2's Company, 4's a Mosh Pit

When I was just starting out babysitting in my preteen years, I would occasionally watch a little boy, Mark. He was a darling kid around the age of 3. The very first time I watched him, my brother came along for moral support. Mark was well behaved and mild mannered. He didn't have separation anxiety, he simply wanted his toys and books. My brother and I just kind of sat there as Mark did his thing. And then the cuckoo clock chimed. One o'clock. Mark looked up from his Legos and said, "nap-time." My brother and I glanced at each other. Mark got up from his pit of toys and headed up the stairs. He got into his bed, laid down, closed his eyes and in minutes, fell fast asleep.
"Really? That's it? That's all we have to do? I like babysitting," I thought.
Of course, I soon realized that Mark was not the norm. With other kids,  I had to bribe bedtimes with ice cream or bath times with chocolate. I would chase the occasional child around the house to get them to climb into bed. I understood that getting a little human to sleep in their own bed was not as easy as it seemed with Mark.
Some years later, I vowed that if I ever became a mother, I would "train" my child. He would have a 1PM nap time and a 7:30PM bedtime. He would have a blanket and his favorite book to lull him to dreamland in his little airplane shaped bed in his little airplane room.  My husband and I would then put on soft music, light candles, and share our dinner. We would cuddle as we watched TV. After falling asleep on the couch in each other's arms, we would wake and walk sleepily into our bedroom to make love all night. And that's exactly what happened.

BAAAAWWHHAAAAAAHHAAAAAAA!!!!

Cut to the night before last:
My two children are up at 11PM as The Rolling Stones sing,"You Can't Always Get What You Want" at full volume. The oldest has had dessert (s) and stories. The youngest has had a bath and the boob. Neither of them had any interest of going to bed. And the best part of this story, they sleep in our bed. Both of them. Sleep. In. Our. Bed.

I have a hate/love relationship with our "family bed."

I would love to tell you that we had every intention of having a family bed from the start of my pregnancy, that we had read all of the books and wanted to go in the "attachment parenting" direction. I would love to tell you that it came from a philosophical place of believing that it would be best for the child. NOPE. Not even close. Sleep. It came from the need for sleep. One night, I brought the baby into the bed to breast feed and we both feel asleep. Neither of us woke up for eight hours. From that moment on, our beautifully jungle-themed nursery became an exhibit for the Natural History Museum of "where an American Child WOULD sleep".
Conley was 3 months old when he inhabited our bed and I had every intention of getting him back into the crib, but it just never happened. I told a friend of mine that he was sleeping in our bed and she furrowed her eyebrows, clicked her tongue and hissed, "bad girl." I had been getting up every 1.5 -2 hours, nursing and rocking, nursing and rocking. I was a zombie. I did what I thought was best. Was I wrong?

THE FAMILY BED PROS
cuddles
sleep
builds trust and security
seeing their sweet faces first thing and hearing "good morning, Momma. I love you."
creative solutions for "adult time" with hubby

THE FAMILY BED CONS
no "adult" time with hubby
no room in the bed
the argument that it creates need and insecurity

