Quitting Is Delicious

Earlier this week, I wrote a heartfelt post on quitting, on how we should not rush to judgment of those people who quit ostensibly good things. Like, say, diets.

Well, we all knew it wouldn't last. At least I did. I guess it's possible that some of you out there had a pinch more faith in me.

That's right. After a short stint as an annoyingly abstemious post-"vacation" dieter, I'm eating bread again. With a vengeance.

It all went down the tubes yesterday beginning with one of my favorite Starbucks Spinach Feta wraps. I was hard at work, burning like a zillion calories on my Laptop and figured: it's a whole wheat wrap. That is very healthy. Probably has fifty-something grams of fiber. Shouldn't even count as bread... And then BAM. Diet is over.

Since that moment, I've consumed the following yummy carborific goodies:

1. Spring rolls
2. Vats of white rice
3. A Skinny Cow (ha!) mint ice cream sandwich
4. A grilled cheese sandwich
5. Toddler's leftover fries
6. A Levain chocolate chip cookie. (Heaven)

And now I am writing this post and thinking ahead to dinner. What will it be? Not sure yet. But I do know that it won't be home-cooked or bread-free. Quitting can be delicious, my friends! Don't judge me. Join me!

The Bread Boycott

You've been there before. I know it. You go on vacation. And you eat. Everything. Portion control? Out the window. Dressing on the side? Who's eating salad? Not much of a dessert person? That doesn't stop you. Calories become your friends. The more, the better. And each and every night when you go to sleep feeling happy and bloated, you feel so popular!

And then each morning, as you slip into those shorts or jeans, and the task seems a tiny bit more difficult, you tell yourself you are imagining things. And then you go find a few thousand breakfast calories to inhale. And then on the car-ride home, the long, screeching-filled trek, when you are scarfing Chicken McNuggets - a food you deemed disgusting mere days before - and washing it down with the dregs of your daughter's milkshake, you think nothing of it. It's so very hard to be healthy on travel days. Right, right?

Home again. You reunite with that subversive scale that waits patiently for you to step on and face reality. But you do everything in your power to avoid the step. You shower. You brush. You examine the tan that doesn't exist. And then you tell yourself that it can't be that bad. That having a grip on reality, however fat that reality has become, is better than delusion. And then closing your eyes, you step on. You lean forward a bit because that usually shaves a half pound or so. You open your eyes.

Two pounds. Not bad. Not good, either. But then you think of all the yummy wine and cookies and famous Buffalo hot dogs you consumed. You think of the fun you had welcoming those two pounds and you think: maybe, just maybe, it was worth it. And then in the mirror you smile at yourself. Proud of this patently good and healthy attitude about things. Proud that you have not morphed into that melancholy creature who doesn't appear much on vacation. Proud that you are cutting yourself some proverbial slack. Proud that you are seeing things for what they are. Two pounds. That's nothing!

And you dress and giggle at the fact that your clothing is actually or seemingly a bit snug. And you get on with your life.

And then you boycott bread. What?! What happened to that sensible creature in the bathroom who embraced the imperfections in diet and humanity? What happened to that healthy and realistic attitude that life should be enjoyed and not controlled at every moment? What happened to the ever-rational conclusion that two pounds is negligible?

I have no idea. But please let me know if you find her.

In the meantime, you are not eating bread. Or any sugars or grains for that matter. And it has been two days. And, yes, the numbers on the scale are behaving again. And you even feel a bit better. A bit healthier. And, yes, these results would probably have occurred if you simply stopped ingesting 3000+ daily calories or eating cookies after breakfast or snagging goodies from your child's Happy Meal. But you credit yourself. Your control-freak self. For taking life by the reigns. For blaming innocuous and nutritious bread. For taking life which was blissfully fun for two weeks and squeezing all the joy and extra calories from it. Good for you. You must be so proud of all that energy you invested in banishing two pounds that you could have put toward writing a chapter or making an art project with your girls or catching up with a friend. Good for you.

Are You a Screamer?

Calm down, naughty ones. This is a PG post.

I needed stamps. Desperately. Why, you ask? Because I just got a very kind, but firm email from the head of Toddler's camp/school reminding me to pay my overdue tuition bill. Great. Way to make a stellar first impression! Dutifully, I wrote a check, stuffed it in an envelope and promptly realized that we are fresh out of stamps. Of course.

