mothersmilk

A Little Perspective, Please

So I've been in full-fledged personal-best mode these past few weeks, as I prepare to debut on the beach on July Fourth weekend.

Appearing publicly in one's bathing suit after acquiring winter pale skin and corresponding winter soft spots is always a little tough. But appearing publicly in one's bathing suit after nine months of pregnancy and then nine additional months of general inactivity due to exhaustion is even tougher. (Although I am pleased to report The Littler Black Dress is working out quite nicely.)

So it's been early morning gym cram sessions, crunches while watching "Sex and the City" reruns on TBS, and at least a valiant effort to minimize carbs. But as I assessed my body the other day, I suddenly saw it as the Princess sees it.

My Breasts
Me: Over, clearly over
Princess: Over 1 billion meals served

Thighs That Jiggle When Slapped
Me: Horrifying
Princess: Hilarious

Mushy Biceps
Me: Do some curls already
Princess: Curl them around me!

Tummy Pooch
Me: Homely
Princess: Original home sweet home

I'm not going to lie and say I love my body the way it is. I'm still going to keep up the gym sessions and try to skip the morning bagel. But a little perspective goes a long way as I await the return of the day I can fit back into my skinny jeans.

Strollercide

So The Husband went away for his annual fishing trip this weekend (which somehow began Wednesday), leaving me on full-time Princess duty.

Let's just say I'm not sure he'll recognize the woman he comes home to, what with the unwashed hair, the unshaven legs, etc. On the other hand, I may very well be wearing the same thing I was when he left, so that may tip him off.

All that aside, it's actually been a wonderful few days. Once I resigned myself to not getting any work done, the concept of doing nothing but playing with The Princess set in and I have felt incredibly happy and in love, doing nothing but being with my beautiful little 9-month-old.

So last night I bravely decided she and I would go out for dinner. A "girls' night" sort of thing. I had planned to take her to our neighborhood pub, which is never crowded on a Saturday, let her sit in her stroller and read and play while I enjoyed a beer and a burger. So I packed my little Princess kit in the stroller compartments, changed her into a cute sunsuit, put on my favorite jeans and, in a nod to girls' nights everywhere, put on my little kitten heel slides. Off we went.

But when we arrived at the nearly empty pub, the same pub my husband and I have gone to almost weekly for two years, lately avec stroller, the waitress looked at me like I was a stranger.

"You can't have that thing in there," she said, pointing to the stoller.

"Oh, we've done this many times," I said. "We can just get rid of a chair and pull the stroller up to the table. It won't be in the way."

"It's because of insurance. That thing folds up, right? You have to fold it up and put her in a highchair."

"But we always do this."

"They just started it. Insurance."

Then, she proceeded to seat me in the corner, next to the bus station where the dirty dishes sit and right in front of the door to the basement where the walk-in freezer is located.

Apparently, I had just committed strollercide -- the alleged crime of infringing on other people's fun because you dared to bring a child into public. And I was being punished.

Now, before I was a mother, I used to resent the parents who clogged sidewalks with their massive baby-mobiles. It annoyed me when they blocked subway doors, or even restaurant aisles. So I try very hard to be mindful of this eveywhere I go, allowing people to pass me as soon as I hear footsteps; staying off the subway at rush hour; wearing the Baby Bjorn to go to the grocery. I really would never have tried this had I thought it would inconvenience anyone.

But there I was, now forced to unload all my toys from the stroller, attempt to collapse "the thing" with my kitten heels, and suffer general humiliation as a table full of post-Yanks-Mets game guys snickered as a struggled. (Eventually, a bus boy who always does remember I'm a regular came and rescued me.) And then there was dinner. The restaurant highchair is a still a novelty for The Princess. Most of the meal consisted of her throwing the toys to the floor and me picking them up. That was when she wasn't whipping her head around to catch a view of the soccer match on television, as I was holding on to her with one hand while trying to eat my fish and chips with the other.

But you know what? I spent most of the night smiling and even laughing. It was fun to have her up at eye level with me, and I kept up a running --albeit one-sided -- conversation. We both had a great time. In the end, probably more fun than I would have had had she been in her own little stroller world.

In fact, I think we'll leave the stroller at home the next time. But The Princess definitely comes along.

Shine On

One thing new parents in America in 2004 have to cope with is the astounding amount of time, energy and money you cand spend focusing on equipment .

What's the best stroller -- should it be lightweight or heavy duty and do I care if it has a tray in front? What's the safest car seat? Isn't there a safe one that isn't ugly too? The crib, the diaper bag, the clothes, the toys, the play pen, the books, the bottles, the soft carrier, the nursery mobile, the changing table, the creams, the lotions, the nursing bra, the nursing pads, the breast pump -- and these are all things you're supposed to pick out before the child even comes into the world. Even the most minimalist moms will be surprised by how much you can end up buying despite your best intentions.

