spring cleaning

It's that time of year that the head of any household dreads: the time when winter coats must be packed away, and summer clothes dug out from under the bed. Boots go on the top shelf of the closet, sandals come down. I have been putting off said tasks, not only because they will be enormous, day-usurping undertakings, but also because last week the boys were wearing shorts, and this morning, while waiting for the bus, I was upbraided for not having brought their gloves. April weather is like that.

Still, the time has come for seasonal rotation. Living in an apartment, as I do, makes it mandatory. There is just not enough room for all our shit. Or at least there wasn't, until now:



Are you jealous? My five year old son is so talented that he spent a rainy Monday afternoon building an additional closet for his room. "Look, Mommy!" he said, once he had hauled the box to an awkward space behind his bed. "It's a Secret Closet!"

"What's secret about it?" I asked.

"It's a secret," he replied, calmly. I asked for that one.

He asked me to write out "Cooper's Secret Closet" so he could carefully copy it onto his work. And once we got past our lengthy discussion of what an apostrophe was, he got to work with his markers.

"Look at my Secret Closet!" he called over his shoulder to his brother Fergus, while scribbling diligently. "It's a Secret Closet, and you can't look at it, because it's secret!"

My head was starting to spin from the tautology of his logic. "I want a Secret Closet!" Fergus whined, urgently. Another box was found. Then, each of them put their very favorite toys inside their closets (all the while screeching "Don't look Mommy!! You don't see this Transformer helmet!" ) Then, several rolls of tape were used to secure the doors of these Secret Closets. And there they are, still in their room, three days later. Their room has never been so neat. Once in a while I am invited to gaze upon the outside of a Secret Closet, but this is only to reinforce to me that it is completely Secret and forbidden to touch. Apparently, by anyone.

I'm liking this system. The more Secret Closets we have in the house, the fewer Playmobil swords I have to pick up off the floor. Soon, our whole home may be made up of Secret Closets, with just enough floor space to maneuver between them. Bathing suits in one, ski parkas in another. Which is which? Well. That's a secret.

but a cigar is just a cigar

This is some useful information I learned from my 3 year old son Fergus this afternoon. As a public service announcement, I thought I'd pass it along:

"Mommy. A hot dog? When iss by isself? Is called a SAUSAGE."

ignorance is bliss

After managing to get out the door each morning to get my boys to school by 8 am, (and having recently made said feat even more difficult by adding a spoon-fed breakfast to Maddie's morning routine), I treat myself with a Grande Decaf at the Starbucks near the school before walking home. I can always count on a group of regulars like me, other moms from their school, to sit and chat with for a few minutes. I never get out at night, so I figure I might as well get my social drinking done before those with actual social lives have even gotten out of bed. And if I'm in the mood, or a little bit pregmint, I often treat myself to a morning slice of Pumpkin Bread, or a Cranberry Bliss Bar. They're not even that good, honestly, but it's fun to have a nibble with the gals. And hey, I'm walking home! 20 blocks! So it's not a problem right?

Trans-Fatty Goodness

Not so fast, Mrs. Johnson. New York City has recently passed an ordinance requiring any restaurant with more than fifteen locations nationwide, i.e. a chain, to prominently post calorie count and other relevant information for all their offerings, and not just in some pamphlet they keep behind the register. The regulation was just upheld by a federal judge, according to today's New York Times, and while chains like McDonald's are vowing to continue the fight against posting this information, Starbucks has decided to play nice and is already in compliance.

And so, when I walked into my local Starbucks this morning and glanced over the baked goods case, this is what I saw:

Chocolate Chip Muffin 480 calories
No-Sugar-Added Cinnamon Scone 410 calories
Iced Lemon Loaf 500 calories

I almost purged retrospectively, right there. The lemon loaf has 500 calories?? I would order that when I was being "good," and skip the chocolate, and here I was ordering the worst thing in the place! No wonder I gained 40 pounds when I was pregnant. I'm lucky it wasn't more! Plus they're probably rounding DOWN! Even the sesame bagel has like 310 calories, and that's totally lame. The mind reels.