So, on my way to my office Starbucks, I hit the ever-hopping local Post Office. And those of you who are worried about me avoiding my novel edits, never fret. I'm actually writing this post on line at the Post Office. The Post Office! Ha! I happen to love puns and happen to be a pinch over-caffeinated which makes everything hilarious. But I digress.

Anyway, I walked into the sweltering Post Office and saw the vast line for the little stamp machine and turned to leave. There was no way I was waiting on that line with all of those sweaty stamp-less souls. But then something amazing happened and I had to stay.

An anonymous youngish woman at one of the window-things (very appropriately dressed in a deep and angry red dress and red flats, sporting a low ponytail, carrying an overstuffed Citarella bag - leave me alone - the line was long and I'm a fan of details!) was SCREAMING at a postal worker behind that plastic/glass wall-thing. SCREAMING. I'm not sure what the issue was, but it couldn't have warranted the tirade I was lucky enough to witness. Things she said?

"I am not petty! We all work for a living! I deserve to be treated like a human being! I do not appreciate that tone of yours! I want your name! I want your supervisor! I am just standing here politely expecting quality service! I do appreciate you! I do care about you! I do respect what you do for a living! I am not petty!"

Now, this went on for fifteen minutes. I kid not. Long enough for me to take a mental snapshot of this mental woman. Long enough for me to write a blog post on my tiny BlackBerry. And when this woman turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of her face which was now a bold burgundy like her coordinated outfit. And I (and the rest of the riveted strangers in my midst) studied her as she departed and wondered what triggered such an outburst. Because my guess is that it had nothing to do with mail.

I'm beginning to think that our population is made up of two distinct species: screamers and non-screamers. For better or worse, I fall into the latter camp. I'm actually a fairly confrontational person. I do not let things stew. If there is an issue, I address it. But I do not scream. I don't raise my voice with my kids. I did not yell once during childbirth (though I came close with the Snickers Incident - Hi, Hubby!) I never pitch fits for bad service at restaurants or in airports or in taxis. I don't think this is necessarily a conscious or principled decision, that I've decided that screaming is counterproductive or non-utilitarian. Rather, it's just not something I do.

Is this screaming business a matter of nature or nurture, happiness or dissatisfaction? Who knows... What I do know is that if you ever need material, juicy snapshots of human interaction, make a cameo at your local Post Office. Nothing like long lines, a lack of air conditioning, and hot tempers to spice up a bland summer afternoon. And thank you to the lady in red for inspiring this post and for giving me a reason to wait on that long line. Without you, I wouldn't have sent off that embarrassingly late tuition check. Without you, I wouldn't have countless stamps in my possession.

To which species do you belong? Are non-screamers more mellow by nature perhaps? And more likely to pay bills late and run out of stamps?

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?

Clichés Are Cute

Well, we are home, sweet home apartment. And, yes, this is a cliche because it is a saying, expression, idea, or element of an artistic work which has been overused to the point of losing its original meaning or effect. But I think we should give cliches a chance. They are cute. They are overused because they are true or ring true for the people who utter them.

I think as a society we are problematically obsessed with originality. Yes, we should all strive for novelty and ingenuity in our work and in our lives. But we can't always be original. So, no, I'm not reinventing the wheel here (another lovely platitude). I'm using a tired old saying to convey something that is profoundly and predictably true: I'm happy to be home. To be surrounded by familiar toys and cats and mail-piles and other cliched clutter. And anyway I'm too tired to utter something original.

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?

The Sound of Silence

“All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.” 

-Blaise Pascal.

Pure silence makes me uncomfortable. It just does. Not sure why. Maybe because I am a City girl and I was raised to a soundtrack of sirens. Maybe because when shrouded in silence, I have no choice but to think about things - even the things I'd rather not think about. To remember the things I toil to forget. To dream of the things that linger beyond reach. To worry about the things I can't seem to change. Maybe because when the world is utterly and immaculately silent, I can actually hear the ebb and flow of breath, the scurry of an anxious heartbeat, the melody of my own mortality. 

Whatever the reason, I've always been a fan of background noise. Music. Television. Conversation. Traffic. Fussing. Rain. Anything but the void. And maybe Mr. Pascal would say that my inability to sit in a quiet room alone is a true existential bummer of sorts, a sad and supple source of potential misery. And maybe Mr. Pascal would be right. Maybe he would. I'm sure he was right about many things. Good for him.

