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Seven Things to Know About Me

22 Sep

My friend Brooke, who lived in DC when I lived in DC, crossed paths with me many times. She was a writer for Washingtonian, our city magazine (I remember reading her reviews of spas and being insanely jealous of her job, seeing as I was a 22-year-old with brows like Eugene Levy’s). I was an editor at a literary agency and at The New Republic. I think we even met in DC once or twice. But we didn’t become friends until the Globe newsroom. She was all blonde hair and North Face; I was all big earrings and going through an unfortunate fat-phase flirtation with Loehmanns.

She’d just started working at the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine, and I had just started editing the Globe‘s women’s magazine, Lola. Now, Brooke’s  living in suburban New York City as a stay-at-home mom (check out her blog here), but we both have sons almost the same age and have stayed in touch. In fact, I was there when she was first pregnant with Harper — we’d taken a weekend trip to Cape Cod with a couple of other writer friends, and, while out to dinner, Brooke insisted that the wine tasted weird. Turned out she was pregnant. Because, really, in what other state of mind or body does wine taste awful? (Harper is now a very cute toddler.)

So: She tagged me for a meme, and I’m going to do my best to answer here, but I might cheat a little bit and talk about articles I’ve written, too. Forgive me, Brooke–but thanks for tagging me!

– Your most beautiful post

This is tough, because I don’t consider myself a “beautiful” writer. Once I wrote a kind of mushy piece for the Globe‘s Coupling column and sent it to my brother, Matt, as per usual, for an honest critique. “This doesn’t sound like you,” he said. I got what he meant: I was trying too hard to be flowery, sentimental. It took me awhile to realize that writing can be beautiful without being ornate; I’m more Bette Midler than Gwyneth Paltrow. As long as it’s authentic, that’s all that matters. Anyway, a couple of months ago, my whole family–parents, Andy, Brian, my brother–went to a Lowell Spinners game. I always cry when I go to Lowell. Just do. I drive straight to my grandparents’ three-story tenement house at 75 Andrews Street, park in front at the weedy sign that says “parking reserved for resident of dwelling,” stare at the front porch where a little girl’s swing now hangs in the doorway, and  I smell my Nana’s Shalimar, and I hear her police scanner, and I see D sweeping a proud little patch of driveway…. and I bawl.

It’s where my grandparents lived and died and didn’t want anything more than to live or die; it’s where they’re buried. My grandfather played baseball in Lowell, my parents met in Lowell, and then … here we were, back in Lowell. Watching baseball, with my son, who’s named after my grandfather. Not sure if this post was “beautiful,” but it was heartfelt, and, yes, I cried when I wrote it.

       – Your most popular post
A lot of people wrote to me, either personally or on my website, after I brought up the exorbitant costs of paying for college. I love writing about things that people hate to talk about–which, let’s face it, usually involve money. It’s like picking a really gratifyingly ready-to-pop zit. I’m 32 and staring down $50,000-plus a year if Andy goes to a private college of his choice, just as I did–and the kid doesn’t even have facial hair yet. Meanwhile, his mother hates paying more than $10 for a margarita. Anyway, almost everyone shared a similar level of freaked-outed-ness, which was refreshing and necessary; at our age, it’s easy to stress about what you “should” be doing and assuming that everyone else is doing more. Clearly, yelping “I’m scared!” barely scratches the surface of what’s wrong with the tuition system, but admitting that very few 32-year-olds–even those of us who work hard, save responsibly, and on and on–have four years’ worth of college tuition collecting dust as a wad of cash inside Granny’s hope chest is a good start.
        – Your most controversial post
I haven’t blogged about anything controversial, but I wrote a piece for the Globe about choosing to bottle-feed that made some people go predictably nuts and, shockingly, judge my capacity as a mother. Oh, right, yes, I admit it: I also let Andy vegetate in front of our shadily financed TV for 21 hours per day while I play World of Warcraft and shove Dorito’s down my gullet. I’m a heathen! Belch. Judgment is currency in the world of motherhood. Why? Fodder for another article, I guess…
       
 – Your most helpful post
So, I guess my most heartfelt and helpful piece of writing was this story I did for the Washington Post about panic disorder. I was feeling very tentative and nervous and at sea, and it took all my courage to pitch this piece about my experiences. But I also knew I had to do it, and I felt bad-ass and true. It resonated with so many people, and I finally felt as if I had a purpose larger than my own selfish career success (which, at that point, involved downing glasses of white wine next to CNN celebrities) or getting a great deal at DSW. Mental health issues don’t get enough attention. Period. It’s OK not to be happy all the time–something I struggled with in my twenties, a time when I tried to project an image of constant achievement and “perfection.” It’s OK to be scared, and to be human.
       
