Color day

SUN

The Office Lighting You Install When You Hate Women

Fuck Snow Face

Hancock Building

Maine Coast

Morning: dance class, Afternoon: kid free

Valentines

Snow. Again.

Snooze alarm

Back to the mines

Mirrored ceilings in the elevator?

Sunday buddy

Sledding buddy

True Love

You really need to love something to be willing to subject yourself to the degradation of a spandex unitard and swim cap. Note the goggle marks.

With my 2013 Resolutions

In the background. I suppose these work for 2014 too.

1.Avoid the lesser rappers

2. No yelling

3. Be grateful

4. Be gracious

5. Be present

6. Stop fucking swearing 

Snow day.

Morning commute

Explanations. Or What isThe #365feministselfie project?

Viva La Feminista explains

AllParenting

"The point of feminist selfies are to show — and see — real women. Arreola [voice of Viva La Feminista]explains, "The photos are about the real you. They aren't supposed to be the glam-you (although those are welcomed). The foundation of this challenge [is to] conquer [the] fear of seeing yourself every.single.day. We might look at ourselves to put our contacts in, even makeup on, but taking a selfie and posting it means really looking at yourself. And hopefully at the end (or much sooner!) you will find it less painful and more enjoyable. I don't want to turn us into Paris Hiltons, but rather individuals who don't cringe when we need to take a photo."

 A dude's take

Guessing we'll see a lot more debate.

Live the dream, kids

Sunday funday

Ballerina

Z2 doesn't understand that sometimes Mommy just wants to phone it in.

Fish out of water

Hopefully this is the worst I ever look.

Rear view mirror

Late for work face

Zygote also calls this 'work face' 

Day 3: polar vortex

Back to the grind

Day 1: Frazzled/bad lights

#365feministselfie

Coming soon to a blog near you.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Fat Lard Part Deux Edition

Aaaand, we're back!

YG: Come over here. Let me see that dress.
JM: Yes?
YG: That's what I thought. There's a weird fold here. It makes it look like you have a pot belly.
JM: [blank stare]
YG: I mean, your body is so much nicer than that dress makes you look.
 JM: It's new.
YG: You like me to be honest about your wardrobe. I'm just saying that you should wear one of your other...nicer, dresses.
JM: So, you're saying I'm fat?
 YG: Exactly.
JM: You say, "that's not a flattering dress." I hear, "BONER KILLER." 
YG: It's the dress, not you.
 JM: BONER KILLER.

 About 45 minutes later. JM is standing in the mirror adjusting the belt on the fat dress.

 JM: But, what if I wear the belt this way?
YG: [blank stare]
JM: I mean, as a casual dress, it's comfortable.
 YG: Please don't perseverate.
 JM: Did you just use a Scrabble word?
 YG: Yes.
JM: So you're saying I'm fat and dumb? Nice.

  per·sev·er·ate/pərˈsevəˌrāt/ Verb: Repeat or prolong an action, thought, or utterance after the stimulus that prompted it has ceased.

Alive

Two posts in 2012? Time to schedule an intervention. Back in business shortly.

One Year Ago, Three Years Ago

A year ago this happened. This years ago this happened. They keep me busy.

And Sometimes They Were Very Sad

I just finished reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ The Marriage Plot, and was hooked from the first line, “To start with, look at all the books.” Books and reading are central to the character development, but I especially loved the use of “Sometimes They Were Very Sad” from Ludwig Bemelmans’s Madeline as a section title. Zygote loves Madeline, and so did/do I.

“And Sometimes They Were Very Sad” is my life right now. I am leaving my old job and starting a new one. This will be a surprise to absolutely no one that has followed me for a while, but I am surprised by the tsunami of emotions accompanying it. I HATE BEING EMOTIONAL. You know that. Vulcan, Vulcan, Vulcan.

My job has been pretty much the only constant in my life over the past five and a half years. I’m cleaning out my office and I get to see the physical manifestation of change. In different files marked ‘personal,’ I found:

•The moving contract I signed when I moved from New Jersey to Cambridge.
•The lease from my first apartment
•The retainer agreement for my divorce attorney
•Listings for apartments that YG and I looked at when we decided to move in together
•Various notes from the MG’s school
•A “Congratulations on Your Wedding” card
•The playlists for our wedding
•Leave of Absence forms from 2009 and 2011 requesting time off to take care of Zygote and Z2

I knew maybe 4 people in Massachusetts when I took this job. Now I have four more people in my FAMILY.

So what’s my point? I am thrilled about the new gig and all the “I am going to be a brand new me that everyone falls in love with and thinks is the smartest, funniest, most competent person in the universe” bullshit that accompanies it. But I’m also sad. I will miss this place and my friends and my dusty cube and the gross bagel crumbs that I can never get out of my keyboard and the color printer that never works and the LiveMeetings that never end up “live” and the weird, never-ending pile of feminine hygiene products in the women’s bathroom and that person (whoever you are) that thinks it’s necessary to bring incense sticks to said bathroom and the too-long lines in the cafeteria and too long meetings and not enough meetings and the press release approval process and THE CONFERENCE and the never-ending drama of Conference and my Conference routine with my work BFF of work/bitch/work some more/buy new shoes/walk over Golden Gate Bridge/eat and scheduling conflicts and “I’m sorry, I was on mute” and “what part of deadline did you not understand” and the same familiar cast of characters. With Facebook and LinkedIn and email, I’m sure I’ll stay in touch with my favorite people. But that’s not the same thing as seeing people in person and getting to know them over the mundane chitchat of how was your day/it’s snowing/128 sucks.

