Cynthia 718
Writing from Brooklyn, New York about urban parenting.The woman you married has left the building
Being a stay at home parent is a thankless job and no one wants to feel that unappreciated. In What Happened to the Girl I Married, a man does it for one year and reflects on it. It’s weird because he admits what a jerky observer he had been while his wife stayed home to parent all those years before him. I could not help but wonder why he didn’t want to go out with her at night when he had the opportunity to. Eventually she stopped asking.
My husband and I talk about our “jobs” all the time since I’ve become a SAHM and even more since I’ve read the book. It’s a painful conversation because he doesn’t even know how much of the chores have become my job. He doesn’t want to say that any of them are mine and mine alone for fear of making me too depressed. It’s hard to know who signed up for what when we decided to have children or what it would ultimately feel like.
The woman my husband married had bright eyes that are now dull, especially by 7 PM. If my husband keeps our 3 year old up for an extra 20 minutes I am livid; that is 20 minutes of my life, my time, stolen from me. I thought I would get the weekends off but it’s really awkward and somewhat rude to be standing around watching someone else do it all while you eat a sandwich. (As if I ever take the time to make a sandwich rather than scoop sunflower seed butter out of the jar!)
At the figurative end of the day, I know I am appreciated and it’s not the end of the world not to hear the applause. I can remember who I am without dwelling on who I was. I redefine success as needed and it may include a clean pile of wrinkled laundry that never finds its way to the proper drawer.
Discover puzzles
The Discovery Store sent me this puzzle for free to test out and write about here. I gave it to my son, a puzzle maniac, to check out. A friend of mine astutely observed, after spotting the animal puzzle online, that it was unclear whether the puzzle would be rather difficult or too easy. (Our sons are in the 3 year old range). It’s not too easy after all.
It is nicely challenging although perhaps frustrating for a non-puzzler. The wooden pieces are unforgiving and need to be joined as they’re held in line with one another. Also, the Xerus has to slide in from under the Whale even though it is super tempting to drop it in from above. My son is about three and did not get overly frustrated; it is designed for age 5+ according to the site. He got the hang of it and does it almost every day. He likes to play with the animals, too, and builds a cage with his blocks for them. Today, he placed the Zebra on his Plan Toys forklift.
One downside, the Alligator’s nose broke almost immediately, as did the Flamingo’s legs and a chip off the Bear. Another friend of mine explained that natural wood will break along the grain. And so it did. The puzzle feels good and chunky and I’m very glad we have it. It’s a nice precursor to Christmas. I do believe that toys made of wood or wool are great textures for children, as opposed to big pieces of plastic.
The gift is also packaged beautifully and makes a great first impression. The names of the animals are listed alongside a picture of the completed puzzle, which is key. It’s big fun and I only wish the pieces didn’t break. I have successfully glued them with Elmer’s wood glue though.
Another obvious downside is the price. I did experience sticker shock when I saw the $40.00 price tag. Now I’m more disappointed that a number of the puzzle pieces broke but still loving it. Happy Holidays!
How Fresh Direct saved my life
Okay, perhaps the title overstates the truth but there could have been such a scenario. It’s not my job to come up with every permutation of possible life saving qualities of a grocery delivery service. I used to feel that the refrigerated truck idling on our block for what felt like hours and unconscionable amounts of packaging undercut their life-saving qualities, but in the words of Sarah Palin, the cause of global warming does not matter.
When that Fresh Direct truck would pull up to their door, my friend’s daughter, at a young 14 months or so, would point to it and say, “dinner.” And dinner it was. For in that truck lay the fixings for many meals, including some delicious pre-made creations like samosas and (half-frozen) parbaked bread, for those who like to “cook,” that is, who like to heat something up.
Fresh Direct is breaking out some new features for the wee ones like baby puree recipes, which brilliantly list all of the ingredients below the recipe for you to buy. There is also a “New Parent Survival Kit” which would seem a whole lot cheesier if it didn’t include beer.
Whew! I now have two $50 Fresh Direct gift certificates* on my hands, one for me and one for some lucky winner. Submit a comment to this post, content unimportant, by midnight on 10/14/08, and I will pick a winner at random and post it on 10/15/08. The winner will receive an email that includes the coupon code for the gift certificate, which must be used by 10/30/08.
*Web orders only (are there any other kind?). Limited-time offer. May not be combined with any other offer. All standard customer terms and conditions apply. Offer is non-transferable. Void where prohibited.
Here are a couple of other offers:
Promotion code for Free Delivery for current customers:
Free delivery on your next two orders
Customer needs to enter the code each time
Promo code: MOMBLOG
Starts: 9/16/08
Expires: 10/30/08
Coupon code for new customers:
25% off first two orders
Customer needs to enter the code each time
Promo code: MOMBLOG25
Starts: 9/16/08
Expires: 11/30/08
Now, why do I feel so dirty??