Another reason we "chose" the family bed is that I was (and still am) too weak to do the "cry it out" method. I have supermom ears. I hear everything and when Conley was first born, I could detect any change in breathing. Forget about crying. I couldn't bear it.
See, my new motherhood had been colored by one of the most tragic events of my life. A dear friend lost her daughter to SIDS. I used to think of her every night, but when I became a mother, it was every minute. I had no idea the amount of pain she must have felt until I had a child of my own. Even now, I can't even comprehend it. It made me so scared. I couldn't just let Conley cry alone. I couldn't stay in bed as he screamed. I wanted him close. I needed to feel him breathe.
And now, I love to feel Holden's breath and my face and Conley's elbow in my ribcage. Most nights. Other nights, I just want to put them both into their own beds, give them just a little NyQuil, close the door, and snuggle in with my husband.
OH, yeah. HIS opinion of all of this??
He will rage about it one minute and coo about it the next. He'll be so frustrated that we are not alone and then ramble on about how blessed we are to have two snuggle monkeys intertwined with us. My husband said one of the most beautiful things about the family bed. I was struggling when Holden was born because I wasn't spending as much time as I wanted to with Conley. I thought that he was feeling that we weren't a family because Daddy was taking him out to the park/to dinner/ to the museum while Momma stayed home with the baby. Daniel said that Conley knows we are a family because we sleep in the same bed for 8-10 hours a night. Even though we are unconscious, Conley feels how connected we are to each other. That gave me peace.
But peace I did not have the other night when the two would not go to sleep. I kept thinking, "Why didn't I let them cry it out!? They are going to be in our beds until they're seniors in high school." That's me, living in the day.
My husband also saved our marriage ;) when he woke up one morning and said,"I am buying a king size mattress RIGHT NOW." He got up and ready to go, dressed Conley, and took him in a cab to pick out a mattress for the family. Then called friends that were expecting a son in June to come to our apartment and pick up a crib, rocking chair, and huge box of baby clothes for a very low price. Our Natural History Museum exhibit was dismantled and our queen mattress was moved into the nursery. (Now, he almost ended our marriage when he picked out the bedding for the new king, but we fixed that quickly.) The nursery is now "Conley's room" and he loves it. He falls asleep in the bed, wakes up around 4 or 5 in the morning and comes to cuddle with us. Funny. When you make room, something will fill the space. Conley saw an empty space and filled it.  Maybe, he won't be in our bed come graduation.

I am horrible at keeping a schedule for my kids. Bedtime has a 3 hour window. 

I also have a hate/love relationship with schedules. I crave them and despise them. I am insanely jealous and simultaneously repulsed by the regime keepers. By this I mean:

We eat chow at 0700
Followed by a diaper change and puzzle time
at 1000, we hit the playground, doing slides followed by an intense round of swings and monkeybars.
at 1200, we meet back at the mess hall for some lunch and diaper change
at 1300, it's nap time.
1500, an alarm will sound. Diaper change and then Music will be played for exactly 45 minutes.
1600, snack.
1630, DVD
1800 delicious, healthy, homemade dinner with family
1900 bathtime
1930 diaper, pajamas and bed time story
1945 child hits the hay

I want it, I do. And from everything I've read, "they" say that a child craves discipline and order. I think that is true, but there is something to be said for a little independence and choice.
The fact that Conley could sleep anywhere, any time, saved us when we would travel which seemed to be a lot in his first year. He could hang with us in Europe or swim with us in Cabo without going through a traumatic adjustment period. Sometimes, he would go to bed at 10PM and then wake up at 10AM. It was actually pretty lovely.
But see my ego wants to be a schedule keeper to impress other parents.  I would like to tell a babysitter, "put him down for his nap at one," and know that he will go to bed. I would like to share with our friends and Conley's teachers, "he goes to bed at 7:30." This is truly not the case today.  I hang my head low if we stroll the kids through the neighborhood past 8PM, shameful that my children are still awake. It doesn't matter if they wake up early, go to school, play outside, or the opposite. Their sleep schedule is completely unpredictable.
Part of this unpredictability is laziness. I will not deny this. I need to create the discipline for our family and instruct a boot camp and honestly, I just don't want to do that. It's too much work. Just for today, I have to be alright with knowing a nap will be taken, eventually, and both babies will sleep for the night, soon enough.

For now, a family bed works and a relaxed (that's what I'll call it) schedule is OK.
Check with me in a couple decades or so. I'll let you know if my kids have turned into needy, insecure, undisciplined hellions or the next Bill Gates (it's always one extreme or the other, isn't it?! A criminal or the President. It's never just an accountant for a small firm in the suburbs.)

This entry was a little schizo because I am up and down about our family bed and schedules.  I see the benefits and downfalls of our decisions daily and it makes for a little crazy.
Hope you enjoyed the ride.

