Playground Plaid

Who knew I was such a rebel? Such a free-thinker?

At the playground a few weeks ago, Baby and I hung out while Husband chased Toddler from the slide to the swing to the sprinkler. Now Baby is at the marvelous stage where she can't walk, but she wants to walk. But she certainly does not want to be held.

Sitting on a sticky park bench wrestling with a feisty (and freakishly strong) eight-month-old is a shred embarrassing and not an activity one can sustain for more than a few intense moments, so I looked around. And spotted our waterproof picnic blanket in the base of our stroller.

I pulled it out, unfurled that trademark plaid, and placed it down on the padded playground floor. And then I placed Baby in the center of it and surrounded her with toys and non-toys on which I was (reasonably) confident she wouldn't choke.

Then came the stares. Parents looked at me like I was crazy. Like I was giving my infant a cigarette. A few times, I caught their eyes and shrugged. A few nice parents came up and whispered: "genius."

And I felt like a rebel, bucking tradition, breaking those tacit playground rules. Who knows - maybe I've started a trend and by the end of summer Upper West Side playgrounds will be patchworks of plaid?

On a more philosophical note (and you know I love me my philosophical notes), this experience made me realize that conformity is very often 100% unconscious. We go about our days, we do what we do, but we often don't think about why we do what we do. Nor do we very often find ourselves pondering why we don't do the things we don't do. This is hardly a earth-shattering thought, but could it be that many of our habits, our routine activities, are not products of pure choice or free will, but are rooted in adherence to tacit societal and behavioral norms? Do we not do things like have makeshift toy picnics at the playground because of the power of convention, or simply because we are not very imaginative creatures most of the time?

Maybe, just maybe, this has nothing to do with conformity or convention or imagination. Perhaps, this is just a matter of old school etiquette. A playground is a designated space for kids, yes. But for kids to run freely. There are permanent obstacles of course - the swings, the slides, the water fountains. But perhaps we are not meant to create more obstacles by taking up a sizable footprint with a picnic blanket? If we get all Kantian here and think of what would happen if everyone threw caution to the wind and threw down a blanket, there would be no room to run...

Anyone have any thoughts on my admittedly bizarre inquiry into convention and creativity?

Domestically Disturbed

This morning, I sat on the hardwood floor between Toddler and Baby, brokering peace negotiations between the pajama-clad girls who are many long months away from receiving their Masters in Sharing. Mission accomplished. Within a few moments, Toddler was playing with her Mama Tape Measure and Baby was playing with her Baby Tape Measure. And I had a few fleeting, but delicious moments to go online before Baby pulled up on my back and yanked out a massive fistful of my hair. Maybe she wanted me to get off my computer. Or, maybe she's envious because she's bald.

Anyway, before snapping my laptop shut and giving my girls the absolute, unmarred attention they deserve, I was able to read this article. It's the latest entry in Judith Warner's NYT blog Domestic Disturbances. And I was sufficiently disturbed (in the best possible way) to forgo that much-needed shower and read it over a few times, read all of the comments it elicited, and then write my own comment. In that little comment box, I wrote one of my Insecurely Yours letters. I thanked Judith for her brave words, for speaking up, for defending those of us here on ILI and beyond who are educated and interested and insecure. If you are curious, you can read my letter below.

Now, off to analyze my infant-induced hair loss and take that much-needed shower. In case you are interested, while I am showering, I will be giving myself a very articulate pep-talk to prepare myself for the attacks I fear are headed my way. And if there is time left over, I will contemplate the symbolism of those tape measure "toys" with which my girls love to play. Cheerio.

Dear Judith,

Thank you. For daring to lift that proverbial lid on our society’s simmering stew of resentment of women with “major educations,” of women who are intellectually-curious and interested, of women who are unwilling to stay mum behind a lipstick smile just because their lives are charmed in some way.

In writing this post and triggering the comments that precede mine - many of which are unnecessarily snarky and collectively serve as a prime example of the very resentment you explore — you cast a light on profound and provocative topics of education and wealth and social perceptions. Many of your readers are missing the point here - and maybe willfully so. Patently, your article is not about the law of child endangerment, or what it means to be a responsible mother. Nor is your article truly about this one woman, a professor in Montana.