Anyway, this has admittedly been a very meandering path to my weekly update on the Happy Headache (a.k.a. the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-renovation of our new place), but, alas, I do have a point and I'm getting there and I was craving a little philosophical Friday afternoon stroll, so I thank you for indulging me. Anyway, I did not attend this morning's weekly construction meeting, but Husband did and he was kind enough to pass along the migraine-inducing minutes of said meeting. Bring on the bullet-points:

• Structural Engineer has uncovered seemingly serious flaws in the foundation of our apartment, flaws regarding gravely important things like pillars and joists. Translation? Bye Bye Budget.
• Addressing these things necessarily expands the good old scope of work. Translation? Add six too many weeks to that trusty time projection.
• Our new place abuts a school. Our project manager says he can hear conversations going on in our lovely neighboring school through the wall of what will be Toddler's future bedroom. What does this mean? We must pay for an ACOUSTICIAN to come analyze the conditions. I am not making this stuff up. We pay someone to specializes in acoustics to come listen to the kids/campers chit chat through the wall and then tell us what we can do to fix it. Translation? RIP Budget.

So, it seems that everything - even the sound of silence - will cost us a pretty penny. And though I am doing everything in my power to pass along my sedatephobia (i.e. fear of silence, there's a word for it!) to my progeny (currently the girls fall asleep every night to the artificial rumblings of rain and the digital crash of ocean waves), I guess I should at least give them the chance to sit (or sleep) in that quiet room alone and decide for themselves. I imagine this would make Pascal proud.

How do you feel about silence? Do you crave it or avoid it like I do? Is this Pascalian malaise an urban or more universal human phenomenon?

The 29-Hour Raw Food Diet

If I were visiting this blog and not its proud mama, I would read the title of this post and my heart rate would quicken and I would get a mini-surge of excitement. A 29-hour diet? I can do anything for 29-hours! I would begin to salivate for details and then I would begin reading... and then I would feel stupid and realize that this is the story of someone who could only last on a diet for a pathetic 29 hours. Bummer. 

Last week, I met a friend for lunch. As we perused the menu, she said in a whisper: Let me just tell you, I'm doing the raw food thing. Presumably, she told me this so that I wouldn't mock her for munching on plain lettuce leaves. But her pre-meal confession had another effect on me: it piqued my interest. What is a raw food diet?

So, over lunch, I enjoyed a savory seminar on the raw food diet. And as my friend explained how she makes smoothies and delectable "green juice," I noticed how fantastic and healthy she looks. Sure, she looked skinny and I love skinny, but she always looks skinny. But her skin was good and glowing. She was invigorated, smiling, seemingly high on life. (Or maybe on green juice?)

Hmmm. So what did I do after lunch? I went across the street to the grocery store and bought me a boatload of raw foods. Nuts. Avacados (or "Cados" as Toddler calls them). Veggies. And right then and there, I went on a raw diet. 

The next morning, I was down .5 pounds! A miracle. Now, we all know that it's more likely that I was down a half pound because of all the scrambling I did to learn about this raw food diet, but whatever. So, I decided to stick with the diet. But by evening, after a long day with my little cowgirls, I was starting to dream of cooked vegetables. Of course you are going to lose weight on a diet where it is a treat to have a steamed piece of broccoli! 

Anyway, the next morning, I stood there on line at Starbucks talking to myself. This diet is not for me. Diets aren't for me. Moderation is the key. Life is too short. She did look positively gazelle-like though. No, not for me. And when it was my turn to order, I asked for my beloved and opposite-of-raw Venti Pike Place coffee. And then I added an egg sandwich. And then I scarfed said steaming-hot sandwich in record time, gaining back that piddly half pound. Yum.

Why is it that I am such a sucker for diets? Of course, like 99% of you out there, I would love to drop those five pounds. Of course. But is our societal obsession with diets and weight-loss and before-and-after stories perhaps prime evidence of our shared insecurities? Of our preoccupation with perfection? Of our insatiable hunger for control? Is my brief fling with the raw food diet another sad manifestation of that collective fantasy and fallacy that if we just lose the weight, it will be happily-ever-after? 

