fits & starts

What does the horsey say?

WAIT! Don't answer that! Unless you want to make a sweet 9 month old baby bawl his eyes out.

We can do the dog, kitty, cow, duckie, birdie, and piggy. Hell, we can even do the lion. But we cannot, under any circumstances, EVER AGAIN, do the horsey. Because if you're doing it just to see if he cries--WHICH HE WILL--it will be up to you to make it stop.

Every time it rains, you're here in my head

iPods are dangerous things. You hit shuffle, and all of a sudden you're listening to a song you haven't heard in years, transported back in time. The music I buy and listen to now, I think, is really good. But it's not evocative for me in the same way that, say, listening to "The Killing Moon" by the Echo and the Bunnymen is. All of a sudden, I'm back in high school, with my sister and her boyfriend, driving to school in his Camaro. Or Pavement's "Here"--living on my own in NYC, working hard and getting paid very little, trying to figure out where my life was going.

Today, on the train, Kate Bush's "Cloudbusting" (The Hounds Of Love) came on. College. NYC. Circa 1989. Living in a dorm up on 116th and Broadway, staying up till all hours listening to music I'd never heard before with people who were, quite frankly, thrilling. Now, the average person's college experience doesn't usually scream KATE BUSH! But, I don't know...it just reminds me of that time.

The night before I left for school, I found out my father was very sick. He went from being what we knew to be healthy that morning and by night, the prognosis was grim. We spent the entire day in a hospital on the Upper East Side and then left him there, went home and I packed for school. What else was I supposed to do? I didn't know.

I knew nothing would ever be the same again. It's weird how you can look back at the briefest moment in time and pinpoint the exact spot where your life changed. Where you lost your footing for just a  millisecond, only to regain it in unfamiliar territory.

The next morning, in this new, hyper-reality, my mother and brother brought me to my dorm. When we got there we realized we'd left my luggage at home. I watched as other kids' parents dropped them off, teary-eyed, wistful, full of the future. And across town, my father sat in a hospital room alone.

That year, I divided my time between school, work (a steady babysitting gig) and visits to my dying father. Although I didn't know he was dying at the time. I knew it didn't look good, but I had always secretly believed he'd pull through. Even as doctors told us there was no other way out. But how do you face each day knowing that death is imminent? How do you stay strong for your loved one? It's simple: denial. You act as though you'll be the ones to beat it. You'll be the one who succeeds. You have to, because unhappy endings in your life had never occurred to you before this.

I carried my walkman with me wherever I went. Music articulated what I was feeling in a way I couldn't. I don't know when I first heard the Peter Gabriel song, "Don't Give Up," but it was during that time. It startled me in its accuracy of what I thought my father was going through.

...no fight left or so it seems
I am a man whose dreams have all deserted
I've changed my face, I've changed my name
but no one wants you when you lose

don't give up
'cos you have friends
don't give up
you're not beaten yet
don't give up
i know you can make it good

though i saw it all around
never thought that i could be affected
thought that we'd be the last to go
it is so strange the way things turn...

don't give up
you still have us
don't give up
we don't need much of anything
don't give up
'cause somewhere there's a place
where we belong

rest your head
you worry too much
it's gonna be alright when times get rough
you can fall back on us
don't give up
please don't give up

 
And so it goes. I imagined the Peter Gabriel verses were from my father's point of view, and when Kate Bush sang, she sang what I was thinking. And her voice was so empathetic, so kind. So pleading. Don't give up. It broke my heart.

When "Cloudbusting" came up on my iPod today, I was left reeling, sitting there on the subway. Taken back to that year, but very much in the present. Just wanting to get home to my baby. Thinking about my father, who died fifteen years ago yesterday.

And every time it rains
you're here in my head
Like the sun coming out
Like your sun's coming out
I just know that something good is gonna happen
I don't know when
But just saying it could even make it happen

I nearly missed my stop. I had to make one of those mad dashes you see in the movies. And when I came up into the outside, the day that began wet and windy had turned sunny. I felt the slightest hint of warmth in the air. I could smell Spring, just struggling to burst through the atmosphere. I climbed the steps to my apartment, where my son was waiting with the biggest smile on his face, just for me.