Paranoia Will Destroy Ya

Have you seen the movie "Kramer vs. Kramer"- a genius film starring Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep?  Meryl won her first Oscar for Best Actress in a Supporting Role playing a woman seeking divorce and custody of her son despite having left them. I loved this movie. The heart-wrenching performances made me fall in love with acting when I saw this film at a very young age. It also inspired a wacky fear of playgrounds.
Let me explain. Spoiler Alert: Do you remember the scene when Dustin Huffman is at a Central Park playground with his son and is in deep conversation with a woman as the boy is climbing a jungle gym? Of course, the child falls from the top and the next scene is Dustin Huffman running while carrying his crying, bleeding son,  several New York City blocks to the hospital. The boy has to get several stitches. From the moment I saw blood on the screen, I never wanted to be at a playground again. Whether I'd be climbing with or watching my monkey friends swing from bar to bar on a jungle gym, I would panic.
It's only fitting that I should have such a playground down the street from our apartment, ideal for any family with small children. 2 lovely little playgrounds. FULL OF DEADLY SWING SETS AND MONSTROUS MONKEY BARS.
The possible accidents with blood are not my only fear.  The politics that happen at the park are totally stressful. Who goes first on the slide? How long do you swing? Until there is a line? No child can run up the slide, unless it's your kid doing the running up. The negotiation of toys that are left in the sandbox for "everyone" happens over tears. How involved do you get in conflict management? This keeps me up at nights. (I exaggerate, but you get my drift.)

I hate taking my children to the playground.

The scene is usually this. The park is full of little monsters, running, screaming, laughing or crying while playing on the scary structures or digging in the poisonous sand box. Their mommies or nannies sit on the park benches creating a perimeter for the nightmarish scene. They sit, looking up from their iPhones every so often to make sure no one is dead or missing.  Me?  I hover around my 2 year old like a nervous little ninny. I usually have the baby in the stroller so I am following Conley like an annoying buzzing bee, the tires almost taking him down for fear that he may, I don't know, skin a knee? get eaten by wolves? Well, those other little toddlers can be awfully garish. Stealing toys, throwing sand, they can be down right awful. Hence...

I do not schedule play-dates for my kids.

This is not because I don't love children other than my own. I do. I am just scared of them. They are little beings with their own agendas and I don't know that I fit into theirs. I feel like they could look at me and say, "Look, lady. You are not my mom. You can't tell me what to do or how to behave. Now, go, and let me eat this crayon in peace." I know that these children will surely want to sit on the stoop and share a smoke with Conley as they pour one for their homies. I am also afraid of my own child's behavior. That he won't share his toys, that he will want to be the alpha male and stomp on his little friends or that he will have a tantrum that lasts for an hour.  Soon all of the parents in the neighborhood will ostracize us from any and all play-dates.  They will whisper, avoiding our eyes as we pass in our screaming double stroller, "There they are. Do not invite them over. They are a mess."
I realize that "playing well with others"  is a huge part of a child's experience of life- resolving conflict, making and becoming a friend. I remember some of my play-dates growing up. I learned things like how to draw a star, tie my shoes, and ride a bike. I laughed so hard while eating Speghetti-O's that they almost came up through my nose. I danced my ass off to the BeeGees. I got into verbal spars as only a 6 year old can, but I also learned how to say "sorry" and how to forgive. I am sure that my childhood would not have been the same had I not been scheduled these "meetings" by my mother. Despite all of these rewarding experiences, play-dates still make me nervous.
This could be because I am also afraid of the other mothers. Afraid of their judgments, their innate abilities to better parent my child because they are more creative or more eco-friendly than I am. That they have perfect conflict resolving skills and I am only equipped with the words, "Stop it." As often as I tell myself that we mothers are in the same boat, I am still suffering with this fear of being judged.
Because Conley is now in preschool, I know that these playground play-dates will soon be a must and I will have to get over my fears. I will have to just wring my hands and hope that I will be blessed with patience and love, and that I will find the words to remove the crayons from the their mouths. That I will know how to band-aid a scraped knee. That I will be able to let them resolve their conflicts and be present as a loving battery for their process.

I am taking my son to the playground after preschool and just for today, I will not fear the monkeys or the monkey bars.