Rather, your article (bravely) points to an arguably wider phenomenon, namely our culture’s apparent desire to put a muzzle on women who are affluent and educated. There does seem to be a belief that because these women enjoy noteworthy privileges of elite educations and financial freedom, they should keep quiet. Often, it seems that acceptable stories - of struggle, of adversity, of that enigmatic “real world” that we all live in — can only be voiced by members of the more “normal” species of women. I recently started a blog called Ivy League Insecurities in an effort to give these women a voice, to combat the societal message to stay mum and enjoy my “good” life and I have been criticized and - shocker - told to keep quiet, that my story is not a story worth hearing, that my insecurities are inauthentic because of my objectively “privileged” life.

So as one of the well-educated women you write about who is simply unwilling to stay mute, I applaud you for writing this and for welcoming and weathering the very predictable and revealing maelstrom it has triggered.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan Donnelley Rowley

BUI (Breastfeeding Under the Influence)

Couldn't ignore this one. Police recently responded to a domestic disturbance call in North Dakota and encountered an intoxicated woman who was breastfeeding her newborn. They arrested her. And she subsequently pleaded guilty to child neglect and faces up to five years in jail. For more of the sordid details on this boozing and boobing saga, click here.

No, I do not know enough about this situation to cast informed and well-calibrated judgment on the actions of the police here -- and no one has compelling scientific evidence about the effects of alcohol in breastmilk on infants -- but as a lawyer and as a mother and as an American, the story troubles me.

As a lawyer of latter day, I'm worried about the very real problem of line-drawing. Are we going to start rounding up pregnant women who are sipping wine or nibbling feta or not eating anything while pregnant because data indicates that these things might not be good for the fetus? Are we going to arrest a woman who has ingested vast amounts of caffeine and is nursing? Where do we draw these legal lines?

As a mother, I am concerned about this story because, well, (gasp), I consumed moderate amounts of wine while nursing both of my daughters. Yes, I was responsible. No, I didn't nurse while intoxicated. But I would be lying if I said I abstained from Pinot during those postnatal months. I would also be lying if I said the Pinot wasn't often a sublime treat at the end of a long and tiring day. And I am no scientist, but both of my girls appear to be thriving. (Brag Moment: Toddler's teacher called her a superstar today!)

As an American, I worry about privacy. I am not sure anyone truly knows how to define privacy or that enigmatic right to privacy. But it's easier to intuit when privacy has been violated. It seems to me that this woman's right to privacy has been compromised in some way I cannot quite articulate. Admittedly, this is an argument I am less sure about. And this is when facts of the case matter. If this woman was conspicuously drunk, unable to care for her tiny baby, and someone in that home or nearby called the police because conditions were unsafe or out of hand, maybe her right to privacy has been surrendered? Who knows. My legal knowledge is rusty. This is where my lawyer friends can maybe help me out?

What are your thoughts on this arrest? Does it trouble you like it does me? Are you better able to articulate what is wrong with this picture? Or maybe there is nothing wrong with this picture and I am simply defending my own questionable behavior?

Elaine Envy

I dropped Toddler off at camp this morning and after clinging to my leg for a few delicious moments that made me feel wonderfully needed, she said, "Bye bye, Mommy" and promptly started decorating a cardboard star-wand with blue glitter. And for the first time, I left the school. On the way out, I assured Toddler's teacher that I would be within a two-block radius and tethered to my cell phone. And before I could utter my phone number, the door was shut to that colorful room. So, like it or not, the separation process is underway.

Having a good chunk of time to spare, I met Sister C for breakfast. C is 38 weeks pregnant, glowing and gorgeous, waiting for her little boy to make his debut. We lingered over yummy food and drink, talking life and law and little babies. And I had a feverish resurgence of belly envy. I looked at her - all sunny smiles, on the precipice of perhaps the biggest day of her life. I looked at her belly - round, taut, bulging with promise and I thought: Yup, I'm officially envious.