The calorie counts are meant to fight the growing tide of obesity in New York City, and I'm pretty sure they're going to work. I used to find Starbucks' sweet treats benign and delicious. Now I find them horrifying, and my willpower is suddenly excellent. I want calorie counts on everything: my sons' half-finished plates of mac and cheese, my 3 pm handfuls of Pirate Booty, my sneaked pieces of candy from their long-forgotten Easter baskets. If I could see in front of me the caloric ramifications of everything I was eating, I might just waste away to nothing. Or maybe I'd just start going to the non-chain bakery a block away. The one that doesn't kill your buzz by letting you know you're eating 19,000 grams of fat in that Magic Bar.

(photo from joelens.blogspot.com. she made those muffins herself, apparently. No actual calorie count, but I'm sure they're delicious)

when did THAT happen?

Spring has sprung on the Upper West Side, and all up and down the avenues children are tripping off to Riverside and Central Park after school, to visit the many neighborhood playgrounds. The Upper West Side of Manhattan is very high in numbers of both young children and playgrounds; it is a wonderful neighborhood in which to raise a family. That being said, I have never really liked the playground. You have to be totally on top of the kids so they don't fall off the slide, or the swing, or leave your eyesight for a moment, and while all the other parents are chatting away, I stand there feeling like I'm in the 8th grade cafeteria without a lunch table because I know no one. I have never talked to anyone at the playground.

Wait, there was one time when Laurie Berkner sat down next to me at the edge of the sandbox, and I got all star struck because I mean, come ON, and Fergus was playing with her daughter Lucy and I told Ms. Berkner that we loved her music and she was totally friendly. Super friendly, and that's all the more weird because no one else in a NYC playground has ever been friendly to me. That was a magical afternoon (I called my sister-in-law as soon as LB walked away and breathed into her answering machine, "You would not BELIEVE who I was just talking to") but other than that ONE TIME, the playground is not where I want to be.

Still, when the weather was 65 and sunny last weekend, I summoned my mommy reserves and told the boys we were off to Central Park. I hadn't taken them to the playground since Maddie was born in October, so we were well and truly overdue. Maddie came along and napped in the stroller. Despite the mile-long walk to get there, I chose Mariner's Gate Playground, which I remembered both boys loving in the past.

Then we got there, and I thought to myself: Who shrinky-dinked the playground equipment?

Cooper and Fergus just kind of stood there, staring at this totally lame jungle gym. "Go play!" I exhorted. They went down the 18-inch slide once or twice, and then said, "Can we go home?"

They used to get a whole afternoon of thrills out of this place. Somehow, in the six months since we had been there, it had become a "baby" playground.

Then Cooper had a great idea. "Let's go to River Run!" he said. "Awesome!" his younger brother concurred. Now, that was another walk of nearly a mile, taking us back to where we started, pretty much, but I said OK. Why didn't I think of River Run? I asked myself. They love that place. Then we got there, and I remembered why I avoid River Run at all costs:


The Merry-Go-Round of Death

I kind of can't believe these things still exist on playgrounds anywhere. They should be called Merry-Goes-To-The-Emergency-Rooms. Every time we have gone to this playground, I have tried at all costs to keep this spinning-finger-breaker out of the boys' line of vision. And then they see it, and run shrieking over to it, while I run up behind them saying, "Careful! Wait for it to stop! Stand in the middle! No now you can't get off! Just hang on for dear life it's too late nowww!" And I stand there, heart pounding, wound up like a spring, until they get bored, and jump off, barely avoiding grave injury. That's usually around the time some other kid falls off or slips underneath and is whisked away by his or her nanny with a bloody nose.

It's the big kids, I always told them. The big kids are too rough. The big kids push it too fast. You have to watch out for the Big Kids. Big Kids are the menace of any playground experience.

But there we were, returning to River Run after a half-year's sabbatical, and suddenly, the merry-go-round was fine! Fergus climbed on without hitting his chin on the metal bars. Cooper WAS the pusher, and kept up a good pace without tripping and falling and getting kicked in the head. I was able to sit on a bench, ten feet away, and just watch. It was an amazing moment. My God, I thought. My kids ARE the Big Kids. When did that happen?