Rain, Rain Go Away

I love the rain. Growing up in Kansas, some of my favorite childhood memories are snuggling safe in my room to the soundtrack of rolling thunder, the flash of bright lightening, and the pitter pat of heavy raindrops. I missed those summer storms when I lived in LA for 13 years. It rarely rained in the time I was there, but I was always amazed at the paralysis the occasional rain storm would cause Angelians. For example,  I would call a friend to ask them if they wanted to meet for dinner and they'd say, "No, I don't think so. It's raining." I would think to myself, "how does one relate to the other? Do you not eat when it rains?" and then I would get in my car, drive into traffic and completely understand why said friend would not want to leave the house. When in rains in LA, people become moronic. If the windshield wipers come on, forget about it.
From Kansas, you learn how to navigate the four seasons. You drive a car in snow, rain, ice, and extreme heat. You could never use the weather as an excuse, but in LA, it's very common practice. This used to baffle me. Until I moved to NYC.

I kept my child home from school the other day because it was raining. 

I explained the whole thing to my mom...how I would have had to bundled up both children, put the older one in a single stroller that has a little rain slicker it can wear (because the double stroller does not), put myself in a raincoat, papoose the baby and carry an umbrella to walk 4 blocks and an avenue. I told her how it would have just been too exhausting to bring him to a glorified nursery school so he could paint a picture of a fish.

Crickets.

See, it's hard to wrap your head around not leaving the house because of a rainstorm when you are from the midwest. You strap the kids in their car seats and battle the traffic, never having to get wet. It's just what you do.
I battled with myself for an hour. The asshole in my head said, "You wimp! Get your shit together and bring your kid to school. You are not a true New Yorker if you can't do this. You are failing as a mother if you can't fight the elements for your children. C'mon!"
I believed the asshole, but I chose to call his school and tell them that "Conley is unable to make it today (because his mother is a wuss.)"
For the rest of the afternoon, I wondered if he knew...if he knew that I had wronged him. I made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (for the ump-teenth time this week) and hoped he would never remember this day. (you think I am kidding)
The very next day, more beautiful, taunting rain. But now, I had a doctor's appointment for the baby. I had to brave the storm.
I prayed. "Dear God, let my oldest child have patience and love for his mother as she navigates not only the weather, but the doctor's visit and Holden having to get shots. Let him be the little angel I know he once was in heaven. I need this, God. Thank you."
After an hours worth of putting on coats, rain boots, hats, stroller covers and grabbing diaper bags and umbrellas, with a raised pulse and sweat dripping from my nose, we were finally ready to leave.
The rain egged me on. "Betcha can't do this, lady. We are too much for you to handle."
My oldest son who is in that phase of wanting to walk everywhere, gently got into his slickered stroller and quietly played on the iPad. Stage 1 complete. He's actually IN the stroller.
We needed to walk 2 blocks and 2 avenues without him budging and the baby not crying. Stage 2 complete. We arrived without tears.
At the doctor, I needed Conley to sit quietly while the doctor examined Holden and gave him his shots. He sat in a little chair in the office and did not say a word except, "Hello, doctor." Stage 3 complete. I had to lift my jaw from off the floor.
Final maneuver, Get the crew home without any drama. Stage 4 and Mission, COMPLETE.
I did it! I navigated my family through the rain. Thank you, God.
I had to celebrate. I called people. I put on music and danced with my kids. And we ate...and what did we eat...?
PIZZA!

My husband suggested that next time, I call a car service. Yes, a car service to drive us 4 (ish) blocks.

Ahh, New York.

A Momma's Gratitude List, New York Style

Happy (belated) Mother's Day to all of you unbelievably courageous and beautiful mothers out there! Hoping you were loved, celebrated and adored!  I had a wonderful day, celebrating with my little monkeys. After breakfast  was ordered in by the biggest monkey, we went to one of the most iconic parks in the world to play. As I watched my childish (I mean, child-like ;) ) husband climb on swing sets and build castles in the sand with Conley while I sat on a bench with Holden who was snoozing in the breeze, my heart took flight and I had to wonder...

What in God's name do I have to bitch about???!!!

So, a day late, I would like to give you my list of 10 Things to be Grateful as a NYC Mom

1. First of all, I am a mom. I never knew the pain of trying to get pregnant. I do know women who have and it makes me all the more aware of how truly blessed I am.