DS, my first real friend at work, once described me as an M&M because I was “crusty on the outside, but nice and soft on the inside.” I thought this was amazingly appropriate and a lot better than the usual “she’s kind of an asshole until you get to know her.” He came up with that description when I cried at work because another coworker was leaving us and it was weird for all parties involved. Normally, I’d opt for being stabbed with a blunt knife before crying at work.

I didn’t cry when I left my first company after being there for seven years, but I did have this odd ‘I am never going to go through this door again’ feeling on my last day. It was a bit like leaving college. I’m going to try not to cry tomorrow because that would be weird and awkward and nobody wants to deal with that kind of gawky self-consciousness at work. So I’ll do my job, make some self-deprecating remarks, try to be funny and go about keeping my shit together while I say goodbye.
I’m going to miss it.

Onward and upward.

The Next Suze Orman?

Money Lessons.

Zygote: Where are you going, Daddy?
YG: I'm going to Seattle.
Zygote: Why?
YG: I'm talking to some people about a job.
Zygote: Why?
JM: Mommy and Daddy both work and sometimes we like to have new jobs.
Zygote: Why?
YG: Because we want money.
Zygote: Why?
YG: We want to work hard now and make money so that we don't have to work so hard later and can have nice things now.
Zygote: Why?
YG: You like nice things. You like your lollipops, right?
Zygote: I want a lollipop.
YG: You can't have a lollipop right now, but we work to make money so that we can buy more lollipops.

[Zygote exits. One minute passes, and there is a knock on the door]

Zygote: I have money.

[YG opens the door. Z is standing there with a few coins from our coin jar.]

Zygote: I have money. Gimme a lollipop.

/End scene

MG and Zygote's Thoughts on Vasectomies

My daddy has a boo boo. And a diaper.

Daddy has a boo boo on his pee. I can't touch it.

I don't understand why you need the surgery. You can just not have sex. . . Gross.

If I can't say "balls," what do you call them? What? Testicles sounds worse than balls.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: True Love Edition

Scene: JM finishes telling YG the harrowing story of spending 2.5 hours on a Sunday in urgent care with two sick babies that culminated in some hipster douchebag asking, "is anyone going to do something about that screaming baby?"

JM: Well, so I lost it. I told him he could suck my dick.
YG: That's so crude.
JM: Suck my dick.
YG: You know I hate it when you say that.
JM: Can you think of a more appropriate phrase I could have said to him?
YG: Really, go fuck yourself would have been better.

Perhaps it's time to rethink my language when "go fuck yourself" is the better phrase.

150 Days Old

Meet the New Boss

I'm working on a new project, a new blog that narrows my focus down to the things I get all frothy and excited about: food, clothes, nutrition, "women's issues," etc. I wanted to keep the Like Seriously name, but then I couldn't think of a word for women that wasn't either insulting (Like Seriously Bitches) or too twee (Like Seriously Chicks). I went with Grrrls because maybe, deep down, I am still riot grrrl at my core. Check it out: http://like-seriouslygrrrls.blogspot.com

I'm still going to keep this one for updates on the spawn and my never ending job search and whatever else might be jingling around in my brain.

The new blog was born during a class I just took, Working on Purpose (I KNOW), where we had to make lists of things we enjoyed and liked to talk about. Besides my kids and YG and running and watching a LOT of tv, my list consisted of writing and kvetching about food, fashion, feminism. And then we got to the hard part -- is there anything you can do with that? I immediately thought that I could write about those things, but then quickly retreated into "what's the point? no one reads." But, I guess the point is to do it anyway.

So yeah, I'm doing it.

Wifetime: Television for White Women

Or how I spent my maternity leave.

Back To The Mines

Image from Hyperbole and a Half

Yesterday was my first day back at work. And then I went back today. And then I had to drink beer.

My placard: Will work for new job.

One and Two

Sometimes they look so alike to me. I know they are two different kids with two different personalities, but when they have the same expressions, it can take my breath away. I'm sure this is just the beginning of things that they will discuss later on in therapy. 'YOU never let me be my own person' and whatnot.

Z2, taken Sept 2011 back in Whippany in my old bedroom.


Zygote, taken Sept 2009 back in Whippany in my old bedroom.

What's The Opposite of an Iron Lung?

Z2 is lovely for most of the day. And then around 6pm, the screaming begins. Not regular screaming, but ear-piercing shrieks and howls that cannot be placated with food or snuggles or anything. I'm convinced our neighbors think we are torturing this kid. It's terrible under most circumstances, even more so when you are alone and trying to convince the other child not to poop in the tub.