I would have been heartbroken, had Maddie not been at my side dozing in her stroller. Because I still have a baby, I was thrilled that my boys have become so independent. Dare I say it? The playground was actually enjoyable, even though I still didn't talk to anyone. Once Maddie's big enough to push the merry-go-round, though? THAT will be a sad day.

we're famous!

My family has hit the big time: we are on a greeting card.

This is my favorite photo of Cooper and Fergus ever. Last year, when I was doing Mother Load in New York, I was contacted by the hot mamas at Motherhood With Attitude. They sent me a bunch of their fabulous, hilarious cards about motherhood, which were prominently displayed in our lobby. I loved their cards, and their priceless photos of Children Behaving Badly, so much that I sent Janalee and Tiffany the picture of my two hellcats, locked in their nightly death battle. My insensitive mothering (evidenced by my going to get the camera, rather than pulling Fergus off his brother) was rewarded by this moment being memorialized forever on a greeting card, and with a quote from my idol, Erma Bombeck, no less.

Here's what Janalee has to say about their cards and why they're making them:

I am continuously struck by the disconnect between what I am experiencing as a mom and what I see in greeting cards and gifts for mothers. Come on! We all sit around at play dates or moms nights out and talk about how hard it is! And yet, all the cards act like we've got it soooooo good.

True dat! Check out their stuff, you'll love it.

get this book

I'm still getting up with Maddie at night (don't ask) and, while I enjoy reading while I nurse her, I have found my sleep-deprived brain still too foggy to handle any of the Booker Prize winners waiting for me on my bookshelf. I still need something more bite-sized. So I pulled Temperament Toolsout last week, a book I remembered liking a few years back. This book claims to give you the ability to "work with your child's inborn traits." After having reread it, all I can say is, buy this book. It's magically delicious.

"Children really are different from birth," the introduction states. "Moreover, they remain different no matter how they are parented." Any parent of more than one child can tell you that. Isn't it nice, however, to read an expert's opinion saying that none of the screwy things your child does are necessarily your fault, or under your power to control?

My mother-in-law calls these little weird preferences children have "scumenicas." At least I think that's how it's spelled, since it is a word she made up. I think it's a sort of pidgin Italian word. Since she's Italian. Anyway, if your child needs three stories before bed, and two blankies, and four sips of water, those are his "scumenicas." Or "scumeens," if you're feeling particularly Sopranos-ish, and want to leave off the ends of your made-up Italian words. It's a great word, isn't it? You're welcome.

Anyhow, this book breaks children down into turtles, bluebirds, tigers, and other animal types, and then explains why their various scumenicas are merely part of their inborn temperament. And I have never read a more accurate description of either of my boys. By God, these authors (Helen Neville and Diane Clark Johnson) nail BOTH of them. Cooper is a "Fenler Fawn": sensitive, intense, and cautious. Fergus is a "Walocka Whale": high in activity, low in adaptability. I was impressed enough by these descriptions. By the time they were explaining to me why Cooper needs the tags cut out of his shirts, and why Fergus isn't hungry for breakfast until 10 am, I was like, I live on the 12th floor of an apartment building. How the hell are you looking in my windows?

This book is spooky spot-on. My three-year-old is a whale: constantly moving, but only at his own pace. Now, it seems that these authors did not recently visit SeaWorld, as I did, where the many Shamus are both speedy and eager to please. But maybe they mean a whale in the wild. Anyhow, understanding that my little whale just is how he is, and is not trying to make my life difficult, has already made for more peaceful parenting on my part. So buy this book. As of this typing, it is available used on amazon.com for $1.32.



I was so taken by this whale analogy that I just yesterday downloaded the audio version of What Shamu Taught Me About Life, Love, and Marriage, a new non-fiction book that claims to unlock the secrets of Shamu's trainers, and explain how their same techniques can be applied to incalcitrant children and husbands. Sounds promising, doesn't it? I'll let you know how it turns out.

the REAL real housewife of New York City

So who's watching The Real Housewives of New York City? Personally, I hang on their every word. When David works late, I have been pouring myself a glass of wine and gorging on Bravo's nightly marathons. David will come in sometime in the second hour and say, "I can't believe you watch this," and then sit down and watch with me. He's not fooling me one bit.