2. My 2 little guys. I have the most beautiful, totally happy and healthy monsters. What a gift to look at their popsicle stained faces and know that they chose me as their mommy.

3. We live in a GARDEN LEVEL apartment, not a 5TH FLOOR WALK-UP. I don't have to  schlep 2 nap-needing screamers up several flights of stairs. I can carry groceries in without breaking down their stroller, breaking a sweat, or breaking into tears.

4. I have a washing machine/dryer just outside my bedroom door. I don't have to pack suitcases and roll them to a laundromat like so many New York mommies and daddies. I just have to make sure I have the quarters and detergent.  and if I don't, I can call a deli to deliver them to me.

5. I can call a deli to deliver them to me. and "them" is ANYTHING. I don't have diapers, I call someone. I need juice and applesauce, and a guy on a bicycle will deliver them right to my door. Our dinner is delivered to us from different neighborhood joints several times a week. (Our son actually thinks every person that comes to the door is named "guy" because we hand him the money to give the delivery "guy".  He gives them the cash and says, "Thanks, guy. Bye, bye, guy.")

6. We live less than a block from the park. No, THE park. Central Park is just outside my door with 2 amazing children's playgrounds at our street's entrance. I'm still not convinced it isn't a movie set, it's that cool.

7. We can walk everywhere. We don't own a car. I stroll several blocks daily with my kids. The kids' pediatrician, Conley's school, our bank and any drugstore are all walkable. This is not only fabulous on the budget (although, NYC rent is not) it is fabulous on a 2-kid-bearing-bottom. I walk a lot. I walk while eating a doughnut, but I walk.

8. The NHM and the MET. My kids get to go to the Natural History Museum to play with dinosaurs and the MET to gaze at Monet. How freakin' great is that?

9. Our babysitter is a dancer on Broadway. 'nuff said.

10.  My husband is a terrific father. He's 2 parts playful, 1 part hopeful, and the rest just sugar. The kids adore him and I'm a huge fan. He has to face the NYC beast every day - the weather, the subway, the attitudes- to make sure our barrel of monkeys stays afloat. He fights the good fight and is able to come home with a smile on his face and kisses for his family. I am so grateful for a true partner in this parenting gig.

And as a final thought, I have the best mother in the whole world. 

So there you have it. Instead of crying about motherhood today, I thought I'd celebrate it. Celebrate just how good being a mom - the mother I AM - is.

Happy Mother's Day!

A Sobering Thought

Today is my 12th anniversary of life without alcohol. In 2001, I decided that I needed a massive spiritual overhaul and realized that the thing keeping me from a beautiful life swam in a bottle of scotch. I was a lukewarm alcoholic. No vodka in the morning smoothies, just a lot of weekend irresponsibility. I didn't give up alcohol because the quantities of drinks were too many, but because the quality of life was not enough. I am beyond grateful for my sobriety and the gifts I have received because of my choice and God's grace. That being said...

NOTHING has made me want a drink more than raising 2 young children in New York City