Have a listen to the decibel level on this one, and imagine that, FOR AN HOUR:

Remembering

I have to stop watching all the 9/11 memorials. I feel like that is disrespectful (to whom?) in some ways, but I don't know how I can endure tomorrow unless I go into media blackout. I just sat through MSNBC's special which was basically a rebroadcast of their live show on 9/11/01. Watching all that information filter in, before we knew anything, felt like a punch to the gut. I alternate between dazed and teary. I kind of hope the breakdown will happen so that I can move past the hazy, anxious feeling.

This year seems harder than all the others, probably because of all the intense media focus.

I remember what I was wearing. I wore it for the next two days.

I remember being late for work.

I remember watching everything unfold in Ray's office and seeing coworkers cry.

I remember being in the cafeteria and watching on tv when the Pentagon news broke. I said something about hoping George Bush was up to the job and having a distraught guy physically threaten me for being so callous. He was right. I was wrong.

I remember stopping at CVS to buy a toothbrush because I didn't know where I was going to be staying and for how long. I still have it along with some cheap makeup.

I remember being alone in my parents house waiting for someone to get there. I remember talking to my brother in France and telling him that the Towers were just gone, just vanished. I talked to my friend's mom and my sister and BB and Tom.

I remember my parents finally getting home from Staten Island. It's like I can almost still feel that hug. I have hugged my parents countless times in my life but that one, I will remember.

I remember that we went to a Chinese buffet on Route 10 and could see the cloud.

I remember all the "missing" posters and the segments on tv.

I remember driving back to Brooklyn finally to pick up my cats and how eerie quiet the Turnpike is without the sounds of the airplanes.

I remember Owl's Head Park and the Pier being closed, but we could still see that cloud billowing from my street.

I remember holing up in the small bedroom in Whippany (Brian's bedroom), living out of a suitcase for longer than necessary because I was afraid of going back.

I remember shopping for wedding gowns and hearing numerous stories of cancelled weddings because of missing brides and grooms.

I remember finally moving back in and taking the subway to Manhattan. Everything was bustling and moving, but as we inched closer to Ground Zero, it was dead quiet, and people walked in single file lines down random streets.

I remember there were exceptions. I remember a fight between two men, one yelling at the other for taking pictures of his family posing in front of a particularly scary-looking backdrop. "THIS IS NOT A FUCKING TOURIST ATTRACTION. IT'S A GRAVE!" he screamed.

I remember people clapping for firemen and police officers when they drove down the West Side Highway.

I remember flying to France a few months later and there was a little bit of turbulence, enough to make me white knuckle my seat, and look over at my father who had his eyes scrunched shut and was saying prayers.

I remember that people liked us.

I remember that everyone knew somebody.

It's one of the oldest written cliches, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I can almost taste the sadness. There's no real way to end this, is there?

September 5 Through The Years

More on the 35 milestone later.

First birthday.


Sweet sixteen -- black dress, colored fishnets. I'd still dress this way every day if I thought I could get away with it.





Eighteen, right before college. My mom looks like she could be Zygote's twin.



Nineteen, before I realized that plucking means shaping the entire brow, not just the Scorcese in between.


Twenty. London. With NN and our individual bottles of "California White." Classy.


Twenty one. Mil Mulliganos show at Chucks with BB. That shirt is 100% polyester.




Twenty five. At ESPNZone. Not on a business trip. That says a lot about 25.


Thirty. Lombard Street on my first trip to San Francisco. One of my favorite YG/JM trips.


Thirty one. W Hotel, Union Square. Magnolia cupcakes. He proposed a few hours later.


Thirty three. With the new kid in town.


Thirty four. Walden Pond.


Thirty five.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Role Play Edition

Scene: YG shuffles the deck of Uno cards for Uno Smackdown Night, also known as what married people with kids do on a weekend night.

JM: Did you fart?
YG: . . .
JM: Seriously, you like fart all the time now.
YG: I'm you now.
JM: . . .
YG: And now I am the Uno Master.
JM: You really are me.
YG: Role reversal.
JM: You fart all the time, you're the Uno Master and you are angrily beating up people in the street.
YG: I didn't beat that guy up. I threatened to beat him up.
JM: Still.
YG: Still.
JM: If roles were really reversed and I wanted to be you, though, I'd just have to inwardly seethe all the time. Just seethe.
YG: Oh don't worry. You're there.

After an epic Uno battle, he won. I seethed.

Summer Reading

Not as much as I would have liked, but good enough. One phrase recaps:

* When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris. Funny enough to read in the hospital with a screaming baby.

* That Old Cape Magic by Richard Russo. Russoesque, but not as good as his other stuff.

* I Could Do Anything If I Only Knew What It Was: How to Discover What You Really Want and How to Get It by Barbara Sher and Barbara Smith. Don't judge me.

* The 19th Wife by David Ebershoff. Mormons are even more demented than I thought they were.

* A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments by David Foster Wallace. Most were hilariously brilliant, and the others were probably brilliant but I felt seriously and ridiculously intellectually inferior reading them. Also, I was right about cruises.

* Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. I miss NYC.

* Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace by Ayelet Waldman. Diaper bag book that is surprisingly relatable considering the author.

Up next:
The Leftovers by Tom Perrotta. I have devoured and loved everything of his that I've read. Plus, I secretly want him to fall in love with me. And by in love, I mean in that "wait, you're from New Jersey too? And you went to Syracuse too? And you moved to Massachusetts too? And you're hilarious too? I bet you are a great writer. I should take a look at your stuff" kind of way.