Howla Back

Once upon a time, we rescued a beagle. Or the beagle rescued us. It was at a time when we were having a lousy run of depressing, bad luck, and were eager to hear the pitter-patter of little feet in our house. Instead, we settled for the pitter-patter of four little paws.

I was mostly in a foul mood back then, but somehow, seeing the J-man's beagly mug when I walked in the door brought a smile to my face every time. I had never been a pet kind of person before, but once we brought Jackson home, I finally "got" it. I understood how an animal could be a part of your family, and you could love it and miss it and plan to do things with it--like, go to the dog park on a beautiful day, or run along the beach chasing the waves.

Jackson, because he'd already been abandoned at least twice, suffered from really bad separation anxiety at first. And of course, any change to his or our routine, sets him way back. Oh, and there's one more thing you need to know about him: he's part boy, part dog. Thus, Jackson the Boy-Dog. Also, beagles are pack animals, so the way he sees it, Mr. Fits and I are the mommy and daddy and he's the kid.

Enter Baby H.

 

Jackson's always been great with kids--most beagles are. They are fantastic family dogs, partly because of their sweet nature and partly because of their pack dog mentality. But it was far from ideal when baby made four. I think that maybe he was doing what toddlers do when their parents come home with their second child: they like they little creature, alright, but wonder how long it'll be before their parents bring it back to wherever the hell it came from.

The first couple of months were rough. There was the Jacques Torres chocolate-gorging fiasco (which, aside from the inconvenience of a trip to the vet on Christmas Eve, wound up costing $104). There was the butter cookie episode. And of course, there was the scroll we brought back from Korea that was torn apart into tiny shreds, as if to say, "Screw you and the plane you came in on." And who can forget the time he made himself way too comfortable in the baby's highchair while we were out, in some last desperate act of role-playing and infantilization? (We shan't talk of that one again.)

All of a sudden, his world of fatly stuffed Kongs, rawhide and squeaky toys had been taken over by baby paraphrenalia. That he wasn't. Allowed. To. Touch.

But it's been a few months. And I think we are all adjusting to life as a foursome. Jackson has gone from a "don't ask, don't tell" policy as far as the baby is concerned, to being able to play on the floor in perfect harmony. I think that because I am home full-time now, the J-man has grown really attached to me, but understands our routines, and knows that we will always be coming back for him.

I think he sees H. as part of the family, maybe even the little brother he both can't stand or get enough of. Even though he's gotten a bad rap lately, we still love him. He still makes us smile and keeps us entertained with all his little boy-dog tricks. Already we are seeing little gestures on the pup's behalf that show us that he just can't get closeenoughtothebaby.

He's going to be a great best friend to our son and will inadvertantly give H. his first real lesson in friendship. And there's no one better than a boy's dog (or, a boy-dog) to do that. Even if he does have a propensity to lick his privates when company comes over.

Howla back, Jack.  You rock dog.

Some Posts Just Write Themselves

1. My in-laws babysat yesterday afternoon. When I returned home, there was a black thong on my nighttable. I did what most people would not do, and ignored it.

2.When Mr. Fits was away on business a couple weeks ago, I took the baby up to my in-laws and we stayed overnight. Because we don't have a washing machine in our building, my mother-in-law pleaded with me to bring my laundry, and I happily obliged.

3. Some of my unmentionables cannot go in the dryer. I must have hung the pair that dare not speak its name on the doorknob where no one could see and made a mental note to retrieve them after they dried.

4. After my in-laws left last evening, I put 1, 2 and 3 together, and realized that one of Mr. Fits' parents (please god, let it have been my mother-in-law) found said thong, folded it up neatly, left it on my nighttable without a word, never to be spoken about again. Why? See #5.