It didn't help that I went to see her finished nursery which is hands down the coolest, funkiest, most artfully arranged baby haven I have ever seen. I will ask her if I can take a picture and post it here on ILI because it is that amazing. It's a sanctuary of blues and aquas and greens, full of animal motifs and rich patterns... Leave it to my Phi Beta Kappa, Summa Cum Laude, Yale Law Grad beauty of a sister to be good at yet another thing. I have zero doubt she will make an incredible mother and I can't wait to see it happen... and soon!

I'm also envious of another thing: Elaine. Elaine is the miracle of a baby nurse who stayed with Husband and me during the first weeks of Toddler and Baby's lives. And now she will stay with C and her new fam. A seasoned veteran of all things baby, with a cool Jamaican accent and sweet smile, Elaine brought a sense of sanity, calm, and happiness to our home during a time when things could have easily been insane, hectic, and anxiety-riddled. She answered infinite questions, taught infinite lessons, showed me how to burp and bathe a baby. I am forever indebted to this woman and I cannot wait to see her again. I know that baby nurses are largely a Manhattan phenomenon and that there are many of you out there who are judgmental of paying someone to stand by and keep the postnatal peace. I know plenty of you probably think having a baby nurse is indulgent and unnecessary and you are certainly entitled to your opinion. But I have zero regrets. And when I have Baby #3 (and Baby #4 - I can dream!), I will welcome Elaine back into our humble abode.

When will my baby nephew arrive? When will I be reunited with Elaine? Stay tuned! My guess: C will go into labor late Thursday night and her cutie will arrive this Friday, July 10...

I know you don't know her (or maybe you do!), but when do you think C will give birth? What are your thoughts on baby nurses?

Back to "Business"

I planned on penning a provocative post about Sarah Palin or the conundrum of celebrity death, but those can wait. I planned on waiting until this evening to post because I am back to "business," hard at work finalizing edits for BLACKBERRY GIRL and I need to put that first until it is completed. But I can't wait until later.

I am sad. Nanny just texted me and said that the girls had a blast at the playground and that Toddler is soaked because she ran through the sprinkler. And as I read this text, I smiled. And pictured rosy cheeks and soaked ringlets. Cheeks and ringlets I've seen 24/7 for two weeks straight. Because as exhausting as "vacation" was, I was with my girls at every moment (except for when Grammy and Dad-Dad generously watched the babes while Husband and I slept in). And I got used to this. And even though I saw my girls a few hours ago, I miss them. And, yes, I'm being a bit melodramatic because we will reunite a few hours from now for music class. But this is about something bigger.

Maybe I should only work before 7am and after 7pm and during nap-time? Maybe I should put off career ambitions until the girls are in school? Maybe I should be soaking up this fleeting time with them? Maybe my priorities are off-kilter?

I know. I know. Tomorrow, I will probably feel better about things. I will realize that it is in fact possible to be a mother-plus. But right now, I am on the verge of tears about a missed trip to the playground. Right now, frolicking in the sun and sprinklers with my little girls seems to be the most important thing in the world. Far more important than blogs and books.

When will this get easier? Will it? Can "business" and babies truly coexist?

Independence

"Independence is happiness." - Susan B. Anthony

"Do not destroy that immortal emblem of humanity, the Declaration of Independence." - Abraham Lincoln

"It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinions; it is easy in solitude to live after your own; but he great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

"True independence and freedom can only exist in doing what's right." - Brigham Young

"In the progress of personality, first comes a declaration of independence, then a recognition of interdependence." - Henry Van Dyke

"Independence is chasing your child and realizing for the first time that one day you might not catch her. And that she might not need you to." - Aidan Donnelley Rowley

What Have I Done Wrong?

Ensconced in the privacy of my home, I am very good at convincing myself of certain things. One such thing? That Toddlers are an inscrutable species, that they will do as they please and then one day morph into polite and decorous little people. I tell myself that toddlers are inherently poor eaters, that it is very normal for them to run around, never sit for a meal, graze on Pirate's Booty and pretzels and that it isn't weird. And the experts (our pediatricians) enable me in my delusions, telling me that 'Toddlers don't starve." Rather, they eat when they are hungry, they get what they need, and that putting undue focus or pressure on food and mandates to consume it will only create an "issue," and we all know that "issues" are to be avoided like that proverbial plague. And I quite like this laissez-faire philosophy of child-rearing, so I listen to it. Cross those fingers. Hope for the best. Occasionally Routinely offer ice cream as a reward (for a few bites and many tears).