Let's take yesterday for example.
In the morning, my husband and I strolled our oldest to preschool. He started a week ago. The first week was a wonderful success. He seemed to really like it, having very few tears and lots of smiles. When we got to the door of the school yesterday, he got out of his stroller, shaking his head and waving his hands, saying, "no, no, no..." Then came the saddest cry I had ever heard in my life accompanied by a perfectly turned down lip. I thought my heart was going to split open. Of course, he was fine 5 minutes later, but I thought I was abandoning my child. I took a long stroll in the park, checking my phone every 2 minutes in case the school called to say,"You must pick up your very sad child. He is inconsolable because you are a terrible mom." My phone, thankfully, did not ring. Then came time for pick-up. He was sitting at his little table with his little friends eating his little lunch when I opened the door to his little class room. Happy to see me, he ran into my arms saying,"Mommmmmaaaaaa!"  I thought to myself, "This. This right here is the best feeling imaginable. I am needed, wanted, and completely loved." Cut to:
 5 minutes later when a demon has possessed both of my children and they are screaming louder than the construction on our busy NYC avenue. I got head turns and stares for 5 city blocks from the Gucci bag toting mom's with maids while I held one pissed off toddler by the hand because he wanted to walk even though we had the double stroller containing the other sobbing child. This didn't keep the taxi driver from cutting us off or my mouth from letting him know how I felt about it. I thought someone was going to call Child Services. The minutes it took me to get home felt like hours, but the one thing that kept me moving was knowing that nap time was right around the corner.
Yeah, right.
NO nap for either child.
There were tears because I gave him juice instead of milk, then because I gave him milk instead of juice. He cried because I wouldn't let him outside without his shoes, then when we got the shoes on, he refused to walk out the door. The baby is in a stage where he hasn't figured out how to crawl but desperately wants to so he cries. He cries a lot.
Thank goodness we have made Mondays "date nights". Our Broadway dancing babysitter has the night off from her regular high-kicking gig and chooses (God love her soul) to spend it with our family. I could have kissed her as I bolted out the door and ran to my husband's side at a table at our corner bistro. The sun was setting, casting shades of gold through the concrete landscape. The temperature was perfect, a cool evening warmed by a heat lamp. I flopped down in the chair, glazed wild eyes staring at my husband.
He looked scared. "You ok?"
And I thought to myself as I stared at my husband's martini glass, "just for a minute as this golden light hits my face and no one is crying, I would like to feel my shoulders move down from ears, my teeth to unclench, my stomach to warm as I sipped a glass of wine. Maybe I could quiet the "Perfect Mommy" voice in my head. Ah, just for a minute."
"I'll have a cranberry juice, thanks."

I am jealous of those mommies that get to "celebrate" bed time with a toast or two. This is a hard job and I would like to congratulate myself with a cocktail.
I mean, are all of these mommies actually hammered? How do they all get through the day?

I had a wonderful evening with my hubby and came home to bathed, tired babies. The preschooler fell asleep an hour earlier than his normal bedtime which gave me even more time to relax.
Without a drink.
A perfect memory of the screams and sadness, the kisses and love.

I'm sober 12 years. I'm a mom. I'm a sober mom.

Technically Speaking...

Thank you so much for the comments you have left here and on my Facebook page. After I allowed myself to middle-finger my ego a bit by sharing my truth, I have felt so much better. I didn't realize the load I had put on my shoulders. Just cracking the door to my authenticity that little bit, brought light to a very dark place. And to know that I am not alone is precious. Thank you.
This purging has also made me aware of the simultaneous blessings I am experiencing as my child throws his twentieth fit of the day. He is healthy (he's got a pair of healthy lungs, that's for damn sure) and so am I. He maybe be eating pizza, but at least he is eating. He screams, but he makes eye contact and connects. He is expressing his feelings and I know there are parents that long for that glimpse of emotional life in their child. Regardless of the consciousness I have of my blessings, I still need to confront this ugliness that I am not enough in my mind.
So, since it felt so good the first time, I thought I might confess some more. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for listening to my moans and groans. Here we go.

I WILL GIVE MY CHILD AN iPHONE, iPAD, iANYTHING IN ORDER TO KEEP THE PEACE. TIME ALLOWED ON SUCH DEVICES ISN'T EVEN AN ISSUE. HOWEVER LONG IT TAKES.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. Wow. This really does feel good.

So, I bought my husband an iPad a couple of Christmases ago. We both loved it. Especially for music and as a backup for our pictures on the computer. We put ONE app on it for our son. At the time, he was just one. We went on vacation to Mexico and on the flight, my husband showed him how the application worked. My son was thrilled. He loved touching something and making it work. He could control his little universe. This well-seasoned flyer really didn't need the iPad for entertainment at this time. He was usually lulled right to sleep when the engines started. I think my husband wanted something to do so he taught our one year old how to navigate his dancing monkey application.