Birth Story II
The baby finally arrived, five days past due. Considering I still wasn’t getting a seat on the subway (at nine months, people??) I was ready. It was Sunday morning when my water broke as we were heading out toward the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I suspected I was losing fluid before we actually left the apartment but decided that walking and distraction were good things. We clocked it in at 11:15 AM.
I felt contractions spread out over our walk so I called my OB at the BBG. He was more nonchalant than he’s ever been since our first meeting in January. All he told me was to wait a few hours for contractions. Matt was totally unsatisfied with my conversation, especially when I said I was not planning to call him back at any point that day. I knew my doctor and I was certain he would call us back later. There were a few details that he left out and he did call us when we were back at the apartment.
Even though labor would likely take a while to get going, having tested GBS positive for strep, I would need antibiotics, via IV, within four hours of my water breaking and then every four hours until delivery. My OB eventually informed me that delivery would have to take place within 24 hours of my water breaking and that he would induce me with Pitocin after 18 hours had passed (by Monday, 5 AM) if I did not progress. We would be doing this by the book.
My sister-in-law and her husband came over to watch Diego. Contractions were steady but I was able to talk through them and tried to ignore them. They were increasing in intensity and frequency in a very gradual way.
By 3 PM, I was in Labor and Delivery Triage. For the first time in the history of the world, it was not crowded. They monitored the fetal heart rate and I got my medication. We then headed home to supervise the changing of the guard, from my sister-in-law and her husband to my parents. After pizza with my parents and son, we headed back to St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital. The second dose of antibiotics were administered at 10 PM. By now I was having regular contractions, every 5 minutes or so. I was trying to play it cool so that I could get to full dilation and to pushing before I had a chance to second guess it. After the second antibiotic dose, we headed out for a walk and I was stopping in the street but hanging in there.
We decided to see what was going on around Columbus Circle. All the Duane Reades were open and a Dunkin Donuts. We stopped in for a few jelly munchkins. Our next stop was the Time Warner Center, which was open because of the few restaurants located there. We wandered around, I used the second and third floor restrooms, and I suffered through many painful contractions. At midnight, I decided it was time to get admitted to the hospital.
Midnight and we were back at triage. I was 5 cm but hoped I was further along. After two hours, I was officially admitted and moved to a small room where I would deliver the baby. I labored for a while but was quickly losing my cool. If I let Matt try to help me through a contraction I got frustrated and scared. On my own, I wasn’t much better. I think I had a look of shock and terror on my face at the onset of each contraction. I found it difficult to change positions or visualize anything. At Matt’s suggestion, I envisioned myself swimming out to the boat in the Galapagos Islands during our honeymoon. Unfortunately, it only worked for about two contractions.
By about 2:15 AM I was ready for an epidural. Two hours had passed since I reached 5 cm dilation but no one checked me at that point. I was so relieved to see the anesthesiologist appear quickly that I pretended to listen to everything he said. I survived two contractions almost effortlessly, puzzling my husband, while the doc stuck me with needles. The lights were turned off at 3 AM and we slept until 5.
5 AM and I was fully dilated with the baby’s head at the “+2″ position. I felt no pain and pushed like a champ until 5:50 AM (after a tiny episiotomy and a tiny tear). The contractions were more infrequent now; I was only pushing every 4 to 5 minutes. I felt good and alert in our small, quiet room. In the reflection of an overhead TV, I could see the baby’s head emerging. As I pushed for the last few seconds, I leaned forward enough to see her come out. Our baby girl Fiona was born at 5:50 AM.
Now I’m home and feeling that same fidgety adrenaline feeling that I felt after the birth of my son. Having my husband home has been an incredible blessing. Having two children to share my life with is a blessing I can hardly speak of out loud.
Photos are posted on curinga.com.
One last hurrah
The best thing anyone can say to me is “want to go to the beach.” My husband said this yesterday and we did, with Diego, and his best friend. We scooped up his pal from the playground and, after picking up his snacks, towel, and carseat from his mom, drove out to Rockaway Beach.
We’re not beach snobs, in case you couldn’t tell. There is really nothing better than an almost deserted city beach visited on the Wednesday after Labor Day. I’ll admit there was some garbage washed up onto the beach at the high tide water line, like a few plastic bottles, for example. But we’re not talking diapers or syringes. My standards seem low, huh? Well, diving under the waves at 9 months pregnant on a weekday afternoon, playing hooky from life, was heavenly. I even got to lie down and read my book (The Time Traveler’s Wife) while my husband buried the two kids in the sand. No fights, just a lot of snacking and playing with seashells.
Of course today it’s 90 degrees, even hotter than yesterday, and no one invited me to the beach. I sweated it out in prenatal yoga and it was worth it. Nothing like finding your toes again and contorting one’s body into positions that just seem wrong, under supervision, of course.