But after spending time with other little ones (my sisters' kids in Wisconsin and Husband's cousin's kids here at the Cape), I have that sinking feeling that despite my own well-tailored rationalizations, despite the honest advice from an esteemed practice of docs, I have done something wrong. Last night, Toddler pitched a screaming fit when we put a plate of food in front of her. Very articulately, she told us over and over that she did not want to eat it. Now, her three cousins (ages 3-6), sat there like little gentlemen, chewing their chicken and sipping their milk. Their mother told them they couldn't be excused from the table until they had finished their meals and they listened. They sat. And ate. And then, later that night, when our girls were asleep and I was sipping a post-tantrum cathartic glass of Pinot, these little boys sat through our adult dinner again. Nibbling from their parents' and grandparents' plates. And that's not it. When dinner was over, these three little men cleared the table.

I know. It's not a competition. But I felt sad. And then I played a dismal game of Wii Bowling and felt even worse. And I am convinced that Toddler -- who is usually sunny and has been stormy -- is getting her molars and it is potentially painful to eat. Or, more likely, this is another self-serving excuse that will cushion me from a painful realization: that I am not perfect, that maybe when it comes to this aspect of parenting - the food/nutrition/waiting on elders aspect of parenting -- I have done something utterly and irreversibly wrong. Who knows.

Please tell me that my Toddler, despite her vitriolic anti-nutrition displays, will be a healthy and happy child. And that if I practice a bit, I will become a better virtual bowler.

Is Knowledge Always Power?

Last week, I posted a letter to fellow mothers urging them to stop sharing their labor and delivery stories with pregnant women. This letter like my blog and like life was part serious and part silly. And it prompted a pair of insightful comments from loyal ILI readers. One of these comments came from fellow-blogger Mama over at the delightful blog The Elmo Wallpaper. Mama stated - ever-diplomatically of course -- that she disagreed with my argument that women should lie about their labor stories.

She wrote:

...I believe in telling the honest truth, because not telling it just makes women freak out when they are in the middle of it and things AREN'T going perfectly. I would rather them know that it's perfectly normal to NOT have the birth you expect. And I think it's almost criminal that nobody tells you about the aftermath. Knowing it's coming, IMO (in my opinion), makes the experience less terrifying.

And instead of responding to her comment in the comment box, I decided to make this is its own post because really this is about something far bigger than birth and babies and pseudo-serious letters to fellow members of the Mother Species. This is about knowledge.

We all know that I am a hopeless romantic when it comes to education, to my alma maters, to concepts of knowledge and continued learning. There is something magical and majestic about knowledge. But does it always empower us or does it sometimes hinder us? Is it always better to know more, or does a little (willed) ignorance perhaps go a long way?

When I quit my job at the law firm and told people that I was going to write a novel, I was serenaded by a chorus of condescension. The gist? My plan to jump ship and write a book was cliched and cute. An ill-conceived, utterly blonde move. And then people who knew more than I about the publishing world (which at that point was practically everyone) regaled me with countless stories of failure, of dusty manuscripts, of slush piles, of evil agents. I was fed statistics - alarming ones - about how hard it is to complete a novel and then find an agent and then sell the book to a publisher.

But I tuned these people out like I do waiters who read dinner specials and I nodded politely and then I continued to chip away at my first novel. I would venture to say that it was because of this willed ignorance or timely naivete that I actually finished the book and then started looking for an agent. If I did too much research, if I soaked up all of the dismal details of the stories told, I would likely have been derailed, deflated, discouraged.

This is what I meant when I urged you moms to gloss over the miseries that might have marked your deliveries. Not because I am a proponent of dishonesty. (Quite the opposite. My aim in creating this blog and nurturing it is to be honest with you and myself and the world and my fingers are crossed that this honesty is deeply contagious.) Rather, my feeling is that there are times when full knowledge is not power, but the opposite. When a little mystery is a good thing. I think a woman who goes to the hospital to give birth should be excited (and, yes, a bit scared) and cautiously optimistic and realistic that uncertainties abound. I do not think this woman should have specific visions of a litany of minutiae that might go wrong. No, I think she should be shrouded in a thin veil of blissful ignorance about the admittedly tough and undeniably rewarding road ahead.