Cut to 2 days into our lovely vacation. My husband (Daniel) and I are on our bed, chatting while the 2 year old (Conley) is playing with some toys on the floor. We can't really see him because we are lying down, but we hear him open the iPad. I mean to say, unlock the iPad. Now, how he's figured out to do that, I will never know, but he has. His little one year old paw pushed and slid the right buttons the right way to open his application. He contently played on the it for 20 minutes, as we laid there, not making an f-ing sound to see how long he could entertain himself. My husband says to me, "Wow. This could be just the thing to give you a break in your day." (warning!) Now, I have forgotten to mention that I was newly pregnant (code for sick, irritable, and a total bitch) with our second AND planning our wedding (we did things a little out of order) at this time. I had just been given a green light to hand our iPad to our child so that I may "have a break." After our trip, we downloaded more applications and my son was off and running (well, running his fingers) while I sat, eating my twelfth cookie.

I planned our destination wedding in just a couple of months which required phone calls and emails, pretty much daily. In the morning after fighting my nausea, I would hand Conley the iPad and I would get to work. It was perfect. We started taking it with us when we would go to restaurants. My child was perfectly behaved, as long as we had the device. I thought, "This is genius. What did parents do before this thing was created?"
Then I read a post on Facebook..
"Are parents unable to parent their kids anymore? I go to restaurants and all I see are toddlers on iPads."
My ego was shot. I AM A HORRIBLE MOTHER. Now mind you, this asswipe that wrote the post is a MAN without CHILDREN, but I still felt like I was somehow damaging my child and that I am incapable of nurturing a creative environment for him. I could leave him for a good couple of hours on an iPad and I have done that, many times (wow, this confession thing is goooood.) and now my child has mornings where he wakes up, eyes still closed, yawping from the deepest part of this perfect toddler body, "BIRRRRRRRRRDDDDSSSS" (He's currently obsessed with Angry Birds.) Is he destined to have ADD or ADHD or some other behavioral problem because I want to check yahoo or eat my spaghetti in peace?
I think these thoughts and then I am reminded of a very special day. When we were in KC visiting my folks when Conley was 18 months, we went to see my dad at his office. He's a physician and on the wall was an eye chart. My son, who didn't talk much at all, pointed to and said the letters on the chart. He couldn't say most of them, but then when I noticed what was happening, I would ask him to point to a  particular letter and he would do so without hesitation. Now, I would love to tell you that I had been teaching my son the alphabet by using flashcards or puzzles or whatever it is perfect moms use to teach their kids letters, but I hadn't been doing a thing. I was big and pregnant. I was lucky if I got off the couch to walk him to the park for some sunshine. But my son knew all of his letters. And he learned them from pbs.org downloaded on the iPad. My son also knew his numbers and colors, all taught to him by his friends on Sesame Street. ( another site that I love that was recommended to me by a teacher is starfall.com (it might be .org) at any rate, it's awesome.)
A friend of mine said that today's iPad kids have been called "natives." They seem to have been born with the abilities to work all devices. I see it in my 9 month old. He will take my phone and slide his fingers across it to make it "dance." When this happens,  I don't think, "Wow. That's kind of cool." I think about all of those mothers out there that finger paint and sculpt and how terrible I must seem to them. I don't like to paint and I certainly can't sculpt. I wonder how much I am hurting him because of my own deficiencies. (the ego is a bitch, isn't she? do you see how "in my own way" I have become? I am so freakin' self-obsessed!)
And television, forget about it. All of those books say that you shouldn't let your child watch any TV until age 2. Well, I screwed up there because by age 2, my son and I knew the theme songs to Curious George and Super Why, every character on Mickey Mouse Club and became obsessed with the 3 special steps Special Agent OSO had to make each episode. My newest boy, he's a big George fan, too.

I LET MY KIDS WATCH TV. A LOT OF TV.

Does this actually make me a bad parent? I think it does if I ignore them and don't engage them. But I do. I participate. It might be by asking my son what color Oscar the Grouch is (he's green, btw), but I do play-in. How do I forgive myself for not being the arts and crafts kindergarden teacher? I suck at arts and crafts. But I'm really good at snuggles. and kisses. and sillies. Will that be enough? Have I done some permanent damage? Does it matter?  I love my kids and they love me. My son has learned so much from technology. And I have been able to breathe because of technology. And I have to be ok with this despite Martha Stewart's tisk tisk in my head.
So, Thank you, Steve Jobs, Jim Henson, and public television. You are helping me to raise my bright, beautiful sons and keeping me sane.