Valleys, Peaks, Other Metaphors

The years fly by, but the afternoons last forever.

I've heard that expression twice this week, and holy crap, does it resonate. This has been the week of both 'Look at her. Look at her. Look at how she smiles at me' and 'Maybe I should just go away someplace. Some people really shouldn't be parents. They would be better off without me.' Every week is Bipolar Awareness Week here.

The Terrible Twos really are fucking terrible. The whining, the crying, the tantrums, and the low-grade anxiety over what minor mishap is going to cause an epic meltdown like tonight's deep and sorrowful wailing over a broken tortilla chip. Some days I handle it. Other days (after a few strung together days of 'handling' it) are like Monday. I wake up with the baby around 6 a.m. and feed her and then try to snarf down some coffee or something that can be eaten with one hand. Sometimes I take a shower. On the vast majority of days, I do not. Zygote has a habit of waking up in a crappy mood, an unfortunate genetic trait. In the kitchen, we play the "do you want a X for breakfast?" game. Lots of NOOOOOOOO. Finally, a compromise is reached and YG or I sets her up in her chair to watch Sesame Street, some brief entertainment while I nurse the baby again. But the kid is too smart. She knows that we can fast forward to the parts of the show that have Elmo in it so she starts chanting, whining, crying "Elmooooooo" until one of us complies. {Insert "kids these day" or "when I was a kid, there were only 12 channels" story of your choice.] On this particular Monday, Zygote also made me her displeasure with our juice selection known by pouring it out, making a massive puddle of mess and then crying about not wanting it to be dirty. At this point, the baby's fussy period kicks in and we get some ear-piercing shrieks added to the mix of Sesame Street songs, toddler whining and pre-teen "where's my socks? where's my bag? did you do my laundry?" Pre-teen MG also likes to "help" which is excellent when Zygote is in a great mood, but when Zygote is whiny and moody, MG tries to placate her so Zygote screams louder and MG gets all preteen weepy/mopey about nobody liking her. Vicious circle.

Later Monday morning, YG left to drop MG off at her mother's house. Zygote was still whining and Z2 was shrieking, but I told him I could handle it. Perhaps I was overconfident. Perhaps I am STILL (years of marriage later) trying to convince YG that I am nothing like his first wife and that I am nothing but reliable and calm and just a stellar, roll with it kind of partner. You see where this is going. I could not handle it, so I'll skip the rest of the escalation details and just get to the climax:

Zygote has a habit of kicking and squirming and generally trying to avoid diaper changes. The last straw of Monday's escalation came when she managed to smear a load of shit-filled diaper all over my arm. I lost my proverbial (as opposed to the literal) shit -- screaming at her which of course only caused her to cry louder which made me scream louder. I was so insanely angry and afraid of hitting her that I ran into our hallway, jumped up and down like a lunatic, screamed more, punched walls and threw a water bottle across the room knocking down and breaking a framed version of that blessing that starts with "May the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back..." How apropos.

It was UGLY. I managed to get both shrieking kids in the stroller, dropped Zygote off at daycare and walked exactly 4.63 miles with Z2 to calm myself down. Daycare is two blocks from our house and by the time we got there, Z was humming and all "bye bye, Mommy. Love you." I was left with my guilt and the mistaken belief that I had hit my rock bottom in terms of Bad Mommy days this summer.

And then Tuesday sucked worse except this time it was the smaller one that sent me over the edge with an hour of straight screaming and some sort of nursing strike right in the middle of the morning rush. I did my spastic jumping up and down dance, but this time I didn't scream or yell at anyone but the walls. I just sobbed. This postpartum period has been remarkable in its relative lack of tears, but the fucking Hoover Damn broke the other morning. And it was made worse by a two-year-old saying "mommy cry" and rubbing my hair and kissing me and saying "okay mommy."

Guilt overload. I don't want to be Mean Mommy, but I sure as hell don't want to be Sad Mommy. This was the 'maybe people like me shouldn't have kids' day. The how the hell am I going to do this and work day. The how am I going to: do this, work, be a wife, be a friend, eat well, stay in shape, be thin, be better looking, keep up with personal grooming, read books, go for runs, care for my children's full emotional and educational development day. A couple of days out, let's just refer to that as Bourgeois Complaints Day.

Then yesterday was good. Nothing exciting. We went to Target. We did a Mommy&Me meeting. I picked up the dry cleaning. We hit the Farmer's Market. I ran. Today was better. We went to Walden Pond. I refilled the propane tank. We went for a walk. The baby still shrieked and Zygote still whined, but I was okay.

YG had told me, years before when there was only MG, that he never loved anyone as much as his kid, but he was also never as angry as he was around his kid. And I guess that's it -- I don't like peaks and valleys. I hate, probably more than anything else in the universe, feeling out of control. I like things to be steady, calm, in the middle. And nothing really has been since Zygote was born. I have never felt this amount of guilt or this amount of disappointment in myself (and given my general misanthropic worldview, that's saying something) before. But I also never felt this heart-bursting, kiss-giving, want-to-squeeze-you-all-the-time-and-freeze-you-in-this-particular-moment-and-protect-you-from-all-the-ugly-in-the-universe love either.

