mothersmilk

Happiness Is

Yesterday, on the subway, a man smiled at me.

I wasn't pregnant, full with child, ensuring that the human race lives on for another generation. I wasn't carrying The Princess, who normally steals the show. I was just me.

And still, he smiled a pleasant, friendly, you-look-like-a-nice-person-all-by-yourself smile. I had almost forgotten about those.

I smiled back and it felt very, very good.

In-nan-dequacy

When I set out to hire a nanny, I thought my main worry would be finding the right person to make the The Princess feel comfortable.

Turns out that it's also about finding a nanny who makes me feel comfortable. A nanny who doesn't make an already slightly neurotic mom feel she ought to be even more so. A nanny who doesn't make a mother feel she really doesn't have things under control, just at a time when she really needs to hear she does. A nanny who doesn't imply the schedule's wrong, the house is too messy and the baby is too fussy.

I'm talking about a nanny who doesn't give me a sense of in-nan-dequacy.

Two on-paper-perfect candidates over the past week asked me some perfectly legitimate questions:

Does The Princess eat solids yet? No, we're behind.
What is your nap schedule? Um, we haven't quite been able to figure that out yet.
Do you have a housekeeper? You're looking at her.

Each answer sounded progressively lamer and my voice got smaller. Then I said, "I'm sorry." I woke around 4 am thinking that I ought to get up and clean the bathroom as well as awaken The Princess so she could try some cereal. Then I worried I should really hire one of the candidates no matter how uncomfortable I felt since their experience was so solid. Then I felt guilty that I was feeling sorry for myself over a problem most people aren't even fortunate enough to have.

Somehow, I don't think this is how it's supposed to work

The trouble is, I'm not sure how it should. I want our nanny to be an expert on all things baby, and that means she's going to know more than me. I want our nanny to be neat and clean, and that means she's going to want a neat and clean work environment. And even though I'm not entirely comfortable with the concept of being "the boss" to someone who ideally will become like family, I still want to retain some kind authority. And if I want her to be honest with me, I have to quit being overly sensitive.

It's a lot to ask. From both of us.

So I'm going to do what has worked best for me since the day I saw the blue line: I'm reverting to instinct. I'm going with the gut and trusting myself: that yes, I am a good mother, and yes, if I'm uncomfortable with someone, the match just isn't right no matter what the resume says.

And maybe that decision produced a little good karma of its own. Because today, I think I met my new nanny. My heart liked her and so did my head. And best of all, so did The Princess.

The Littler Black Dress

One of the could-be-fun things about going back to work is the prospect of buying new clothes. Which is really about more than just buying new clothes -- it's about getting to remake your image just as you used to do on the first day back to high school or college.

Will you go for working mom chic (lots of black pantsuits, French blue blouses and sensible but streamlined Italian pumps)? Or will you do the mellow, organic mom look (several weathered cotton pants and jacket sets, a fair amount of Eileen Fisher and some chunky jewelry)? Some mothers reappear as their old selves, like nothing has changed. Some mothers don't really have a look at all, except tired.

(According to a really disturbing column in the Wall Street Journal the other day, some working mothers feel the need to have two distinct looks every day -- work clothes for work and mom clothes for school pick-up or drop-off, lest other mothers learn their dirty little career secret.)

Over the weekend, I ventured out into the cold to start putting together my back-to-work wardrobe. The good thing: Despite being close to broke, I can justify shopping because I need clothes to fit over my Pamela-Anderson-sized-nursing breasts and my new child-bearing sized hips. The bad thing: Pretty much those same two issues.

Figuring I could score at a winter sale, I visited Scoop, retailer to pitch-perfect-elegant-trendies, hoping they could help with my makeover. And there, after, oh, maybe 12 years of looking, was The Perfect Little Black dress.

Fine wool with just the teeniest bit of stretch to it. Nicely shaped, but not too shaped. Modest yet flattering neckline. Really, truly the dress that would be perfect at work with a cardigan, lovely with pearls for dinner with the in-laws, and almost smokin' with crazy five-inch high sandals. And, of course, being black, it might even hide Princess spit-up.

Just one left. In my size. And, amazingly: It was on sale.

Out of the Bjorn went the Princess and into her father's arms while I ran to the dressing room. Well, you know what happened next. It was just this side of too tight.