Counter Points?

What to do when I've promised to give you a weekly update on something, namely that good old Happy Headache (a.k.a the untimely-given-this-recession-gut-renovation of our new place) and (because the construction gods have pressed that big bad pause button) I have no update to give? Hmmm.

I know. Cook up a delicious dilemma. Make it spicy, dramatic and dire... 

One day we will have a new kitchen. In my dreams, it is ethereal and light and lovely. In this kitchen, we will gather as a happy family and trade stories about our days, about aced spelling tests and job promotions and fabulous book reviews. We will laugh deeply and celebrate the magic of good food and good wine. And it will not be a formal kitchen, but the casual hub of our home, the heart of it all. There will be no rules. And if there are, we will break them. We will sit atop glistening white countertops and swing socked feet while snacking and sipping and savoring life.

Dreams are divine because they don't require decisions and details. But real life does. Of what material will these magical glistening countertops be made? Well, it seems we have a bevy of choices:

1. Granite

2. Engineered Stone

3. Solid Surface

4. Ceramic Tile

5. Laminates 

6. Butcher Block

7. Stainless Steel

8. Soapstone

9. Marble 

10. Concrete

Now, I've always dreamed of smooth white marble. It's romantic. Old school. Illustrious. And per my research? Expensive. Porous. Easily stained. Easily scratched. Utterly impractical.

What to do, friends? You all have kitchens. Don't pretend you don't. Tell me what works. Tell me what doesn't. If you're so inclined, tell me you just looooove white marble and I should forget about price and porosity and prudence and practicality. 

I'm in a devilishly desperate bind here and I need your counter points! 

Newborns Are like Sangria*

Delicious. Deceptively innocuous.  Yummy and sweet. Seemingly harmless. You get the point.

Last week, as I scrolled through precious pictures of a good friend's new baby and remembered my first days with Toddler and Baby, something genius occurred to me: 

All new moms want to be kidnapped.  Yes. True.

So, I emailed my friend and said: Pick one night next week and I am kidnapping you for a cocktail.  

The shocker? She was game.

So, on Tuesday night, after we all put our babies to bed, four of us "mommy friends" hit the stellar new Upper West Side Latin-Caribbean-influenced tapas and wine bar Cava for some much-needed sangria.

We had a great time, sipping the sweet concoction, nibbling on the cute little cubes of fruit. We talked and talked. About everything. Motherhood. Professional basketball. Preschools. Obama. Yes, though the occasion was to celebrate my good friend's newborn who was presumably snug as a bug with her daddy at home, we managed to talk about things other than our beloved babies. This was a real treat.

The hours ticked by and at 1am, I crawled into bed next to sleeping Husband. And before I nodded off, a smug sangria-soaked smile splashed across my face and I thought: Look at me, world. I'm a rebel. A cool mom. I stayed out past midnight. BUT. Then I woke up five hours later with the girls, legitimately perplexed as to why my head was pounding.  All I had was a little sangria.  Really not that much. Truth was I had a big bad Sangover.

So the day was long and coffee-filled.  I went to bed at 7:30pm.  But a week-plus later, I once again think of sangria fondly.  As a delicious and tantalizing treat. And seven months after giving birth, I remember the first days with Baby as nothing but delightful. Why is it that we are so quick to forget the toll these cocktails and cuties take on us?

* Will someone please teach me the rules of capitalization in titles? I kind of care about these things. I think it looks weird that "like" is not capitalized, but per my research, I'm forbidden from capitalizing a preposition. Not an emergency, but I want to get this right. Grammar gods and goddesses, please help!

Itty-Bitty Ivy Leaguers?

I'll give you a moment to stop laughing. (Or crying.)

And calm down. I don't know this little pint-sized prepster to the left. Though he does look suspiciously like a few of the frat guys with whom I went to college. You know - the ones who lived in casually rumpled button downs and creased khakis and sported that stiff side part that screamed: I'm kind of somebody.

Anyway, the rumor is that getting one's two-year-old into a Manhattan preschool these days is statistically as or more difficult than securing admission to an Ivy League school. So, what does this mean? 

Parental panic of epic proportions.