What do you all think? Is knowledge always power? Or are there times when we should dial back on details?

Beach Brain

If you were gracious (or bored) enough to read my recent "vacation" vents, you’d think I’d vow to stay put at home for a while. It would be the sensible thing to do. But no. I try not to be sensible too often. It bores me.

Last night, Husband and I piled our little jet setters (and enough luggage/gear/potty paraphernalia for six months) into a sparky rental car to drive to Cape Cod to visit Husband’s extended family. The drive was mostly smooth, the girls mostly slept, and we made good time. We scarfed soggy sandwiches and chewed gummy worms and in an old school (and utterly futile) move, I swigged a Diet Mountain Dew to stay awake. Around one in the morning, we tiptoed into the home where we’re staying and tossed the girls into foreign cribs. Obediently, like the awesome, well-raised kids they are, they settled in and snoozed. Five hours later, Husband and I woke up to a swell of saccharine baby screeches and damp beach air. Exhausted, yes. Drained, absolutely. Happy, you bet.

I will try to keep the vacation play-by-play to a minimum because writing about the indulgent details of my "adventures" is beginning to bore even me. But I wanted you to know that I’m here and not there (although in cyber-territory, it doesn’t much matter) so that you will forgive me if I say something flip-floppy, offensive, or just deeply blonde.

Apologies in advance for the beach brain.

Cinematic Birth Control?

If our "vacation" (to the North Woods of Wisconsin and the suburbs of Chicago) were a movie, I can't decide whether it would be a comedy or a drama or a horror. But (obviously) Reese Witherspoon would play me. And Brad would play Husband. And the trailer would be set to a sultry soundtrack including "I Will Survive" and "Life is a Highway" and "No Woman, No Cry" and "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." And it would include the following teasing images: golf-ball sized hail, toddler heads in fishing nets, gobs of Wisconsin cheddar cheese, a portable plastic potty, a plastic power saw, yellow bath water, stale fries, nibbled nuggets, Cheerio bits, deer heads, bongo drums, pickled beans, elk jerky, Happy Meals, happy children, trout pouts, Toddler grins, missed highway exits, baggage claim naps, tears shed, smiles splayed, laughter ringing, sweaty baby feet, stinky poops, and a predatory past-its-prime banana. This trailer would intrigue and intimidate. It would be cinematic birth control at its most compelling.

Attack of the Vintage Banana

Our "vacation" ended with a symbolic banana bang. Toddler, Baby and I waited on a convenient little bench at Laguardia's baggage claim while Husband heroically wrestled suitcases and carseats off that slow-spinning luggage belt. Toddler decided that it was the perfect moment for story time, so she reached into one of our myriad carry-ons to find her Diego bug book. When she handed it to me to read, I noticed that it was rather slick and smelly.

Me: "Something spilled."

Toddler: "Uh oh, Mommy."

Baby: "Aaaaaah-Daaaaah" [Translation: "Daddy," or more likely "Give me a Cheerio."]

Dutifully, I popped a Cheerio into Baby's mouth and told her Daddy would be with us soon and I examined the bag wherein something mysterious and stinky spilled. Nothing like the blind reach-in and feel-around. I stifled my scream. Because for goodness sake, there were kids around. My kids. And this is what we parents do, right? We pretend all is A-OK.

But all was not A-OK. No. When I removed my hand from the bag, it was covered in blackened, rotten, liquefied banana. Even Baby cringed and screeched in disgust. (Or, more likely, she wanted another Cheerio). So, we had made it through our ten days of travel without an episode of bona fide vomit (yes, there was the grocery-store-Baby-spitting-up-in-my-mouth-episode but that is for another post) and there we were within an hour from home and something, something gross and random and metaphorical, just had to happen, right?

I gathered bits and pieces of the mashed banana remains from the bag, told my babies everything was okay. I told Toddler her book would dry. I kept the Cheerios coming to keep Baby, well, Cheer-i-o.

And in the taxi on the way home, I once more served as the trademark (and now banana-slicked) mommy meat sandwiched between my two exhausted girls. And as we sped toward home, I kept sniffing my sticky, rotten hands, challenging myself not to gag.