 – A post you feel didn’t got the attention it deserved
This was ages ago, but I wrote a piece for the New Republic about the post-9/11 “lost” generation. I’m reading articles now about that lost generation and the fading middle-class, and I wish I’d articulated my own points better six years ago. I was young and intimidated and young and…intimidated.
        
– The post that you are most proud of
Writers are brave. Our hobbies and our emotions are also our vocations. Writers lay themselves bare; maybe it’s narcissism, maybe it’s self-loathing, maybe it’s the desire to legitimize our tendency toward capriciousness by capturing a shred of honest emotion in a moment. A friend of mine recently posted complainingly on Facebook about how annoyingly easy it is for people to classify themselves as writers or editors. Because most people write every day! Well, Brian might jog to the bus every day–but that doesn’t make him a runner. I might steam up something soggily nutritious for dinner. But it sure doesn’t make me a professional cook.
Writers lace together words to form opinions to form lasting impressions that hopefully effect some small change. And we do it with some care.
And so: I just know that I’ve always had an extraordinarily high bullshit detector and have always wanted to let other people that they’re not alone — whether it means living in a kitchen with rancid scrambled eggs under the fridge, wanting to shove kung pao chicken down your throat at 1 a.m. even though it’s a bad idea, celebrating a night out with your husband without talking about bowel movement odor gradients, or waking up hung over with a six month old. It’s all legitimate, and it’s all real, and I’m proud of (almost) all of it.

What’s The Craziest Food You’ve Ever Fed Your Child?

7 Jul
Got it all over his face. He’s really Sari.

Because Brian and I absolutely love to eat –  we’ve been lucky to shove delicacies down our gullets at some truly fantastic restaurants over the years, partially through my work and partially because we forgo countless other hobbies to spend money dining out. And we really love to eat adventurously.

For us, Sunday morning dim sum is a religion. We plan our vacations based around food; Barcelona was pretty and all, but I was mainly interested in the razor clams at Cal Pep. New Mexico skiing? Screw it. In Taos, I went straight for a simmering vat of red chile at the Old Blinking Light. I’ve fought seagulls for fried clams and stood in line for three hours just for a snappy gobble of Flo’s relish-smeared hot dogs in Maine. On a recent trip to Montreal, I performed all sorts of mental calisthenics just to recall my college French and pleaded with no fewer than five hapless pedestrians for directions to Chinatown.

Yet we’ve been uncharacteristically cautious with Andy’s diet. Both of us have an irrational fear that he’ll choke on anything that isn’t a nursing home-ish puree. So he’s been eating vegetables designed for denture-wearers, with the occasional yogurt drop or Puff snack thrown in for variety. I suppose this is a bit hypocritical, as I also let him munch on my laptop cord with wild abandon … sadly, Gerber doesn’t make pureed wires.

Last night Brian and I stopped at our favorite Indian restaurant, Guru, to pick up takeout. I got my usual: goat curry and saag paneer. Brian opted for tikka masala and peas in tomato sauce. Dinner in our house is usually an exercise in indigestion: We spread our bounty atop the coffee table while Andy plays on the living room floor for a few precious moments. Eventually, he’ll began to bang on the coffee table, then begin chewing on wires, and then — fearing he’ll plug himself directly into an electric socket — one of us abandons our meal and plops him into his high chair for his evening puree.

Last night, I got a brilliant idea. Maybe my budding Wilfred Brimley should join us for dinner! I worried that he felt excluded. Brian dutifully hauled his portable high chair into the living room (we’re far too uncivilized to actually eat like normal people, at a dining room table … how else would we watch “Jeopardy”?) and sprinkled some YoBaby drops on his tray. But no. Andy craned his neck and bayed at Brian. He was clearly interested in his carton of tikka masala. We paused for a moment and then figured, why not? Why the hell not? What’s the worst that could happen — indigestion? Doesn’t Padma Lakshmi feed her kid exclusively Indian food? If her child can handle it, well, so could innocent young Andy.

We spoon-fed him a tiny dollop of curry. After the initial shock of the spice–his eyes widened and his face turned pink–he loved it. He began smacking his lips and begging for more, which we obligingly fed him. He was delighted.