A wonderful new documentary Nursery University offers an anxiety-inducing and eye-opening behind-the scenes-tour of the Manhattan preschool admissions process. It follows a handful of diverse families from that fateful and frenzied Tuesday after Labor Day through the March madness of acceptances and rejections and wait-lists to the final decisions about where the itty-bitty intellectuals will do very important things like paint popsicle sticks and build blocks. The film gives us a compelling peek inside select City schools including Mandell, Epiphany, City & Country, and Chelsea Day.

Personally, I loved the film. Why?

Because the subject matter was eerily familiar. The rainbow classrooms and highly-insecure/highly-invested moms and dads (yup, including Husband and me). The tours and toddler interviews, the application essays and yes, early admissions! Not only did I just go through this nutty nursery process for Toddler, but I actually recognized many of the nervous parental "extras" in some of the scenes. 

Because it was an endearingly honest portrayal of a socially and economically complex system where some families founder and some flourish. 

And, most of all, because the film, like the very process it illuminates, underscores just how rabidly we parents care about our babies. (Because, let's be honest here. They are babies.) Because this is not just about crafting kids' resumes before they can hold a pencil. This is not just about flashing ahead to a fabulously promising future for our progeny. This is not just about breeding sweater-vest-sporting itty-bitty Ivy Leaguers. No.

And maybe I am a bit spoiled or jaded or sheltered or too loyal to my hometown. Or, most likely, all of these things.  But I think that if you look closely at this film and the families it follows, it is as much about the precious and precarious present moment we have no choice but to occupy and wanting what's best for our babies. And going for it. Even if that entails weathering a wonderfully wacky process.

Pondering Profanity

I've never been big on profanity, but back in the day, I wouldn't say my language was squeaky clean. Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped swearing.  Not sure whether it was graduating law school, or getting married, or pondering kids or having them, but I just stopped.

These days I am busy doing one last edit of my forthcoming novel BLACKBERRY GIRL and I am pleased to say that I still love the story and hope and pray you will too. But upon rereading my manuscript, I was struck by the existence of profanity in its pages. Hmmm.

Now the use of profanity in my book is quite sparing and very intentional.  The protagonist is an introspective and lost soul, treading that poetic bridge from childhood to adulthood and every now and then when life gets up in her face, she lets one fly.  So the periodic use of profanity is part of who she is at that point in time.  So, it makes sense to keep those F-bombs in there, right? Right?

This strikes me as a genuine dilemma.  As a person, as a mom, I am for the most part anti-profanity. But as a writer, as a conveyer of authentic stories, I believe that there are times when profanity is appropriate, important even.  And yet, my writing, however fictional, is ultimately a reflection of who I am. 

What the Fudgsicle am I supposed to do?  :)

A Saturday Shower

100 blue balloons.

36 baby bacon quiches.

1 black Bugaboo.

Countless bellinis.

Endless bubbly.

1 blonde boy on his way.

Congrats, C! 

I can happily host your shower, but I can't offer you too much advice. With four sisters and two daughters, I live in a pink, pink world.

Parents of boys out there, can you pass along your baby boy wisdom to my little sis? Pretty please.

Prudent or Purple?

Well, it's Friday again.  And time for my weekly update on the Happy Headache (the untimely-given-the-recession-gut-renovation of our new place).  Anyway, things have slowed. Or, more precisely, stalled.  We are still waiting on an all-important report from the structural engineer.  And Husband and I have some dire decisions to make about replacing rotted joists and installing insulation in ceilings. But for the most part, things are standing still.

Which is just fine because this allows us to focus on the more fun and frivolous stuff. Like what wallpapers we will use or not use. I happen to like this one here for Toddler's room. It's delicate and yet funky. Bold, but feminine. A shred regal. 

Per Professor Wiki, the color purple carries with it the following connotations: royalty, imperialism, nobility, Easter, upper class. Hmmm... 

But here is my real dilemma: will I like this paper five years from now? Ten years from now? And, will Toddler like it? Because at age two, she is already becoming a little lady and if she is anything like her Mom, she is going to sprout a proud personality and maintain a healthy stockpile of opinions. Some strong opinions that will probably make her parents a wee bit crazy.

So, do I play it safe and pick an innocuous paint color? Something nice and neutral? A shade that no one will hate now or later? Or, do I go with my gut and have a bit of imperial funky fun?