When did "vacation" become something utterly deserving of scare quotes? When did "vacation" become something to survive? I've always been genuinely irritated by people who say those painfully platitudinous words, "After that vacation, I need a vacation!" But I am now officially one of them. And now I will utter those cliched, annoying words: I. NEED. A. VACATION.

Don't think you are getting off that easy... Stay tuned for some highlights from our actually-quite-wonderful-given-my-current-propensity-to-focus-on-a-lone-liquid-banana-trip...

Dear Baby #4

Dear Baby #4,

Daddy says I'm not allowed to have you. That only three kids fit in a rental car. Your Daddy is so sane and practical. And unfair. I will work on him.

Insecurely yours,

Mommy

Dear Baby #3

Dear Baby #3,

You don't exist yet. Not even a tiny cluster of cells. But I'm beginning to think about you. Your sisters are a handful and yet I crave more. More chaos. More cheeks. More.

Insecurely yours,

Mommy

Dear Fellow Mothers

Dear Fellow Mothers,

Stop telling your labor stories to women who are about to give birth. And if you must tell them, lie. Lie big time. Tell them that your doctor was a genius. That the nurses were sent from heaven. That the contractions were mere twinges. That your hospital bag was perfectly packed. That the epidural worked like a charm. That all tears were happy ones. That your husband was a cheerleader. That the baby came out pink and screaming and got a perfect 10.

Lie. Or zip it.

It just scares people. And childbirth is scary enough on its own. No one needs to know how many stitches you got or how many times you needed to push. No one needs to know how miserable your contractions were or that you made it to seven centimeters before getting your epidural. No one needs to hear that you had an emergency C. No one needs to know that the cord was wrapped around your baby's neck and she didn't cry for the first fifteen seconds of her life. No one needs to know about the catheter or the mucous plug or those disposable undies that you wore. No one needs to know these things.

These things make people nervous. Just like this letter does.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Columbia Law School Girls

Dear Columbia Law School Girls,

There must have been something in the water or the Strokos fat-free tuna we consumed with wild abandon in those good old pre-mercury-paranoia CLS days. Because between us, we now have six baby girls (and another any day). No boys allowed.

Who would have guessed back then when we were busy making final exam outlines (okay, you guys were busy making them and I was busy thinking up artful ways of asking you to share them with me) that we would collectively produce more than a half-dozen baby girls in the next half-dozen years?

I have never regretted going to law school. Never. Columbia was a fantastic school and I learned a ton there. I learned all about Constitutional Law and Evidence. I learned about all of the bars along Amsterdam Avenue. I learned how to answer a question about a case I hadn't read. I learned how to spot a group of girls among the masses who would prove life long friends and fellow mommies.

Now let's do everything in our power to make sure our girls don't become lawyers. Just kidding. Kind of.

To life, law, and little girls! I love you all.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Jimmy

Dear Jimmy,

You are a troublemaker already. Tucked inside C's belly, kicking and punching and turning somersaults, keeping her in NYC while the rest of us are fly-fishing miles away. And we wish your Mommy and Daddy were here with us now, catching fish, taking in the views, eating cheese curds.

But I think ahead to next year. You will be almost one. I can see you now - bright blue eyes, a mini-mess of blond hair, a vast and undeniable smile, stumbling around on that old wooden porch, reaching for your Daddy's rods. Playing with your cousins.

You better stay cozy in that belly until I come home.

Insecurely yours,

Aunt Aidan

Dear Fathers

Dear Fathers,

Tomorrow is your day. Enjoy it. Put away the BlackBerry and the briefcase. Close the laptop. Turn off ESPN. Let the day roll by in slow motion.

Look. At your kids. Study them. Their smiles, their eyes, their elbows, their pinky toes.

Listen. To the laughter, the songs, the complaints, the phone-call from far away.

Taste. The food you make or order. That mid-afternoon beer (or four) you more than deserve. The moment that is fleeting.

Feel. The little hand clutching yours. The grips of that stroller you won't need much longer. The pride that you've done a good job so far.

Smell. The sizzling bacon. The Play-Doh. The Sunday air.