I want to be present, and I want to be good enough. I am lucky to have them. I want them to be lucky to have me.

Facebook Status Updates Too Boring For Facebook Due To The Kids Or The Boobs And Therefore Only Relevant To A Minuscule Subset of Friend Population

JM:

* had nothing bitchy to say to the woman who told her the stroller was taking up too much room on the bus. If you have nothing bitchy to say, don't say anything at all.

* is a bit like Leonard Cohen except I chafe in the places where I used to play.

* wants to drop these screaming kids off on the Sears' door. Attach yourself to this, fuckers.

* needs a mommy cause to really fit in with the sanctimommies at mommy group. Wild snow leopards and their impact on our children.

* wonders if it's ever appropriate to live blog your husband's vasectomy.

* does sit ups and planks while Z2 does 'tummy time.' So much crying.

* remembers a time when she didn't have to pick things out of other people's junk.

* is fascinated by this Versailles fountain like boob.

* wonders if she's setting Zygote up for a lifetime of failed romantic relationships with all this loud fart encouragement.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Tapioca Edition

JM: It's gross.
YG: How do you not like this? It's just vanilla pudding.
JM: With balls in it.
YG: You like balls.
Together: In my/your mouth.

#married well.

Quotable Quotes From Vacation That May or May Not Be Funny

Re: News
Dad to Mom: You know, Brian listens to that National Public Radio. NPR?
JM to sister: THAT National Public Radio.

Re: Transgendered Members of the Family
Person 1: Well, of course, I accept it, but it's hard. You know in my day, a homo was a homo and a regular person was a regular person.
Person 2, in heavy NY accent: I have to say, it all gets very confusing.

Re: Genetics
Mom: The [Dad's family name] have scary eyes. The baby has warm eyes. Like me.

Re: Genetics Part 2
Mom: That little baby was cute, but not as cute as OUR babies. Our babies have excellent features.

Re: Random
Mom: Zygote's doll looks like Robinson Cano, don't you think?
JM: What? No.
Mom: No, he does.
JM: First off, the doll is white.
Mom: I know, but the features are the same.

Re: Myers Briggs Tests
JM: I alternate between being an ISTJ and INTJ.
YG: ESTJ.
JM: I and J being the strongest, obviously.
Mom: I took that once. I am obviously an E, but I was really surprised that I got a J.
Cue hysterical laughing from JM, YG and Dad.
Mom: No, really, I didn't think I was judgmental.
YG: I really hope that wasn't some sort of seminal moment for you.

This is what a relationship looks like: word play edition

Vacationing in Long Island. . .

jm: The Mosquitos are crazy out here. They keep attacking me.
jm: it must be because I taste so sweet.
YG: and not because you are a big sweaty horse.
jm: ...blink...did you just call me a fat horse?
YG: Yes.
jm: . . .blink...
YG: because of your running. You are so equine.
jm: ...blink...
YG: strong and sleek.
jm: ...blink...
YG: equine. Not...bovine.
jm: blogworthy.

This Is What A Relationship Looks Like: Cycling Edition

YG: I've been obsessed with rims lately.
JM: RIM SHOT!
YG: Let me rephrase that. I've been looking into new rims.
JM: Yeah, baby, I'm going to get new with your rims.
YG: I don't even remember who built my rims.
JM: God made your rims.
YG: You really are a twelve year old boy.

Offensive and Not Politically Correct

Examples of why I need to clean up my language:

* I was working on an essay and went to describe something as "that's so gay" and thought that I needed something better that wouldn't offend the mos. The first thought that popped into my head as an alternative was, "that's so retarded." Hmmm....

* During a particularly bad toddler tantrum, I said, "Oh.My.God. You need to stop it with this motherfucking crying." Okay if I was Samuel L. Jackson. I am not.

* Dropping something on the floor, I hear Zygote whine her usual "uh oh" followed by something that sounded remarkably like "shit."

Parenting-Related News I Neglected To Comment On While I Was Watching Too Much Bad TV and Nursing This Child

The Casey Anthony Trial

I didn't really follow any of this and in fact, finding that Wikipedia link was probably was the most information I've ever consumed about the case. Generally my rule is that if Nancy Grace is talking about it, it isn't worth following because she is a fear mongering nutcase. Of course, I am horrified by the murder of this child, but I honestly don't understand all the media attention and the righteous indignation by people who seemed to be overly involved in this case.

There's a whole chapter in The Mommy Myth about women who kill their children and our sick fascination with them. There's a part of us that likes to see them suffer because it makes us feel like better parents of a higher moral character. Okay, maybe, but isn't 'I didn't murder my kid' setting the bar really low? Even though my parenting philosophy could best be described as "good enough," I aim higher than that. I don't know if she was guilty or not, but a USA Today/Gallup Poll said that while about two-thirds of Americans (64 percent) believe Casey Anthony "definitely" or "probably" murdered her daughter, women are much more likely than men to believe the murder charges against Anthony. The poll reported that women were more than twice as likely as men, 28 percent versus 11 percent, to think Anthony "definitely" committed murder. That's definitely a gap.