I don't watch because it bears any relation to my life whatsoever. I watch because these women and their lives seem so horrible, and so different from mine, and that's all the more interesting because I only live across Central Park from them. It's like being up close with the gorillas in the Congo Room at the Bronx Zoo; you can't believe these people live their lives this way, right next to you.

But I have learned a few cautionary tips for my own life. I just cut about two inches off my hair to avoid any chance of looking like a cougar; that is to say, a woman over 35 who is still trying to look like a teenager. Demi Moore can pull it off but that is IT. These women, with their overprocessed butt-length tresses, just look like they're trying too hard.

The other thing I'm struggling with, after seeing it reflected in these women's lives, is the New York City (and urban in general) trend of kids calling their friends' parents by their first names, instead of Mr. or Mrs. Whatever. I've always resisted the latter. I'm not some old lady, some fuddy duddy! But the truth is, after kids are a certain age, and so are their parents, it just doesn't sound right. On Real Housewives, some bratty 12 year old was saying, "You work it, Ramona! You shake what you got, girl!" to her friend's mom, and it just sounded WRONG. Creepy, wiseass, and again, like the cougar wants to feel like she is still a pup (or whatever one calls a young cougar).

But I don't know how to turn this trend around. At what age did your kids start calling people Mr. and Mrs? Have they always? Is it situational? Is it the age of the kid, or the age of the parent, that makes using first names more or less acceptable? I would love to hear others' thoughts on this.

what moms and dads do

It was back to school for our family today, after three weeks off. That's two legit vacation weeks, and one playing hooky. But Cooper is still in pre-K, and I felt that missing "Q" week in order to vacation with his cousins would not have any long-term ill effects.

Anyhow, I dropped the boys off this morning. Fergus' nursery classroom is beginning a "Family" unit, which will take them through the rest of the school year. Recently, Fergus' teacher helped the class make a list of what mommies and daddies do. She posted the lists in the cloak room, so we'd be sure to see them. They were so interesting, I thought I'd share them with the viewers at home.

And now, "What Dads Do."



Fergus said, "They play with you."

And here is the list of "What Moms Do."



Fergus said, "They take you to the doctor."

Cooper did the same exercise last year, when he was in nursery school. He said, "Dads scrap with you," and "Moms make Shake 'n Bake chicken for you." That was horrifying on several counts, not the least of which was that Cooper was telling the world that I actually made my children eat Shake 'n Bake.

Once I saw Fergus' responses, however, I could see a clear trend:
Mommy takes you to the doctor, and cooks.
Daddy goofs around with you and wrestles.
Mommy works.
Daddy plays.
In other words, Mommy is Martha and Daddy is Mary, for those of you who went to Catholic school.

I was already complaining about this just last week, after my trip to Sea World-- that moms have to organize all the good-times-having, but rarely get to participate themselves. And if you look at the other children's responses, that does seem to be borne out:

"Moms cook dinner."
"Moms make lunch."
"Moms sometimes paint with you," Julian remarked, but note his qualifier.
Max said, "They are supermoms," which sounds fantastic, but I must tell you that he has two dads at his house, and is therefore speaking entirely in the hypothetical.

And the dads?
"Dads tickle you."
"Dads play football."
"Dads take you for ice cream."
(Lenny said, "Dads clean houses." I have to figure that's four-year-old humor. )

However, the list of what moms do was not entirely lame. Some kids said,
"Moms watch movies with you."
"Moms take you to eat Chinese food."
"Moms let you go on rides by yourself at Chuckie (sic) Cheese."

And that makes me feel even worse. Why didn't my kids say something like that about me? Why didn't they say, "Moms take you to SeaWorld"? Or, "Moms let you eat Easter candy after you have brushed your teeth"? Why did my kids have to say stuff like, "Mom holds you down while you get your cavities filled"?

Do I need to seize the reins, here, and become Good-Times Mommy? Maybe I should be the one playing Planet Heroes with them, and let the babysitter take them for their flu shots. I know I'm a good mommy. I want to be a fun one, too.