Then, three or four months later, boom, half of it is useless and irrelevant -- the baby has moved on. All that time finding just the right bottle, and really, all of them now seem to work just fine. The $40 nursing bra you bought in three colors? Sorry, you're actually a different size now. Your stroller needs are different, the best-smelling lotion turned out to cause a rash and the fact that you even worried over finding a cute diaper bag just seems embarassing.

So when you find a new use for something, it's occasion for celebration.

Last week, during my haircut, I had the chance to read Allure magazine (an event that in itself was actually almost a cause for celebration). In a story about rich women who use cheap beauty products, one socialite recommended Lansinoh, the cream for sore nursing nipples, as the world's best lip gloss. So I came home, dug out the jumbo tube I haven't needed since The Princess was six weeks old and tried it on my lips.

The socialite was right. So shiny. So soft. And it will not come off. I mixed some with a little bit of red lipstick and it was even better. Yum.

Now if only we could find a new use for the ugly car seat.

Mom, the Adjective

When you are a without-child woman, your daily grooming worries are pretty simple: Does this make me look fat? Can I get away without blowing out my hair this morning? Is this red lipstick sexy or slutty?

But after you have a child, all grooming decisions must be subjected to one additional layer of scrutiny: Does this look too "mom"? Permed hair, high-waisted jeans (to disguise the belly!), no-iron blouses, short nails, sensible shoes, even all-black Eileen Fisher ensembles -- in short, if it is comfortable and practical, and you have a child, it suddenly just looks "mom."

Now deep in my feminist heart, I know this is an absurd question. Being a mother is honorable, dignified and special. I work hard at it, and I'm proud. I should reject any social pressure that deems motherhood something of which to be ashamed. Why shouldn't we rewrite our definitions, and proclaim pear-shaped bodies and low-maintenance hair to be sexy? Other societies find fully developed women to be the ideal, why shouldn't we?

Who knows? For now, I constantly find myself right back at, "Does this look too 'mom' ?"

This was on my mind when I got my hair cut last week. My long, wavy hair was getting more and more unruly, what with no time to condition and comb it properly. Not too mention that all that heavy hair was somehow drawing down my tired, dark-eye-circled face. I sort of had this concept of an elegant Sigourney Weaver bob, but when I mentioned it to my in-the-know hairdresser he said, "Mmmm..." and studiously kept combing out the rats, avoiding my eyes in the mirror. "Do you think it'd be too 'mom'?" I asked. "Well, maybe we should think about something else," was all he'd say.

I briefly considered chopping it all way, way off, hoping this would turn me a cool urban mom, which is one desirable mom look to have, especially in Brooklyn. This look, however, would require searching out some cool orange cargo pants from somewhere on the Lower East Side, building a collection of Adidas and Puma trainers and trading in my Kate Spade handbag for a messenger sack -- all things I never had the time or desire to do before I had a baby.

Finally, we decided we just needed to soften up things and compromised on cutting off about two inches and adding really long bangs, so long my husband says they don't even qualify as bangs, in fact. It's not too mom, but it's not non-mom either. Which actually feels very sexy.

You Want a Piece of Me?

So I haven't really given up this blog.

Just a little gap while I transitioned between worlds, sort of like the communications blackout period the space shuttle goes through when it re-enters the atmosphere. Now leaving Baby Land and re-entering Career Land.

Except the Career Land I returned to is vastly altered. It is now not so much Career Land as What I Do For a Few Hours Away from Baby Land. It feels strange. Not bad. But awkward. Fake. It's so much harder for me to get excited about the big world things a newspaper editor is supposed to get excited about, when what I'm really thinking of is what's going on in my own little Princess' World. It's getting a little easier. But it just doesn't feel like it used to.

But here's the bonus: Nothing, I mean nothing, fazes me. Somewhere during my second week back, I ran into one of those days that used to steamroller me. News happpening everywhere, half the staff on vacation, my boss out of town, my assistant editor booked with a Sunday project. Lots of potential to screw up and do so very publicly. And then suddenly, as I took yet another call while I watched my second line light up with one eye and with the other watched the photo editor wildly gesturing at me, it hit me: I was just as calm as I was any other day.

No little tummy depended on whether I got it right. No little face was going to light up with joy if I did a good job. No little brain was waiting for me to teach it something.

Crazy day in a newsroom? Piece of cake.

Bring it on.

My Swan Song

So tomorrow is finally it. The day I Go Back to Work.