My feeling (for now): life is short.  Your home is your sanctuary.  A bit of crazy color, of intelligent impulsivity, of regal risk, is good. Sure, Toddler will one day (gasp) become Teen. Sure, tastes morph and mature. But papers can always be stripped. And moms and kids, apartments and aesthetics, can always be, and perhaps should always be, reinvented.

What do you all think about my admittedly indulgent decor dilemma du jour? Should I be prudent or go purple?

Going Back to College

I know.  It's Memorial Day weekend and I should take a short sabbatical from the blogosphere.  But I had to share a little something with you: I am going back to college!

Yes, that's right.  Husband and I are headed to New Haven later today for my younger sister's law school graduation. And we are (gasp) leaving the girls home with my In-Laws Grammy and Dad-Dad.  The girls will be absolutely fine. Better than fine. 

But will I be okay?  It will be my very first time away from Baby and I'm mostly dreading it.  BUT. Then I picture college.  The late nights.  The brazen banter.  The impossibly green campus.  I am going back!

And, yes, now that I am a few years older with a couple of kids and a regrettable surplus of worldly wisdom, I know that it will not be the same.  I know late nights will probably mean something past eleven and that any brazen banter will probably be with Husband and my family.  I know that I will probably check my watch every few minutes and imagine what Toddler and Baby are up to.  Whether Toddler used her Eeyore or Big Bird toothbrush. Whether Baby scarfed carrots or sweet potatoes. I know that I will miss them.  But still.  It will be nice to go back and have a little taste of college life, of that wild and wonderful world that was my home before this more ruthless real world.

Would you go back to college given the chance?  And would you bring your maturity with you or leave it at home with the kids?  Would you prefer to revel in the sublime and stupid innocence and ignorance of your college days? 

Good for Kris. But What About Katy?

Talk about the American Dream.

In the event that you've been living under a big fat rock, 23-year-old Arkansas cutie Kris Allen (think: Justin Timberlake meets John Mayer) won season 8 of American Idol last night.

And it seems that Kris was just as shocked as the rest of us were.

Yes, his rival, the eyeliner-sporting and sultry Adam Lambert probably deserved to win.  And, yes, this probably says something about our nation's tolerance for the grey tones of sexual ambiguity.  And guyliner.  Oh well.

Anyway, even for the quasi-fans among us, it was genuinely exciting to watch a dream come true.  This skinny college student, this seemingly nice kid, this newlywed, is all of a sudden on top.  You'd think I could just say good for him and get on with the rest of my busy life.  But no.  I turned off the TV and as I was brushing my teeth, I realized I was worried about something.  About someone, actually.  A girl I've never met.  Katy O'Connell Allen.  Kris's wife of less than one year.  

I found myself worrying about what was going on behind this girl's pretty TV smile.  Sure, they will have money and material things, but in my pajamas, I worried about whether her husband will change.  Or already has.  I worried about whether he will move on to those proverbial greener pastures.  Whether this good guy will let his head swell.  Whether his memories of growing up in Conway and playing the viola and ukulele and courting this nice blonde girl will fade into the background as he becomes a national superstar.  I hope not.  And I know it is silly, but I wish they had a little more time, a few years of marriage, before this fairy tale ending.

How's that for insecurity?  I'm not only losing sleep over my own decisions and dreams, but those of perfect strangers.

Congrats, Kris! Hang on, Katy!

You Look Great Today

No, really, you do.

I just did something I don't do often enough: I gave a compliment.  

And, no, I'm not being insincere.  No, I can't see you, but I'm sure there is something about you -- your shirt, your casually-curled hair, your heirloom necklace, your taut Michelle Obama arms, your endearingly-crooked smile -- that, well, looks great. 

This is the point: there is always something to compliment.  Things are not hard to find.

Here's the odd thing.  I think compliments all the time.  At the playground and beyond: That is an adorable kid.  That is a fabulous nanny.  That mother seems to really and authentically enjoy her children. Wow, that was a fabulous bowl of soup. She looks like she has been working out.  Those ringlets are the cutest.  That book was genius.  

Danielle LaPorte implores us to join her in A Compliment Revolution, insisting that the world would be a better, indeed fuzzier, place if we doled out simple and sincere compliments. LaPorte argues that compliments are "tiny, but potent form[s] of intimacy."