All this freedom will soon change. The question is: am I ready for it. What do you think?
The end of the line
I sometimes complain that I don’t get any special treatment during this pregnancy. It’s true that a lot of the the hype and excitement of being pregnant is just not there the second time around. And I do have to try to keep up my end of the household duties this time. But seriously, I haven’t done the nighttime routine with Diego since last Tuesday, and that’s only because that’s soccer night for Matt. I vacuumed the living room today but I wouldn’t bother checking the corners. The bottom line is I’m only going to be pregnant for a few more weeks and then it’s back to sleeplessness… and my vacation from responsibility will be officially over.
Book club– on being a bad mother one time
With the help of a book entitled Writing Motherhood, by Lisa Garrigues, I write this post.
Jeez, he’s only 2 years old what could I really have done, what outrageous act, or one of omission, could I really be accused of? He punched me in the chest tonight, right below my neck, as I dragged him to his bed for the thousandth time. And I plopped him in, again, for the 15th time in the past minute. Yes, I read to him about dinosaurs. Not just about tricerotops and the mighty T-rex but about the apatosaurus and iguanadon, diplodocus and parasaurolophus.
I can’t always reconcile my fake nice self with how I really feel but he doesn’t experience that so much. He doesn’t know about sarcasm. He’s not aware of the way I roll my eyes and walk away while people are still talking to me. But kids are intuitive. They sense tension and they pick up more than we initially give them credit for even at an early age.
Crying in front of him and fighting with my husband in front of him are my gravest concerns. Eventually, it will be slightly more okay, at least the crying, because he should understand that I’m human and not a rock. But my self control seems very important to his stability and it plays into the consistency, boundaries, and routine that make his days predictable and safe so that he can be the one to test limits, push boundaries, and explore.
The last time I brought him into bed tonight I said, “enough is enough.” I threw in white bear and big brown bear and jammed his blanket in the corner of the bed. He pulled his pillow over himself and said, “goodnight daddy,” still goofing around.
I’m pregnant (my standby excuse) and I wasn’t nice to him after an hour and a half of in and out of bed. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s night trained for bathroom use, he’d be in his crib. Be careful what you wish for.
If I take responsibility, I want to take credit, too
I need to express the minor injustice that I have experienced of late. I get a lot of positive feedback regarding my son who turned 2 yesterday. Mostly I hear that he’s “an angel,” “a saint,” followed by “you don’t know how lucky you are.” Guess what? I do. I’m no dummy, as Diego would say. But when he pushes someone off of a slide at tot shabbat, I’m there to make things right. Doesn’t it stand to reason that I should be allowed a pat on the back for some of the good stuff, too?
He doesn’t exist in a vaccuum and he’s made up of half of my genes. I’m the one who feeds him peanut butter out of the jar now and cleverly placed the exersaucer behind the loveseat so he couldn’t watch The Golden Girls as an infant. These are crucial, delicate decisions and I nailed them. I’ll end my self-praise there. Just know that I share a small part of Diego’s successes along with his not-so-successes.
More is definitely not better, except…
Well, when it comes to conspicuous consumption in our bling bling American Way way, I just say “no!” More is definitely not better, considering the state of our landfills and the garbage strewn streets of NYC. I even harbor the wish that our building would start composting in the courtyard. For a 14 unit building, we sure do produce our share of, er, crapola. But I digress.
Yet our President insists that we can maintain the “we can have it all,” nay, we deserve it all, lifestyle, as if gas guzzling SUV’s and mini-vans were our birthright. In the words of Austin Powers, “Yay, capitalism.” In such a case, I cringe. Until…
Imagine my moral dilemma when I raced into the Radio Shack today in midtown, on 44th and 6th. I was looking to buy some blank DVD’s, “the smallest pack you got,” I called out to the young man in the store. As he briskly put down his Sunkist, he informed me of their sale. 50 DVD’s for 13 dollars, or else it’s 10 for $10. I was in over my head and quickly dialed my husband.
He crunched the numbers and reviewed his math. “We have to buy the 50,” he quipped. Chagrined, I gently reminded him of our consumer culture, telling us to buy 50 of something we don’t need. Additionally, I was concerned about our limited storage space and also about how I don’t actually know how to burn a DVD. *sigh* “I guess we could give them away,” I suggested. I wasn’t about to mention the possibility of reselling them in front of the RS employee. (Yay, capitalism, indeed!) “Stocking stuffers,” Matt replied excitedly. And the deed was done.
It’s a slippery slope and I’d say we jumped into that sled with all four feet. Look out below!
if a blog falls in the woods…
So, I blog for a collaboration of moms living in new york city, who may actually be living in a suburb, potentially driving mini-vans. The content is loosely managed by the wives of venture capitalists in Silicon Valley, a mythical place in Cali. So, I decided to start blogging here, just for fun, but it does seem lonely.