You can't imagine how this state of affairs has reduced me to a some kind of quivering, sentimental, Hallmark-afflicted being during the past few days. The worst moment thus far came yesterday. While standing in the dairy section of Key Food on a very gray afternoon, The Princess snugly against me in her Bjorn, I felt a tear welling up as "Biggest Part of Me" poured out over the loud speaker.

I mean, running our usual errands on my next to last day with her was sad enough. But knowing a song by 1970s balladeers Ambrosia now has the power to choke me up was even sadder.

Bring on the Precious Moments statuettes and the bronzed baby shoes. It's official, I am a Mom.

Surreality TV

I don't know about you, but my Thursday nights through March are booked.

Not with Princess time, or Husband time or even Me time. No, Thursdays are now Trump Time.

One of the more disturbing side effects of motherhood -- possibly more frightening than the sagging breasts or perennial clumps of baby matter I find in my hair -- is my new obsession with reality television. Me. Reality TV.

In the past, with the exception of a passing fancy for "The Restaurant" last spring so I could watch Rocco DiSpirito ("blessed with a baby face and gel-infused Boticelli tendrils," as Joyce Wadler describes him in the NYT today) chop garlic, I have stayed far, far away from the genre. As near as I could see, it was filled with nothing but contrived situations, a stacked deck of characters and annoying build-up usually more shocking than the shows themselves.

But since having The Princess, Monday nights and Thursday nights have been reserved for "Average Joe" and "The Apprentice." I suppose this could possibly just be my way of making my heretofore outing-filled weeknights, now spent at home, seem a little more deliberate. You know, give me something to look forward to. On the other hand, I don't feel this allegiance to "Friends", final season or not.

I suppose I also might like these shows because they remind me of some things I'm not likely to be again -- single or single-mindedly careerist.

But I suspect I like them more because, for once, reality TV actually seems more like my reality right now. Or at least the surreality that is early motherhood. To wit:

* The minute judgment calls on what to say or what not to say to the “Average Joe” bachelorette that will make or break you for another week; not so unlike getting the timing of that first nap of the day just right or paying for it until nightfall.

* The seemingly fine balance of rah-team-attitude and self-aggrandization on "Apprentice." Ever been to a new mother's group?

* Tasks that seem impossible at the outset but somehow, amazingly, get done and leave everyone in one piece. Well, that's just a day in the life for any mom.

I keep hoping I could find some way to parlay the motherhood experience into a hit reality show that would save me from ever having to go back to work again. I envision some really great events:

* The Lact-O-Lympics: Both quantity and duration count in this test of breasts. In case of a tie, the Letdown Showdown, in which the two moms compete to try to get to that blissful milk letdown first, will decide the winner.

* Make, Rattle and Roll: Moms have to convince their babies to rattle a toy, roll over, and give them what, judging by mother-to-mother discussion, is the holy grail of newborn health indicators -- a dirty diaper.

* Quakers' Meeting: In a two-hour period, try to keep your little one from emitting the fewest cries, possibly even inducing her to nap. However, you can't just sit there and entertain her. You must also complete a series of household tasks such as doing a load of laundry, emptying the dishwasher, and finding the overdue Visa bill and the checkbook and the stamps (the kind with the proper postage, not French postcard stamps you saved from your honeymoon) to get the bill in the mail before noon so no more overdue charges accrue. And watch out for our twists! Ringing phones, buzzing dryers and unexpected sirens outside are all just part of the fun.

At the end of the six-month period, the mom left standing gets her choice of prizes: Either guaranteed admission into one of the city's top nursery schools, but no tuition money OR tuition money but no guaranteed admission.

Hey, this is real life, not television, what did you expect?

Guilty Mom Pleasure #23

Well, I had planned to help you clean up the dinner mess. But she seems to needs to nurse now, so I'm stuck out here in the living room again. I don't know what's happening with her schedule....Do you mind bringing me a magazine?

Guesting Games

When I became a mother, I realized I would also become a teacher, nurse, chaffeur, therapist, etc. But I didn't expect to become an innkeeper.

The Princess, you see, is the first grandchild on three sides of the family (yes, we have three sides, as my parents are long-divorced and remarried). This means that since September, we have had a merry-go-round of visits from grandparents and other assorted relatives -- an average of two a month. Contrary to what you might think, these visits have been generally wonderful. Since I have been home from work there has been time to sit and visit. The extra hands to hold and comfort The Princess have certainly been welcome. And it's nice to be actually all be together as a family, since we're the only ones here in the city.