Bless me, for I have sinned

OK. I can't take it anymore. I have to get this off my chest. I'm ready for all of the judgements from you, God, and the fabulous women strolling in the upper 70's and 80's of Manhattan. I am opening myself up to the ridicule of the Whole Foods hopping, baby food making, cloth diaper washing do-gooders of my beloved Santa Monica. If I continue one more day wishing I was the mother in my head and not the one who is bathing my kids, I will explode into tiny Lego pieces. I have to purge, purge my off the floor, dirty Cherrio eating soul right now. OK, here goes...
I FEED MY KID PIZZA. FROZEN PIZZA, DOMINOS PIZZA, ANY PIZZA, MORE THAN ONCE A WEEK.
There. I've said it. Let the lashings begin.
In all seriousness, I feel better that you know. I have been living in isolation, tucked away in my cottage-like brownstone apartment wanting desperately to be the mother I thought I would be versus the one I became. I wanted to be eco-friendly, recycling, and natural. I wanted to be fashionable, trendy, and up-to-date. I wanted to be calm, reassuring, and serene. I wanted discipline with freedom and freedom with discipline. I wanted the intimacy of the family bed with the privacy of the crib. I wanted to be the best damn mother this town has ever seen. And I wanted to NEVER feed my kid frozen pizza, ever. I have failed. failed. failed.
I am jumping on the confession band wagon of such greats like momastery and reasons my son is crying (thank you, Renee and Carol)  because I need to let this false image of perfection I have in my mind dissolve. These sites have been able to make me laugh in the midst of melt-downs (my own or my 2 year olds) at this strange concept I have grasped onto that I must be pristine and perfect at the grossest job in the world.
But what is that? Where have I come up with this idea of being perfect? Not to get all psychological on you, but is it my childhood? My mom seemed to do her motherhood effortlessly. My lunch was made, the house was immaculate. She was my room mother and brownie troop leader. Yep, she was kind of perfect. Is it fucking facebook? I read a stat about one of my girlfriends making play-do so her kids could play inside from the rain while she baked a cake and I vomited just a little in my mouth. I saw pictures of a fairy tale party someone had for their daughter where all of the magical ideas came from pinterest and I thought my eyeballs were going to melt. How can I live up to this when my 2 year old is screaming for an hour (no exaggeration) because, well, I don't know, I put his juice in the Buzz Light year cup instead of his Elmo cup? and my 9 month old has decided that now would be the best time to suck on the sole of my husband's flip flop that has flipped flopped on the dirty grimy NYC sidewalk and subway stations? How can I be perfect when at the grocery store, my child is screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing like a fish trying to survive out of water? Who is responsible for me thinking that I have to have perfect children and that I need to handle them in perfect ways?
I think one of my past roommates is responsible. It's her fault. She was perfect. She could cook, clean, shop, organize, while being hip, slick and cool better than any style.network make-over show. She was fabulous. And when I look at my high-chair that has a film growing in its cracks or the pile of laundry I haven't done, I think, "*** would NEVER have this going on in her house. She is probably teaching her daughter french as she is cooking flambe for her gorgeous husband who will undoubtedly walk in with flowers and a smile." (note: my husband brings me flowers often. this is one thing I can say is perfect all of the time. He brightens our home with daffodils or roses every week.) She has a great, magical life and I am just happy if everyone has survived the day. Yeah, it's her fault.
Alright, maybe it's not her fault, but why can't I shake this idea that I am completely fucking up my children because I didn't make their baby food or my son has Crayola marker stains on his Curious George t-shirt?
My kids are a mess. There I have said it.
I am a wreck. I don't shower as often as one should. There, it's out.
Why can't I just admit that being a mom is HARD. I am not very good at it. I yell when I know that I shouldn't. I pout when I should play. How do I get over myself and just love the mother I am?
This blog is for me. I need to confess and praise, laugh and cry. I need to kill the Betty Crocker/Mrs. Cleaver/Mary Poppins bitch that is ruling my life and let you all know what I am doing. I am raising two, gorgeous pains in the ass. and that even though, I am not living up to the perfect mother in my brain, I am somehow, perfect.