It seems to me that the anger is misdirected, as usual. I am angry that this woman, murderer or not, will probably get some sort of book deal and end up on the celebrity circuit and that the real systematic problems that we should be angry about won't get addressed because we're all too busy watching her on Dancing With the Stars or some shit like that.


Taking Your Fat Kids Away
A LOT has been written about the obesity specialist who is suggesting that the State intervene when children get too obese. Because state intervention with children always works out great. There are so many things wrong with this suggestion, but I think my favorite quote might be that state intervention "ideally will support not just the child but the whole family, with the goal of reuniting child and family as soon as possible. That may require instruction on parenting."

Instruction on parenting. Yes, parenting. No instruction on healthy eating or avoiding advertising or peer pressure or marketing or how to eat healthy when there are no grocery stores in your crappy neighborhood. Nope, what you need is instruction on PARENTING.

I absolutely loved what Lesley Kinzel had to say about this:

"Placing a child in foster care is not a minor inconvenience, and yet here we are in a world where researchers can frame it as “discomfort” and nothing more. I am inclined to blame a cultural ideology in which fat children are not identified as individuals requiring personal attention and support, but are instead simply an embarrassing problem to be solved — or eradicated.

The focus on childhood obesity at the expense of focusing on health for all children creates a Machiavellian situation in which fat kids are to be slimmed down by any means necessary — even if it means taking them away from loving and attentive parents. Meanwhile, average-sized kids who also subsist on fast food and a lack of exercise are ignored, because these “risky” behaviors are evidently only a problem if the child is fat.

Placing fat kids in foster care only serves to punish both kid and parents in a brutally public way, as the child will undoubtedly internalize the reasons for their removal as being their fault (and who will pay for the years of subsequent therapy they may require?), and the parents will be socialized as monsters who are slowly murdering their offspring."

Breastpump Action
I read this post on Motherlode a few nights ago while I was bleary-eyed and up with Z2. A woman wrote in to discuss her coworkers who were offended by the mere presence of her breast pump. Okay, seriously, when will people grow the fuck up? I have never encountered anything like this personally and I try to ignore any stares or tsks/tsks I get when I am feeding Z2 (and Zygote before her) out in public, but you read so many horror stories -- I have a hard time understanding why this is actually an issue. That's what boobs are made for! I do not enjoy flashing my tits in public (post-college anyway), but I have to feed my kid. And when I am at work, I have to pump to feed said kid. It's about the food. And trust me, there is NOTHING sexual about pumping. To this lady's coworkers: get over it.

Six Weeks

Z2 turned six weeks old today. As with Zygote, the time has alternatively flown by and dragged ridiculously. It's amazing how little I manage to get done with all this supposed time. Z2 is doing well. She's a porker (12 lbs at 1 month old), so the vast majority of my time has been spent feeding her while watching lots of TV (finally jumped on the Glee bandwagon!)

Other things I have been doing:

* I got the okay to start exercising again even though I still need to wait a few weeks for my incision to completely heal before running again. I've been walking 3-4 miles daily with the stroller and generally just enjoying the weather. One of the benefits to having a newborn is that she's relatively portable. If she's sleeping, I can pretty much go anywhere. Not sleeping is a crapshoot.

* I joined a bunch of moms' groups. I discovered this great resource in the Jewish Family and Children's Service -- there are basically meetings every day of the week, and I always have someplace to go. Today I ran into someone I "knew" from back when I was active on Indiebride. I still find it hard to just go up to people and start talking, but hey, I'm trying.

* ACTIVELY searching LinkedIn and the job sites, along with reading a lot of what color is your crappy parachute stuff.

* Catching up on my blog stalking. This primarily occurs during the nighttime feedings, and I make notes to write about the things I'm reading, but see above: lots of time, but no time.

* Lots of laundry. Seriously, it's ridiculous.

* Hanging out with YG. He has an office in Harvard Square this summer, so we have been able to have some lunches together.

* Puttering/avoiding writing thank you notes.

It's pretty boring actually, but at least this time, I expected that. With Zygote, I kept referring to my impending maternity leave as "my summer off" and people laughed like crazy - something I understood when I finally got there. This time, it's ....nice.

Two Books

I am taking pleasure in the small accomplishments. I finished two books since Z2 was born. Nothing major, but a reminder that I still get to be me sometimes.

Links I Have Loved

Another blogger pointed me toward 30 Lessons My Parents Didn't Teach Me, and it deserves much more praise and reflection than I can give it right now. But it resonated deeply with me. I have been spending A LOT of time with my parents lately, and I am grateful for all of their help post baby, but with parents and kids there is always baggage. But now I'm the parent, so how do and can I prevent that baggage from being overwhelming to the Zs?

My favorites from his list (read: lessons I understand in theory, but don't actually practice):

Nothing will make you happy for very long except growing. You can set goals and go get them, but once you do, there's a void, and you're back to square one. Embrace the fact that the fun is in the quest, not the achievement itself. Or just kill goals entirely.

When you do buy things, buy things that are going to give you more time or money, not things that will become liabilities to suck them up.

Don't hold on to things that you "might use someday." A lack of clutter in your life is worth so much more, in terms of mental clarity, focus, and calm than the cost of buying that thing again, should the need actually arise for it (which it probably won't).