But preparation and aftermath for each visit are another story, even when the guests are as understanding as your own parents. If we decided to open a bed-and-breakfast tomorrow, I think I'm well trained. Some things I've learned, some the hard way:

* Do a dress rehearsal of the visit a few days in advance. I mean, a real dress rehearsal. It won't do to pat yourself on the back for remembering to pick up your in-laws' favorite martini olives if you don't bother to check to make sure there is more than a jigger of vodka left in the ancient bottle of Absolut in the freezer.

* If your guests live in an older home with old-fashioned bathrooms, it may be necessary to explain why it pays to flush early and often in a modern, low-flush toilet. This will avoid a much more unpleasant conversation later.

* Never mind your attempts to save water. Run the dishwasher, even half-full, every night so you can start fresh the next morning. This also ensures no guests who are capable of rising at 5 a.m. on a Friday, but want to keep the lights off so as not to awaken the family, helpfully unload dirty dishes back into the cabinets under the mistaken impression than because you ran the machine Wednesday night you must have done it Thursday night, too. Consistency is key!

* If a guest is visiting for one night only, and a member of the same family is due in the same week, it is permissible to reuse the same set of sheets without washing. Just fold neatly and if you're feeling guilty, rub with a dryer sheet to impart freshly-washed aroma.

* Do not, ever, under any circumstances tell your guests how wonderful your baby has been lately and what fun they are sure to have with her. You are only setting everyone up for disappointment when she turns into a screaming mess of excitement with all the new company. (See Urban Mamas for more on this phenomenon.) Instead, start apologizing a week in advance for all the crying they will have to endure, the mess of toys sitting in the living room, etc. All positive experiences will then seem absolutely glorious and you will look especially capable.

Table for Two

The Husband and I traditionally have kept Valentines Day a low-key affair. Going on the premise that Valentines is a night for amateurs, we stay home for dinner, refuse to buy overpriced flowers and exchange only loving tokens such as teasing, tiny boxes of chocolate.

But this year, when a nanny candidate offered to babysit for us on February 14th as a little tryout, we decided to mark Valentines Day by going on our first real, grown-up date sans the Princess since she was born.

I don't have time to get into the anxiety we felt about leaving Princess with a sitter -- and a virtual stranger at that -- for the first time. But let me tell you the anxiety I faced hitting nightlife without what has become my most fabulous accessory.

For five months, any time we've eaten dinner in a restaurant we've done so with the Princess strapped to one of us in her Bjorn. She usually sleeps, and we lay a napkin over her little fuzzy head to catch the inevitable drops of balsamic dressing or steak juice. Carrying her in the Bjorn this way has two advantages, besides the obvious ones of keeping our child with us while we share some grown-up time.

Number one: I don't have to worry too much about what to wear. Anything I have on will be covered up by the Princess, so no need for me to worry if my sweater is the right proportion, or my lingerie is showing through my blouse, or my post-partum belly bulge is on display. High heels are pretty much out of the question for safety reasons, so I don't have to force my feet into stiletto pumps or open-toed evening shoes that are oh-so practical in February. I can pretty much stick with a pair of dark jeans or black wool pants, maybe some nice earrings and nobody really cares what I really look like.

Number two: The Princesss is our new social lubricant. If she wakes up during dinner, which she now often does, I just get up and go for a little spin around the room to soothe her. Suddenly, the most severe-looking New York women are chatting me up, never mind my jeans and salt-stained boots. Handsome men look up and smile at me. Waiters stop mid-plate carry to coo. Is it a she? How old is she? She's just beautiful! You must be so happy. I have a niece that age! Our walk becomes an almost dizzying whirl, where I feel like the guest of honor, soaking up all the goodwill.

So last night: No Princess!

The clothes angst pretty much started the moment I hung up the phone after accepting the babysitter's offer. Several years worth of dress-up pants all still just a little too snug. Several years worth of dress-up dresses, the kind I used to feel like a sex goddess in, all now making me feel like a pear. And where in God's name are my stockings? Some decent shoes? Maybe I could get away with my usual jeans if I could just find some good heels? On the other hand, I may not have my waist, but my legs still look good. Maybe I can just keep my coat on over a dress.

Then to Eleven Madison Park. We blithely go with no reservations, deciding just to snag a seat at the bar and relish being out in a beautiful space. But the bar is crowded with people waiting for tables. And with no Princess, we are cut no slack. No one smiling sweetly at us. No one offering to make me comfortable. No one telling us about their wonderful families. It's all elbows, and when two seats open up, we practically have to shove some newcomers to rightfully claim what we had long waited for.

A little bit later, I get up the courage to slip off my coat and enjoy slowly crossing my nicely stockinged legs. And when the bartender sets that couple's drinks on the bar, I smile nicely and hand back their chardonnays to them. The Husband and I toast.

Yes, I remember how to do this after all.