Tonight, Brian was working late so I was on kitchen duty. Leftovers! I fished some curry remnants from the fridge and mixed it with peas in tomato sauce. He gulped several bites until I began to get selfish (these were my leftovers, too!) and switched him to a Gerber puree. No luck. He promptly smeared it like a face-mask and craned his neck toward my food once again.

I’m psyched. If Andy can stomach Indian food, I’m guessing a dim sum outing (chicken feet? shrimp noodles?) is just a matter of time.

What’s the weirdest food you’ve ever fed your kid?

Soooo…Do You Ever Play Dead?

16 Jun

Short-lived.

I confess: By night, I’m not the most devoted mother. I consider bedtime my sanctuary. I slip between the covers with my iPhone (Words With Friends screenname: Paddington79) and my Murder, She Wrote for Netflix (AARP card: lost in the mail) and I shut out the world. I’m in bed by 9, up at 6. I keep the hours of a grandfather.

And there’s a reason grandparents don’t have infants.

Usually, my nocturnal habits work out just fine. Andy’s always been an awesome sleeper — in his crib by 8:30, up at about 6:30. But lately, about once a week, he’ll mutter to himself at around 4 am. Eventually, this muttering escalates to a steady whimper, then a cry, then a series of wails. Do I move from the comfort of my bed? Not always. After all, if he’s wailing, it means he’s breathing.

I’m sort of a bad person, aren’t I?

For the first several months of Andy’s life, I’d jolt awake at every sleepy whimper, every raspy inhale, every stir. Now I sometimes pretend not to hear him–knowing full well that my husband will bolt upright and stagger into Andy’s room to assess the situation. This from a man who rarely utters more than one syllable before noon. And I happily take advantage of his vigilance, splayed half-awake in my empty bed like Courtney Love posing for Vanity Fair. Yup, I’m pretty sure Brian should write the sequel to Go the F**k to Sleep and dedicate it to me: Get the F**k Up.

I even have a list of excuses that I sometimes make to avoid getting up.

1. I took a Tylenol PM.

2. I have a migraine.

3. I have a deadline early in the morning.

4. I have cramps.

5. I have absolutely no soul.

Yes, dear reader, I admit it: At 4 am, I want to hug my pillow more than I want to hug my child. I can’t be the only mom out there who feigns sleep in the hopes that her partner will rise to the occasion. Am I?

P.S. Benadryl works better than Tylenol.

Baby’s First Haircut: How Soon Is Too Soon?

7 Jun

Ready for the electric chair?

As with most things in our family, it all began at a restaurant. Every time we took Andy out to dinner, a kindly server would stop, smile, and inquire as to the age of our beautiful little girl. This would be thoughtful and sweet … if we had a girl. But we have a 10-month-old son with eyebrows like Eugene Levy’s. It culminated in a particularly confusing evening at Qingdao Garden in Cambridge, where in the course of an hour three waitresses offered “her” a fortune cookie. By the third cookie offering, I was ready to rename the kid Andrea, buy some frilly jumpers, and call it a night. Kinda made me wonder about those people in Canada so concerned about letting their kid choose its own gender. Why let your child choose, when complete strangers will do it for you?

But deep down Brian and I both knew: It was time for Andy to go under the knife. Or the scissors, as it were.

Oh,  I’d given him a mini-haircut once, when he was about six months old, in preparation for a vacation. Basically I snipped his 1980s-style rat tail in the bathtub while he sucked on a rubber duckie. Poor kid didn’t know what hit him. A friend asked if I’d saved the hair, and I looked at her like she was nuts. Save the hair? The thing looked like the remnants of a dirty raccoon.

But this time was different. I would take Andy to Snip-Its in Burlington, recommended to me by another friend, who told me it was like a Disney-fied salon for babies. Name aside (I envisioned chatty hair stylists performing circumcisions while Moms flipped through Us Weekly), the place was wonderful. Andy was promptly guided to a mini-salon chair and handed a medley of toys — bubble soap! Rattles! A cajoling stylist spritzed him with water and began delicately combing his hair. It was at this point that Andy had a major meltdown, flung his rattle to the ground, stiffened, and began shrieking. At which point another toddler in a neighboring chair began shrieking. At which point a little girl, waiting for her brother to be snipped, also began shrieking. At which point I wondered if the kind, hospitable folks at Snip-Its stocked a mini-bar.

