily (or twice/thrice daily) nap.

I have never experienced this nap.

Maybe once or twice. But fewer times than I can count on one hand.

My baby has always napped on me. Only napped on me. On the boob, in my arms, in the carrier. She won’t nap in her crib, won’t nap in the stroller, not even the car. Don’t get me started on the car. She’s a puke machine in the car. It’s a good thing we’re hardly ever in one.

I am not one of those parents who keeps her baby ON her at all times. I co-slept until she was about four months old, she slept in a crib next to me until six months old and then we sleep trained her into her own crib at seven months. That’s another story. A traumatic one.

She has just never been a good sleeper. She is practically perfect in every other way (no bias here) but the sleep thing has never come easily to her. Which means we have been sleep deprived for two years.

There is no explaining the reality of sleep deprivation. There is no way to truly understand it without experiencing it. It makes total sense that it would be used as a torture device. It’s super effective at making you feel completely insane. Loopy, confused, heavy. You start seeing things crawling across the floor and realize there’s nothing there. You’re dizzy and drowsy, you get tunnel vision every time you stand up too fast. If you’re like my husband, you faint on the subway platform and get hauled out by EMT’s and labeled officially “exhausted.”

Since she’s been in daycare she has had almost no trouble at all with naps. While there, just to clarify. While on-site with them. Occasionally she skips those too but more often than not she will nap just fine at daycare and then not at all on the weekends. It’s horrible. It’s stressful and it’s just not fun. You end up planning your entire day around this thing that will likely not even happen. But, you have to try anyways. Because, otherwise, it means a cranky kid who then has to go to bed extra early which throws all your weekend plans into the gutter.

I have spent entire days trying to get this kid to nap. I wish I was kidding.

Well-meaning parents would give us their best advice. Use a sound machine and blackout curtain, let her cry for a few minutes, run her around right before nap time, don’t nurse her beforehand, nurse her a ton beforehand, play music, go outside, put her in the carrier, put her in the swing, swaddle her, let her appendages be free. There was no shortage of miracle nap cures. But, nothing worked for us.

This past weekend she napped on Saturday but not until 3:00. Which meant a super late bedtime since her typical daycare nap is 12:30. It also meant hours and hours of trying before success. Sunday we had no nap. Not for lack of trying but, my husband and I have decided that we will no longer waste half of the day trying to get her to take a nap she’s refusing to take.

So, we try not to let the nap run the house. The nap will happen or it won’t but either way we’ll make our plans and we’ll live our lives. Thank gods the nighttime sleeping is going well. We’ve had to do a lot of re-sleep training but mostly it has been quite a success (minus a few unavoidable detours and speed bumps).

All I can say, is that I cannot wait to be done with the nap thing entirely. And for those of you who have kids who nap. You probably have no idea how good your life is. Appreciate it. For you are truly blessed.

 

children’s books

I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say I hate Goodnight, Moon. I realize it’s an unpopular stance. I know it’s a classic. It’s gotta be the top-gifted childrens book of all time (we got at least five copies in the first year of our daughter’s life). But, why?! It’s so weird. And creepy. Who is that old lady whispering, “hush” anyhow? This post about the book completely slayed me.

Here are two similar books that I prefer: Buenas Noches, California & Time for Bed

I am always looking for children’s books with a diversity of characters (you know, not just white male leads) both because they better reflect the world we live in and because I have a daughter and I don’t want her reading books where the hero is always a boy.

That said, there are a lot of great books out there (not all of which meet the aforementioned criteria) but that have beautiful illustrations, important social/moral lessons and/or are fun and hilarious:

Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus & Knuffle Bunny by Mo Willems

Hilarious, great characters, fun pictures. The author lives in our neighborhood so it is particularly fun to walk around and find the various places pictured in the books.

Eloise by Kay Thompson

Excellent voice, wonderful vocabulary, silly. My daughter demands to stand on her head, like Eloise, after every read.

It’s Okay to be Different & The Peace Book by Todd Parr

Important messages about moral and ethical responsibility and acceptance of all people.

Iggy Peck, Architect & Rosie Revere, Engineer by Andrea Beaty

Kids being intelligent and creative in ways that are not typically written about. It’s fun, it’s witty and it rhymes. Iggy Peck has a slightly better story arc but Rosie has better rhymes and a girl lead to boot.

Oh, the Places You’ll Go & The Lorax by Dr. Seuss

There are a ton of Seuss books that my daughter loves to read. The Foot book, Oh, the Thinks you can Think, Hop on Pop, Oh, Say can you Say. But, these two have great messages. One about adventuring and exploration. The other about sustainability and the importance of respecting our environment.

Sheila Rae the Brave & Chrysanthemum by Kevin Henkes

Great female leads. One is about a girl who learns that bravery can mean many things and that fear can find it’s way into one’s life no matter how brave we feel. The other is about a girl dealing with bullying and learning to be proud of who she is regardless of what others think.

Swimmy be Leo Lionni

This one’s all about a fish who doesn’t fit in. He shows that being different is okay, great even.  He also proves that when communities unite they can face any enemy.

The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

Beautiful, lyrical. It’s got great imagery, fantastic illustrations and Peter, the lead character shows up in a ton of other fabulous books by the same author.

The Very Hungry CaterpillarBrown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See by Eric Carle

These ones are for young kids. Although, truthfully, I think we read both aloud when I taught first grade in Harlem. They’re great for pattern recognition and prediction. I love Eric Carle’s illustrations. The books are fun too but the illustrations are the real draw for me.

Thunder Cake & Thank You, Mr. Falker by Patricia Polacco

These are great books. They’re a bit more advanced than any of the other recommendations but they’re really wonderful and worth getting and putting in your library for future use if your kid is still young. Polaco is a truly beautiful writer. And, these books have wonderful lessons about bravery and love and about gratitude.

Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox

Another incredibly beautifully written book. And, one that is also a bit more advanced than the others on the list. It’s a gorgeous story about friendship with some incredible descriptions of memory.

And, many more. But, these are some of my top faves.

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