SeaWorld...a mother's dream

Greetings from sunny Florida! I am on vacation with the kids this week. Hardworking husband was here last week but now is back in rainy NYC. While parenting solo, I decided to be truly ridiculous and take three children under five on a two-hour drive to SeaWorld. Some people climb Mount Everest. I seek my thrills in other ways. "As real as it gets," is SeaWorld's tagline, and they've got it right there.

Now I do have to make a confession. I had a babysitter meet me there. Let me pat myself on the back a little longer, however: I got all three kids in the car and drove 100 miles, waited in the 20-minute line to park with a screaming baby, loaded the stroller and walked with all three of them (no strollers on the tram) from the furthest reaches of the parking lot (I mean, we were in G-41. It only goes to G-43) while Cooper and Fergus were protesting "I'm hot!" although we had not even reached the park entrance yet. Then I took all three of them to the bathroom, and went potty myself, while holding still-screaming baby. Then I nursed her while simultaneously applying sunscreen to the boys and waiting in the Ellis Island crowds while waiting to get our bags inspected. THEN we met our babysitter, and I was already ready to turn around and drive home.

Because here's how I was imagining the rest of the day would go: my lovely babysitter, Sarah, would take the boys on rides, and through thrilling simulated underwater adventures, while I would eke out a foot-square shady spot of asphalt to sit down on and nurse Maddie while passersby ogled, then push her around the park non-stop so she could have any semblance of a nap. That's what moms do. We sit on the sidelines with the baby while Daddy Good-Times gets to throw the kids around in the pool. We enable the fun, but don't get to participate ourselves. I always thought, growing up, that my mom just didn't like to swim. I don't think she put on a bathing suit all summer. Now I realize, she just figured, what was the point?

Upon arriving at the Shamu's Happy Harbor section of the park, a cleaned-up version of your neighborhood Kiwanis carnival, I told Sarah that she should take the boys on the "Jazzy Jellies" (ersatz Dumbo ride) and the "Swishy Fishies" (ersatz Teacups), and I would go change Maddie's diaper in some filthy restroom, and try to make it up to her for having brought her to this sweltering, crowded place.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I found, not only a immaculate "changing room" for babies, but a pleasantly air-conditioned "nursing room" for mothers, with this chair waiting for me:



Will you look at that soothing lavender-toned-coral-reef-themed room? I put my feet up. Maddie nursed for like two minutes, then just wanted to smile at the other babies. However, we stayed in there for about twenty minutes, then returned twice more during the overheated Orlando afternoon hours, although Maddie wasn't even hungry. Are you kidding me? I thought I had died and gone to the Ritz Carlton. I have never felt so lucky, as a nursing mom, to have to sit by and observe the action. I'm going to nurse Maddie until she's in preschool, if it means I get to spend half of my day at SeaWorld in one of those chairs. I upgraded our tickets to a yearly pass lickety-split. I can't wait to get back there.

Oh, the kids? Oh yeah them. Cooper's favorite part was Clyde and Seamore take Pirate Island,, a show starring sea lions and a walrus, and for some reason, an otter that ran across the stage every once in a while. The animals were enjoyable, but I'm still trying to figure out what the hell was going on. It was some sort of pirate adventure, on a ship that docked on an island but then they stayed on the ship the whole time, and there was an evil captain but then he wasn't evil, and then it was over and we only knew because they told us so. I mean, this show makes Antonin Artaud look positively transparent by comparison. This was the most complicated piece of theater since Underwater all the Animals at the Circus Show, and those of you who saw that limited run know what I was talking about. SeaWorld should actually obtain the worldwide theatrical rights to that one and do that instead; the kids would like it better.

Anyway, Cooper's favorite part of the day was the part in the Clyde and Seamore show when the captain's pants fell down and you could see his underwear.

And Fergus? Well, he liked the Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales the best. I'm sure you're already guessing why, but I'll let him tell you:

"My favorite part? Was da big horses? And dey was all boys? And you know why? Because I could see dere penises."

In other words, SeaWorld TRULY has something for everyone.