Now, I've heard post-nursing breasts actually shrink, so maybe that part will be OK in a few months. And I've heard post-child hips may shrink, with some focused exercise during all those spare hours. So maybe -- and I could be stretching the definition of maybe here -- that'll be OK in a few months.

But what are the chances both will shrink in perfect proportion, and that perfect little black dress, the one I've searched the world over for, will be perfect for me? What are the chances the mom me will look as good in it as the pre-mom me could have?

Oh hell, we all have to have something to strive for. It's hanging up in the closet now. And I love it. And I love picturing me in it. So I'm giving myself until Princess' one-year-birthday. And if not, there's always Ebay.

Mu Omega Mu

As if going back to work wasn't hard enough, yesterday our almost-nanny announced that due to family issues, she would not be our nanny after all. Oh. Oh, dear.

So I sent out an email mayday to maybe a dozen friends, asking them to pass on nanny intelligence. And there, materializing in my in box as the day went on, was the best old-girls-club-network ever. I'm calling it Mu Omega Mu.

Immediately, I got emails from women all over. Busy women. Women sitting at their desks in offices, who had no idea who I was, women presumably preoccupied with their own family worries, dropping everything to help me after someone had forwarded my query.

Oh, I'd seen hints of the MOM club before, the times you walk down the street and another mother asks how you are, just as if you are old friends. Or in the doctor's office waiting room, where another woman says how beautiful your baby is, you return the compliment and you both leave glowing. But this chain reaction was amazing:

My Seattle friend put me in touch with a New Jersey woman, who put me in touch with a Brooklyn babysitter. A Brooklyn mother offered to post a request in a chatroom run by her husband's high school girlfriend, who once had helped her. Another suddenly new friend gave me her secret tactic. (Find good school. Stand outside and look for seemingly good nannies. Ask them for their friends' names. Brilliant!)

So ladies of Mu Omega Mu, I'm not sure I know the secret handshake (maybe, shake hands, cup breast, suck thumb?) or our song (Rock-a-Bye-Baby? The Lion Sleeps Tonight?), but I know I'm a full-fledged member of your club.

And you never even asked me to go through a crazy pledge period or any hazing. Or maybe that's what that labor thing was all about.

Guilty Mom Pleasure # 9

The Scene: Rush hour on a Brooklyn-bound N train, Canal Street station.

The Players: Hundreds upon hundreds of scowling commuters, all speaking different languages.

The Plot: Suddenly, as if of one mind, the angry masses part to let through a petite woman staggering under several winter layers and a similarly layered wide-eyed baby strapped to her chest in a Baby Bjorn. Smiling, the people carefully step aside, allowing her to take the one vacant seat in the car, no one even eyeing it greedily.

Thank you, thank you. Don't mind if I do.

Nailed

I've been home for just a little more than four months now, most days just the Princess and me safe and cozy in our warm apartment bubble. Sure, we go for lots of walks-- for which I always make sure that at I at least comb my hair and put on a little lipstick -- but aside from a few doctor's appointments and holiday parties, it's not like I ever go anywhere where I need to meet or exceed the real world's expectations.

So yesterday, as I gave myself the once over in the mirror before a re-immersion-in-the-working-world-meeting, panic set in. The once perfect suit, now so snug! The scraggly eyebrows! The excess facial hair! The unmanicured nails!

I confess I let the Princess cry for 10 minutes while I did some emergency fixes, mostly consisting of tweezing. But I'd also like to sing the praises of the nail buffer.

I keep reading in mothers' magazines how easy it is to give yourself a quick French tip manicure once a week so your nails will always look fabulous. My answer: You might have enough time to paint those nails, but does anyone have the time to just sit around and let them dry?

With buffing, it's just basically file, shine and go. (It does pay to do the after-every-shower cuticle pushing said mothers' mags recommend.) My favorite buffer has the either unfortunate or provocative name of "Is It Wet", but with just a few minutes of work, the things does, indeed, make your nails so shiny they look wet . Except they're not, you don't have to let them dry and you can swoop up your crying sweetheart that much sooner.

The MLK Day MulitMedia List

We're taking a pause from fretting over tummy flab, dirty diapers and the trail of baby toys in the living room floor today to consider life beyond these four walls. I'd like The Princess' world to be better than mine someday. So, you know, teach your children well, etc.