What do you think? Given that we are all insecure creatures, in constant doubt about how we look and how we love and how we live, it's always nice to get a thumbs up.  And, yes, it does feel good to pay someone else a compliment. But what if we are not used to doing this? What if it doesn't feel natural?  Maybe complimenting people is ultimately a life skill, one that takes practice?

So, join the revolution.  Start practicing now.  Tell me you love this post :)

What Happens on Wednesdays...

I am not a bad mom.  

As much as I like to preach about imperfections and insecurities, I am actually reasonably proud of my parenting skills.  Why? Because my girls are happy and healthy and growing and learning and all those good things.  And, you know what? I have something to do with this, right?  Right?  

Truth be told, there are days when I doubt it all. When I literally think and sometimes even say out loud: I. Am. A. Bad. Mom. And, unsurprisingly, those days are usually Wednesdays. When my dear Nanny has the day off.  I like to stay positive and call these days "girls days" or "adventure days" because, well, they are days with the girls and they are often - to put it mildly - adventures.

Now that I am a few days out from it, I can talk about this past Wednesday.  A day on which I had the following fleeting, but fierce thoughts:

(1) I'm not fit to parent;

(2) I should not be left alone with young children;

(3) I should have a Mommy Cam installed so Nanny and Husband can keep an eye on me;

(4) Blogging endangers babies

I know.  You are sitting there and saying, Calm down, spoiled soul.  It couldn't have been that bad.  Sure, there were probably some tears and tantrums and spills and spit-ups.  There was probably a little too much sugar dispensed and television watched.  But it was just one day.  Calm down.

But I am here to tell you something: IT WAS THAT BAD.  Here is a quick and dirty rundown (in chronological order of course) of what happened:

(1) Baby, an amateur sitter, teetered over and banged her forehead (lightly) on my laptop;

(2) At lunchtime, I fed Toddler "star soup" (organic of course) with my left hand and Baby stage one apples (organic of course) with my right hand.  Then something possessed me to switch it up and feed Baby some "star soup."  Baby has a severe milk allergy and is on prescription formula.  Star soup has dairy.

(3) While Toddler napped, I put Baby in the Exersaucer (a.k.a. "The Office") while I did some blogging.  Well, she was very quiet, so I glanced over at her and SHE WAS EATING A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE.  My six-month-old baby who just started consuming solids and who HAS A MILK ALLERGY was eating a chocolate chip cookie (that her big sis generously decided to leave on her desk at the Office).  

(4) Toddler woke up from nap.  All three of us girls were having a cuddly moment on the couch. Toddler asked for some water (and said please), so I made sure Baby was scooted way back on the couch and then I hopped up to be a good mom and fetch water for my parched and polite little tyke.  A few seconds later?  Screams.  Baby was face-down on the carpet (note: we have a low profile couch and carpet underneath and Baby was fine in a matter of seconds). In the words of my darling witness Toddler, "She rolled off, Mommy!" And when I asked Toddler if she "helped Baby roll," Toddler smiled big.

Never before have I been so thrilled and relieved to see Husband walk through the door.  And when the girls were asleep for the night, I was able to laugh a bit about it. A bit.  And like a good boy, Husband told me over and over that I am not a bad mom. That I had a bad day, but NO, I am not a bad mom.

The good news is that I think Baby has outgrown her milk allergy because she suffered no adverse reaction to the soup/cookie combo.  The good news is that Wednesdays make up only 14.29% of my girls' lives.  If what happens on Wednesdays stays on Wednesdays, odds are they will be just fine.

Baby Steps

In case any of you lost sleep over last week's Happy Headache hiccups, everything is going to be okay.  We have procured proper tax designation and our insurance coverage has been reinstated. Phew.  

Last night, Husband and I made our weekly visit to the site and managed to not set off the temporary alarm system that was installed this week.  The place looks good; an empty shell, a tabula rasa, a box of brick and plywood.  But to my amateur eye, it did not look like much had changed since last week.  Sure, the floors are marked where walls will be and it's nice to know that we will in fact have rooms one day.  Rumor has it that they are about to start "framing walls." I don't know what exactly that means, but it sounds profoundly important. Anyway, we're inching our way there.  

And, on the second attempt, I actually picked plumbing fixtures. This is the faucet the girls will use to wash their grubby little hands.  Not bad, huh?  Baby steps...