Being shy (which I am, and will probably always be at the core) is not a valid excuse for choosing not to help someone who needs it.

This is your life. It's not a rehearsal. Having kids helps you to see this, when you realize that they're seeing you the way you saw your parents, and seeing their house and life the way you saw yours when you were little. That time is gone for you, and one day it will be for them, and they'll be thinking this about their own kids.

Being talented isn't very important, nor is it fulfilling. Lack of talent is nothing but a very convenient excuse. People achieve things by working hard at them, taking lots of small risks, and learning from the results. And that's way more interesting than just being "gifted."

People fallaciously believe they will have far more time in the future than they do today. The perfect time to start isn't going to come. In fact, it was probably yesterday.

Thanks No Meat Athlete.

This is What A Relationship Looks Like: Emails I Have Received Edition

Email from YG: Please keep the weekend of November 18 free as I am going to need a ride and will be on the couch.

Subject line: Big V - Snip, Snip

Exile Over (Kinda)

I gave myself a month to just be with Z2. No projects, no writing, no real reading, although I did manage to finish a David Sedaris book that made me pee my pants a little. Z2 turns one month tomorrow.

Time to find a real job.

Mirror, Mirror

Old pics. Me as a baby with my mom, and my mom as a little kid.



Followed by Z and Z2.

So Much Crying. The Baby, Too.

That about sums it up. That's one of Larry Smith's, founder of the Six Word Memoir Project, best ones yet. Check his blog post on Isis.

Z2's Birth Story

Unedited.




Dear Z2 –

Here is the story of your birth.

As with your sister, for some reason, we never really expected you to come early. I prepped my hospital bag around week 37, and your dad and I made arrangements for someone to take care of MG and Zygote, if needed. Still, we just knew you would be hanging around in utero for a while. We both went to work everyday; Zygote went to daycare and besides a lot of obsessive-compulsive cleaning on my part (very out of character), not much changed.

Around early May, my doctors started to figure you were going to be a big baby. Not a surprise. Zygote was big too, and you just felt like you were running out of room. The nurse practitioner told us that the best prediction of a baby’s size came from the mother – if mom felt the baby was big, it usually was. You were starting to feel like an enormous bowling ball I was lugging around. When I sat in a chair, I could feel your head pushing down, and I knew that you weren’t as jumpy as you had been earlier on. Still, we played a game every night. I would press my hand against my belly and push in, hitting your knee or foot, and you would reward me by kicking back. Even in the dead of night, praying away my insomnia, it would always make me laugh.

Dad and I decided to get an ultrasound to see how big you were before making a call about how exactly you would be born – by appointment for a repeat Cesarean section or by trying the “normal” way. We had a few date nights to ourselves while a babysitter watched Zygote – going to the movies in Davis Square and out to dinner in the North End. We had wanted to stroll around, leisurely eating our gelatos like we had pre-babies, but it rained, so we ended up back home early lounging around on the couch.

On the day of my ultrasound appointment, I wore a purple striped t-shirt your dad called my ‘Where’s Waldo’ shirt. I drove into Boston where the ultrasound technician found your heartbeat right away. We couldn’t get a glimpse of your profile, though. Your fists were bunched up and covering your face. Every time she moved the ultrasound want, you would turn your face and look away. She did a bunch more measurements and came up with 8lbs. 15 oz. for you at 37 weeks and 3 days. Those measurements can be off by up to a pound, but still, we knew. You were big.

We spent that weekend around home. On Saturday, we celebrated MG's 12th birthday with Nana and Papa and Auntie Kelly, Osmani and Rena and the boys, and Sol. On Sunday, we went to Worcester to see your cousin Brittany graduate from college. It was cold and rainy, but Dad and I thought it was important to be there, to show our family’s support for such a big accomplishment – she’s the first person in the family since your father to graduate. For us, it probably won’t feel that long until you and MG and Zygote graduate.

During the week, we continued to get our house ready for your arrival. We met with our nurse practitioner and chose Monday, June 6, as our surgery date if you didn’t make an appearance sooner. We liked the idea of having an extra weekend to wait for you, and we quickly told our friends and family that Z2, our nickname for you, would be arriving on the 6th. A few short hours later, we were bumped up to June 3, and well, Mommy lost her shit. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with June 3. It’s a perfect day – your birthday. It’s just that Mommy likes to feel like she has some semblance of control over her own life and body, and there is no way of controlling labor. I was angry that they took my one thing I could control away from me. I pouted and I cried, and I got over it. Phone calls were made. Babysitters lined up. And while we still hoped that you might surprise us with an early appearance, we knew the date and time that we would meet you.

I spent that last week, puttering around the house and doing things I knew I wouldn’t have a chance to do later. I got a pedicure and went clothes shopping and took a trip up to Gloucester with some people from work and walked along the beach. I ate Pinkberry on the roof of one of Harvard’s buildings with a group of friends on a hot day. I wrote a lot and finished some books. Dad took a lot of bike rides and long lunches. On Memorial Day weekend, our last at home without you, we stayed in the neighborhood, eating burgers and drinking wine on the porch. We took Zygote to the park to ride on the ‘whee’ (swings) and to play in the sprinklers. On Thursday, we finally, FINALLY, put on ‘Out of Offices’ and got ready to meet you.