Tomorrow is your day. Yes, there are hours to bill and bills to pay. There always will be. But this is your most important job. A job you won't lose in a bad economy. A job you can't quit in a good one. The best job.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

A Fellow SASM (Stay-at-Starbucks-Mom)

I have bloggerflies. A veritable cyber-crush. She speaks my language. She gets me. She is me.

Okay, the brunette, Southern, suburban, badass, much cooler, me.

But like me, she writes and blogs and has two young kids and does shifts at Starbucks.

Her name is Lindsay Ferrier. I just stumbled upon her stellar and profoundly provocative blog Suburban Turmoil and I encourage you to check it and her out. You can thank me later.

In her post In Defense of the Work-at-Home-Mom, Ferrier examines that war that continues to rage among the various species of mothers out there. In particular, she explores a contemporary attack on the WAHM, and offers a compelling and pointed and right-on account of why we all need to reexamine and broaden our definition of "work," how there are infinite and infinitely good ways to raise kids and carve out careers (and to balance the two) and how we need to call a cease-fire in this relentless and most-unnecessary battle. A nasty battle that ultimately says more about levels of personal happiness and bitterness than it does about perfect parenting and what counts as work.

This SASM is signing off (from Starbucks of course!) to write her new crush a love letter. No joke. If you're lucky, I'll let you read it...

In the meantime, I want to hear from you. Do you judge mothers who work from home? Do you judge mothers who work outside of the home? Do you judge mothers who don't work? (That's a trick question! All mothers work.) Why do you think we are so quick to judge each other's decisions? My hunch: we judge other's paths because we are deeply insecure about our own. It's all about those insecurities, baby.

Sand and Snacks

Toddler started summer camp at her future preschool this week. So far so good.

Sending her to this camp makes me feel like a very good parent. Why? Because camp takes place in the very room where Toddler will attend school in the fall. Same cubbies. Same little tables and chairs. Same puzzles. Same teachers. So she will have zero problem separating come September, right? Right?

Things Toddler loves:

1. The marvelously messy sandbox;

2. Snack-time;

3. Her boyfriend

Yes, her boyfriend. We are exactly 2.5 hours into this camp experience and she's found herself a little suitor. He's very cute. They hold hands. And whisper to one another when they're supposed to be quiet. They stand and dance together when they're supposed to be sitting and listening to hushed and civilized songs. And of course they sit together during snack-time.

Uh oh. Let the games begin.

Know Your Nanny

Guess I look pretty trustworthy. Because the following thing happened to me yesterday.

I sat at my little table in the back of my Starbucks (don't you love how I'm getting possessive of a mega-chain coffee store?) and a nanny pushed a stroller up to my table and left it with me (without asking) while she went to the bathroom. Maybe she saw my furrowed brow indicating superhuman focus on my laptop screen and assumed (quite correctly) that I would not run away with the Maclaren.

But there was one little problem: there was a child in said (gray and orange) Maclaren. Yes, a living a breathing toddler. A cute one too. He was probably three, had shaggy blonde waves, and looked quite at home sitting with me. In fact, he finagled those safety straps off and all of a sudden, I had myself a handsome little coffee date on the chair next to me.

When his nanny came out of the bathroom, she zipped up her jeans (yes, outside of the bathroom. Lovely. She must have been so worried about this little boy!) and reunited with her charge. And I looked at her and thought: Who do you think you are? Someone trusts you to take care of this little boy. Wheel the freaking stroller into the massive bathroom like I have done practically twice a day for 2.5 years. But when I made eye contact with this woman, what did I do? I smiled sweetly. Didn't say a word. And off they went.

I could not stop thinking about this for the rest of the day. Was I supposed to chide this woman I didn't know? Was I supposed to scribble down a description of this nanny and post it on some bad nanny website because sadly I know they exist. Or, was I supposed to mind my own business just like I did, safely burying my nose and my conscience back in my keyboard?

Thankfully, we adore our nanny and it is up for debate whether our girls adore her more than they do us. This is a good thing. Husband and I joked last night about asking her if she's seen that Big Love show (the series about polygamy) to get a sense of whether she would marry us if we proposed. In all seriousness though, please know your nanny. I do not want any more impromptu coffee dates with your babies.