For inspiration:

I Have a Dream
Text of the seminal speech. (For better versimilitude, hear a very short excerpt at NPR.) Take a glance at the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution while you're there, too. Go ahead, do it. It's nice to remember what life in these United States is supposed to be all about.

A Poor Cousin of the Middle Class
From yesterday's NYT magazine -- link to it right now! Not about race but about class and one women's failure to get ahead in life despite truly trying to do everything right. So does that mean that it is actually the system that is failing? Lots of questions about America; no answers.

Rock the Vote
Hey, in case you haven't heard, there's a presidential election coming up. Register to vote and mark the date on your calendar.

Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years, 1954-1965
Order it now; you'll thank yourself when the kids have questions later. Excellent and so-well written history book.

Convenience Food

Well, the Mars idea was a nice one. But it didn't happen.

We discovered something else instead: the Insta-Dinner Party. It went something like this:

1. Receive call from husband at cool party you can't go to because you are home with The Princess. Say, yes, of course you'd love to see some friends who are also there, come on over!

2. Realizing that bundling up The Princess enough to endure the x-minus degrees outside would take an hour or so, decide you'll have to make do with what you have for dinner.

3. Scour pantry for pseudo hors d'oeuvrey things. Find olives, wasabi peas, some crackers and a jar of artichoke spread. Place on elegant but tarnished silver dishes.

4. Chill beer that you forgot was in bottom of The Princess' stroller from the last time it was warm enough to actually leave the apartment and shop.

5. Set table with mix of everyday dishes and good silver. Add crisp linens usually reserved for Easter dinner and such. Uneartth fancy chopsticks purchased in Chinatown four years ago but never used. Place on plates.

6. Load CD player with mix of Sinatra, some R&B and a little piano music. Set to random.

7. Throw all toys and baby equipment into master bath where no guests are likely to go, trying to remember to move them later so you don't trip in the dark and wake up Princess. Dim lights to disguise dust. Clean other bathroom sink and mirrors but skip the tub.

8. Order Thai food just as friends arrive.

9. Drink, eat, laugh and love. Relax. This is actually a good time.

Even The Princess seemed to enjoy herself, as she went to sleep with barely a protest, leaving Friday night to the grown-ups.

Code Red

It's Friday.

But no matter -- The Princess' new strictly enforced bedtime is going to keep me from going to Ñ to drink sangria and celebrate a friend's 40th.

So I'm thinking instead that an early bedtime might mean a little time alone with The Husband. Not a bad thing at all.

Maybe we'll begin our Friday celebration with a toast to the Mars expedition and drink something red.

In the fridge (because I'm not going out in that wind!) there's Red Seal Ale, a fizzy amber beer that is just the tiniest bit citrus and has possibly the cutest beer label ever. On the other hand, the winter weather may push us toward some red wine, like our weeknight favorite, Bear Crossing's cab/merlot blend, whose purchase helps to fund efforts to to save Australia's koala bears. Plus it tastes yummy, too.

Of course, we might be too tired for any alcohol at all. Instead, it'll be cranberry and seltzer, some slices of lemon and lime thrown in. Princess-induced fatigue will allow us to pretend it's the sangria we're missing, we'll toast to Mars and to each other, and we'll be happy the party we're at is just for us.

The Snow's Glow

Last evening I bundled up The Princess for the Wednesday ritual of moving the car to a new legal spot on the street good for another week. Competition, of course, is fierce. So we move the car about 45 minutes before the bewitching hour and then sit there and wait.

Princess was not happy. In fact, she was outraged, and pretty much had been in a bad mood all day. So you can imagine that 45 minutes in a cold car (even with the heat on) with a screaming 4-month-old is really not the best way to spend a winter's night.

When the church bell finally tolled the hour, I squished her into the Bjorn (so many layers made her virtually unbendable), we walked to the market and bought some dinner makings, and then started the three cold blocks home.

And there under a street light, we caught that truly magical moment -- the air went from no snow to snow. Just like that, it was there. The shimmering, leading edge of the snow shower that would blanket our city overnight. It seemed absolutely quiet for that first instant. No one else on the block. No horns honking out on the main street. No Princess crying. Only me, witnessing a little magic.

Then I heard some footsteps behind us, and the moment vanished. Just a regular January snow.

Anyone would say that the first few snowflakes are a beautiful thing. But I'm not sure I would have appreciated the moment of solitude and calm as much five months ago.

I went home happier for it.