5.  Mr. Fits' parents are of the generation that believes, perhaps, that the only people who wear undergarments of this nature are porn stars and Britney Spears. Now, add to that list the wife of their son.

6. There are worse things that could have happened. She could have actually gone into my underwear drawer to return the offending pair. I don't think any of us would have recovered from that.

The end.

Similac, Straight Up

I have a confession to make. We joined a playgroup. I thought it would be neat to get out there with Baby H. now that he's crawling standing (!), and meet other kids and moms in the neighborhood. And we had a good run of it, all two times we went. But I don't think we'll be going back. The problem is, I don't really consider myself a playgroup sort of person and here's why: I'm not good at small talk. Oh, I can do it, alright. But it somehow rings false to me. Frankly, I'm not sure that we have much more in common than the reason we are there: motherhood. There's a whole lot of getting-to-know-you-and-your-kid chit chat, but little else. For me, at least. I notice that some of the women in the group seem to be friends, and maybe that's why it works for them.

I was never really a big fan of cocktail parties, either, and to me, that's a little what playgroups are like.  In fact, a lot of the whole meeting other moms thing is like a giant cocktail party that follows you from playgroup to the park to the pediatrician's office. For instance...

Cocktail party: I'm Sally, nice to meet you. I didn't get your name?
Playgroup: This is little Casey. What's your little guy's name?

Cocktail party: What do you do?
Playgroup: How much does she weigh?

Cocktail party: We live in Tribeca. Where are you guys?
Playgroup: How many naps a day does he take? NO WAY! In the crib or stroller?

Cocktail party: Do you own or rent?
Playgroup: How many teeth does he have? None? Oh don't worry, he'll catch up. Really, I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.

Cocktail party: So how long have you two been dating?
Playgroup: Is she sleeping through the night--NO, sweetie, don't put that boy's shoes in your mouth--yet?

See? Not exactly scintillating conversation. It just makes me long for real conversations with friends. I am with my baby all day, so I'd welcome the opportunity to talk about something else. (I am more than just a mommy, yo.) This isn't to say motherhood isn't deep. I am having those conversations about what it means to parent--with my sisters, my mother, my friends. But they go way beyond the latest weigh-in or which art class my 9 month old (art for 9 month olds?!) is taking.

So for now, I think I'll skip playgroup. And maybe, some day in a month or two when H. and I are chillin' in the park, some other loner mom will sit down next to me, and we'll hit it off. We'll go beyond cocktail party niceties like what size junior is fitting into these days, and get around to talking about ourselves and who we really are.

Pat Kiernan: The Next Best Thing to Baby Einstein

Nothing brings a smile to the baby's face quite the way Pat Kiernan of NY1 does. What does he have that Elmo doesn't? Someone explain.

Happy Birthday M.

Baby H is one popular little dude. Tomorrow he'll attend his second birthday party. The first was on New Year's Day--it was the first birthday of his future best friend, E. E's mom, J, became one of my best friends after a rocky start. We were 14. We had a mutual friend who split her time between us. I couldn't find a good reason to dislike J, so I did the next best thing and found a bad reason: she thought she was so cool because she wore sleeveless mock turtlenecks. (Who did she think she was showing off her arms like that?) She has said she found good reasons to dislike me too, i.e. my on-again off-again "relationship" with one of the most popular guys in school. (Who did I think I was, trying to get with that?) It all came to a head one afternoon when a group of us went to see Pretty in Pink at the Loews' on 84th and Broadway, and J. and I decided that we could get over our jealousies ourselves and be friends. That was 1985.

So H's first birthday party was J's son, E's. They had an impromptu Tol ceremony, we gorged ourselves on delicious Korean food, E wore an over-sized han bok and, in determining his fate in life, chose the item his father didn't want him to choose. We all had a big laugh and then we ate cake. Hopefully, H's first birthday will go just as smoothly.