Nana and Papa drove up that night, and we all went for a final meal out at Elephant Walk. Later that night, I was nervous and couldn’t sleep so I watched videos on the Internet and chatted with Nana who never can sleep. I kept going in to Zygote's room to kiss her and lie with her, and then, I finally fell asleep.

On Friday morning, your birthday, the alarm went off at 5:15 a.m., and Dad and I got caffeinated and ready. It felt weird to be putting in contact lenses and make up on to go deliver a baby, but I couldn’t really think of anything else to do. We said goodbye and headed to Mt. Auburn Hospital an hour later. We checked in easily and headed toward the birthing center. I stopped to pee about 500 times on the way.

We met our nurses, first a nice, dark-haired woman whose name I forget, and later, a woman named Katherine who seemed about my age and was with us for the rest of the day. I changed into my gown and paced the room while your dad ate breakfast. I watched the clock inching toward 8:30, the time our surgery was scheduled for.

The next hour was what we will forever refer to as ‘Just Get The Fucking IV in Already.’ Giving blood or anything IV-related is always a problem for me because of small veins. Add dehydration due to the fasting I had to do before surgery, and it got ugly really fast. The first nurse, a former IV nurse, tried three times and couldn’t get it, so she called the team from the anesthesiologists’ office down. The anesthesia nurse tried again a few times while I found back tears. She kept saying that the last thing someone in her field would want to do is hurt someone. She also said my small and rolling veins made me “uniquely difficult.” Dad and I got a big kick out of that, saying that it would be my descriptor from now on. Nurse 2 gave up too, and the actual anesthesiologist was called in. She numbed one arm with lidocaine to make me more comfortable, but still no vein. I was watching her sweat as she numbed my hand, and still, nothing. Finally, after numbing my other arm close to the bend in my elbow, she found a vein and started the drip. The nurse taped it down with some industrial looking bandages to spare me the annoyance of having to go through the whole process again. Over a week later, both my arms are still black and blue.

Our doctor came in for a visit, and I signed a bunch of consent forms. I peed again. Fun with an IV pole. Your dad kissed me goodbye, looking very funny in his scrubs. They were his second pair. He had been wearing a smaller pair earlier, but the nurse told us that they made fun of guys with too-tight scrubs, remarking, “Nobody wants to see that much of your stuff.” Then, I walked down to the operating room.

The operating room was bright and FREEZING. There was a bunch of different people milling around in there, all women, including one nursing student who was watching her first C-section. They explained how the spinal block and operation would work, and I hopped on the table (or lumbered onto) to get my back taped up. The needle tapped a nerve going in and my entire right leg started to shake. It wasn’t long, though, before I started to feel pins and needles and then just numb. I lay down on the table, and the nurses put the screen up and covered my belly in iodine. Shortly after, your dad came into the operating room, followed by Dr. Koontz.

I don’t remember too much of the actual procedure. There were a lot of people talking in very technical terms, and Dad and I just waited and kept looking at each other and smiling. They told me that it was time to expect some pressure, and there was a lot of tugging and pulling. The curtain kept jumping and jerking, and I heard, “do you have it?” and “not yet,” and a lot of grunting and groaning. Finally, “Sorry, Jennifer, you just have a REALLY big baby in here.” More pulling and jerking and then, “Got it!” It was 9:22. The pressure subsided and we heard your first cry.

“It’s a girl. A big girl!” the nurse said.

“What did she say?” Dad asked.

“Girl. Another girl,” I answered, and then we both got teary.

You kept screaming louder and louder, and the doctors and nurses commented on your big set of lungs. I watched them wash you off and weigh you. 9lbs. 4 oz and 20.5 inches long. The nurse handed you to Dad, and he held you close to my face to get a look at. You were rosy and chubby cheeked and looked like your older sister.

Dad went with you to the nursery while I stayed behind to get sewn up again. I chatted with the nurses about babies and labor and asked how the nursing student had survived. It went by quickly, and I was back in the quiet recovery room waiting for you. Dad wheeled you in, saying, “Did anyone order a baby?” We undressed you and lay you on my chest where you immediately latched on, nearly perfectly.

We ended up staying in that small, windowless room for hours because there were no available rooms on the maternity wing. Very Jesus and the manger, but um, not. Nana and Papa came to visit, along with the hospital’s chaplain, one of our friends from First Church.

Later that afternoon, they put us in room 516, supposedly one of the best on the wing. It had gorgeous views of the Charles and Boston and lots of sun. Dan from church came to give you a blessing, and Nana and Papa brought your big sister and pizza for dinner. Within minutes, there was chaos. Water, soda and pizza all over the floor and Zygote jumping on the bed. The laughing made my incision ache. Welcome to your family, kid. They are always there for you, but always with a lot of noise and a lot of mess.

You met your other sister, MG, the next day, and you and I hung out in our hospital room cocoon for the next few nights. We brought you home on a sunny Tuesday morning and introduced you to the rest of your family and friends. Welcome to the world, little Z2, youngest child. We can’t wait to see who you turn out to be.

Love,

Mama