After it was determined that no amount of extrasensory stimulation would soothe him, the stylist eased me–carrying a camera, Sophie the Giraffe, an unwieldy diaper bag, and a sweaty McDonald’s sweet iced tea–into an adult salon chair and settled Andy atop my lap. She moved fast. She had to. One deft snip across the top. A few clips to the sideburns. And a little razor-trim at the neckline.

Andy looked great. He also looked old. In the course of 20 minutes, my adorable (if slightly feminine) little baby had morphed into a rough-tough toddler. No doubt about it, Andy’s now a boy. And this time, I saved his hair.

It's a boy!

My Turnip-Maned Child Who Rarely Bathes

19 May

Light the candles; bring on the incense!

That’s not completely true. He does bathe. Sometimes.

I usually try to plunge Andy into the sudser twice or three times a week. He goes to day care Monday through Wednesday, so Wednesday night is usually spent giving him a thorough scrub-n-lather. We also give him a nice bath on Sunday nights to start the week out fresh. Until now, that’s been it. After all, just how dirty can he get? He doesn’t go anywhere!

The answer: Downright filthy. Now that he’s eating solid foods, he’s become a mess.  I’m constantly extracting bits of pureed vegetables from his fat rolls and finding tiny pieces of lint from his bib buried under his chin. The other night, Brian attempted to feed him pureed roasted turnips. They made a better deep-conditioning treatment than a meal — within moments, Andy had massaged the stuff into a pasty lather, all over his hair. The ends of his mane hardened and turned crusty, and it was back into the bath tub for him … for the second time that day.

I can’t kid myself any longer: He’s not a sweet-smelling infant. He’s an odor-emitting, vegetable-mangling, on-the-move baby. From now on, Andy’s going to be a one-bath-a-day man. (Except if we’re just hanging around the house. If a baby’s coated in goo and nobody’s around to notice … is he really even dirty? I say no.)

Am I Entitled to a Filthy House?

15 May

Where's my maid?

We’re having friends over for dinner tonight. Usually, when we have people over, I run around the house like a rabid person, Swiffering and scrubbing and organizing and stacking. This method actually worked up until Andy was about … eight months old. Now that he’s mobile, I’m finding that there’s absolutely no reason to clean. None. He destroys everything in his wake. I live in a disaster zone, and I might as well embrace it.

My coffee table is dotted with puddles of drool. Our TV is tuned to a permanent station: sticky hand-prints, all the time! Our living room (see above) is a minefield of plastic apparatus. And Andy’s bedroom has the lingering odor of day-old diaper, even though I’ve opened all the windows and sprayed enough Dreft to make the entire neighborhood smell like baby powder.

The old me would have spent the day cleaning. The new me is going to spray some Lysol in the air, light a candle, and open some wine.

How often do you clean with kids underfoot?

Where Do You Put Your Child?

10 May

In five minutes, I will have a meltdown.

I mean this literally: Where do you put your child? Andy is nine months old. He’s a rabid crawler and a tentative cruiser. Sometimes we “walk” together in a style reminiscent of my unfortunate 7th-grade foray into ballroom dancing. This is all fine when I’m actually in the room. But sometimes I need to leave–to do laundry, preheat the oven, go to the bathroom.

Last week I had an ultimate bad-mother moment when I let Andy “prop” against the coffee table. This basically means that he stands against the table, legs akimbo, batting his arms onto the wood like a maniacal bandleader. I scooted to the bathroom, shut the door, and heard a yelp. He’d tumbled backwards. Clearly I’d overestimated his balancing skills.

Which means that I need a safe place to put him when I’m not in the room. Brian thinks his Pack ‘n Play is “cruel” for extended periods. While I have no desire to keep my baby ensnared in pastel mesh for hours at a time, I’m not above securing him in a confined space for a half-hour while I do some chores. Our other option is his “Sassy Seat” (pictured above). This contraption lets him bounce up and down, precariously suspended from a doorway. The fun never ends! Actually, it usually ends after about 15 minutes, at which point Andy begins to wail pleadingly and I stop whatever I’m doing to rescue him. He also has a farm-themed Exersaucer. Sadly, Andy took the farm theme a bit far and uses the thing as his own personal outhouse. Every time he stands in it, he goes to the bathroom. Every time. So we only visit the Exersaucer before long car trips.

Where do you put your baby when you can’t be in the room? And please don’t suggest I strap him to my chest: He weighs 24 pounds.

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