Tomorrow is his cousin M's first birthday. It will be a small celebration of cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. And, of course, M's older sister who is almost three and just now starting to believe that this whole "sister" thing is for real. She's come a long way in the last year and I think she will grow to be her sister's biggest champion, even if M. does, on occasion, wear sleeveless mock turtlenecks.

I made a CD for M's birthday--a healthy mix of kids' music (Dan Zanes, Music for Ardvarks) and big people's music (Bjork, Joe Strummer, Cat Power, Ben Folds Five). Because that M, she really knows how to rock.

Happy Birthday M. We love you.

A Migraine In My Wall

To my neighbors: The incessant drilling in the wall THAT WE SHARE is grating on my last nerve. DON'T YOU  KNOW IT'S NAPTIME? WTF? Two white noise machines can't even begin to block that shit out. Yesterday it was banging. Today it's drilling. STOP ALREADY!

Prying Minds Want To Know

Because I am signed up to view UrbanBaby's bulletin boards, I get their daily digest emailed to me every morning. Usually I ignore it, but today, it got my attention. The headline was: Begging the Question. For some reason, I made the immediate connection to what some of us having been talking about on adoption blogs: vetting personal questions about our family status and how friggin' annoying it is. After all, it happens often enough that it led to the development of this. So I read on:

Are you pregnant (or did you just put on some extra pounds)? When are you due? D'ya know what you're having? Have you picked out a name yet?

Okay, so it's about the questions pregnant women get asked. You know, I realize that we are all victim to the insensitivities of others. As someone who's never had to endure the endless excitement surrounding a pregnant belly (the horror!), I might think it's no big deal. But maybe it is to some people. We are all entitled to our annoyances. But then came this sentence:

These questions -- plus the unbearable experience of having absolute strangers feel perfectly at home rubbing your belly as though a genie might emerge -- are the social crosses every pregnant woman has to bare.

The unbearable experience? The social crosses every pregnant woman has to bare? Really? Is it that bad? Why can't I stop asking questions??? Arrrgggh.

Like I said, we all have the things that rub us the wrong way. Whether you're pregnant, engaged, buying a house, talking about your taxes...there are lines that can be crossed, where all of a sudden, it all becomes too personal. But if you're perturbed by "do you know what you're having?" or "have you picked out a name?" then try getting asked this when you're out with your baby: "What do you know about his mother? Did you get to meet his mom? They let you get boys from China? Do they pay the foster parents?"

Not fun, people. And yet, I'd never refer to it as my "cross to bare." It is part of the package. It comes with the territory. Frustrating, intrusive, and offensive as some of the questions are, I was warned they'd be asked. And so it's my job, and my husband's job, to deal with them the right way. But that doesn't make it any less disturbing or disruptive to be asked such things by absolute strangers.

Look, I'm not stupid. I know this whole email was tongue-in-cheek. It was meant to be humorous. But there's a lot of truth to it, still. I am sure it's a real pet peeve for expecting women. Anyway, here's the punchline:

At last, an end to the tedious misery is in sight. Due is a line of hip, perfectly-fitted, nicely packaged maternity tees with all the answers. The debut collection consists of three styles (tank, short sleeve and long sleeve) featuring just the right dose of attitude and humor. Yes, I'm Pregnant; Not Finding Out; Twins and Due in August emblazoned across your not insignificant abdomen should go a long way towards cutting short the agony of answering the same line of inquiry over and over again.

Ah yes. The agony of answering the same line of inquiry over and over again. How awful it must be to have to tell people that little Joshua is due in October.

Perhaps I should design some tee shirts. I wouldn't design them for waiting adoptive moms because those would be kind of boring and no one would really get excited about them. They'd just say something like, "Waiting for I-171 Approval" or "DTC Last Month" or "Travel Call Some Time in the Next 8 to 17 Weeks." See? Kind of boring compared to "Max's Little Sister Below!"

Imagine that you've left your can of patent-pending Adopt Off! at home. What would your tee shirt say, aside from "None of Your Friggin' Business"?