The last of the scary Halloween pictures ...

nurse or treat, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Didn't think you'd ever see a woman nurse a peacock, did ya?

At sunset.

In suburbia.


... I say no more.

Rocking the Suburbs

Halloween, 2007, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Friends and other ships that pass in the night

Sometimes prince charming kinda stinks, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

You probably know by now that friendships ebb and flow in a ways similar to bodies of water. Sometimes they wobble like ripples in a pond or crash like waves in an ocean.

I've watched you interact with people your own height, but I haven't been able to pin down what it is about the person that makes you want to hug them and chase around them in circles or what makes you try and inch away.

I suppose it could be arbitrary, but more likely its some unknowable equasion that only makes sense to you and the person that holds your affection. Adults like to analyse these qualities, we lable people with words like "best" and "toxic," and no doubt we will clash on which friends get which lable.

Such is the nature of friendship.

We all seem to have friends in different ways.

Your father still keeps in touch with many of his pals from his adolescent days. You've already met their children and will be introduced to more as time and due dates march forward.

Many of my friends from my youthful days are still milling about in the universe, but they've spun off in some direction or other that's kept me from following. Or perhaps I've spun off in my own direction.

The funny thing is that I still think of many of these folks not as "one-time friends" or "former friends" but as friends. I feel as if each person has a place on the shelves of my memory. I imagine that if someone were to show up on the doorstep or in my e-mail box, I feel as if time would drop away.

It may seem as if people become less important to us, but that's not really what happens. What happens is we move in new directions and sometimes it means people become less accessible. Perhaps you won't remember this girl you hugged and held hands with on your trip through the apple orchard. Perhaps she will become a distant memory once you are in Kindergarten. It's also possible you will walk down every hallway together, and some years you'll hold hands and some years you'll hold noses.

Such is life.

I hope your friends will be good to you, sweetie. As I hope you will be good to them. Most importantly, though, I want you to be good to yourself. I want you to know that being a good friend has nothing to do with self sacrifice. Friendship shouldn't require we harm ourselves; The best of friends will bring out the best of each other.

Thing is, though, most adults don't understand this. Parents worry about bad influences, hurt feelings and being led down the wrong path. But they aren't always making the best choices for themselves, either.

Now that it's apparent you have preferences, I know that there will be times when our preferences will not match. And then our dealings with each other will seem like a hand of poker. We'll read each other's "tells" and decide which, if any of us, are bluffing.

There's a lot to remember. There's a lot of things that will need to be worked out. Friendships have very little in the way of blacks and whites. There are always going to be shades of gray.

And the biggest swath of grayscale is something I have to manage. I have to remember that ultimately I am not your friend. I am your mother.


Love,

Mommy.

Really, really, bad, bad, scary stuff

Exerpt from The Authentic Princess Diaries:

29th October
Snow White and Barbie(tm) belly up to the snack bar and discover there are no soy-based or low-carb treats. Reign of terror begins. No one lives happily ever after. The End.

Just keep swimming

pool, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Papa's been taking Annabel to swim lessons at the Y. It's been quite an experience for them, to be sure.

However, this week Papa had to have a minor medical procedure and wasn't able to get into the pool with her. So while he held the baby I got a good horrifying look at myself in my favorite swimsuit and had to figure out a way to get from the locker room to the pool without a cloak of invisibility.

The trip from the dressing room to the pool was worth the embarassment, though, once the water was hiding all my insecuries.

With a life preserver strapped around her waist, Ittybit kicked her way from one end of the pool to the other. All by herself. It was something to see.

When she noticed me swimming alongside of her she stopped and wondered aloud: "Mom, who's holding me up?"

"Well the floatation device is holding you up, but you're swimming all by yourself."

It's such a shame all the warm fuzzy feelings evaporated when we had to emerge from the tepid water and make our way back to the changing room.

"MOM! You're LEAKING!"

Can't wait for next week. I just hope Papa's all healed.

Mmmmm ....

Almost quittin' time. ....

Little riding red hood

red hat blue sky green forest in concord -- PSV weekend, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

I can't believe it's been so long since I've written you.

Your brother, as you know, has lured my attentions. You still don't seem to mind, though, and for that I am grateful and just a little bit sad.

It is the person in me who loves you to the point of pain that wishes you were the only one. Wishes I'd had you second so I could be the relaxed person I wanted to be but wasn't.

I shouldn't tell you this because I know it won't sound right, but I didn't LOVE you right away. It had nothing to do with you. You were perfect. And easy. And lovable. And everything I imagined you would be and more.

I was afraid.

I'd never so much as babysat an infant before I held you in my arms, contemplating the strange notion that the hospital staff was not only going to let me take you home but they expected it.

I was so afraid of you -- hurting you, doing something wrong, afraid of all the things I had no control over -- and I was so tired, that I sent you back to the nursery every chance I got.

I often think everything, especially our ideas about love, get so flipped around that we just don't recognize the emotion. The saying goes that you will never have a second first baby, but what they don't always tell you is that you might never really enjoy the experience.

When I slept with Silas in the hospital, giving him reluctantly to the nurses who came to check his vitals, I thought of you and what we missed in the early days of our lives together.

Because I'd never experienced hormonal shifts that felt like ocean waves before, I couldn't just ride them out and stare into your eyes. I floundered instead.

Because I'd never taken pain medication I had no idea it would sap what little energy I had or make me feel sick. I worried something just wasn't right.

Because I listened to people who I assumed knew better than me, I did what I was told. I put you back in the bassinet anytime you weren't nursing ... for your own safety.

It wasn't love that was lacking though, my sweet girl, it was confidence.

There's something else I've noticed that makes me sad.

Everything you've taught me in this tough age of reason will benefit your brother more than it benefits you.

My frustration level is at a low ebb when I sleep poorly and see you only on the swing-shift of your day. I miss you always and yet I find myself, during those fleeting hours we are together, talking to you through clenched teeth.

With increasing frequency, you ask me if I'm mad at you and I realize what a horrible thing it is to just walk through these days trying to keep up with the schedule. Trying to just. get. to. the. next. thing. It just messes the whole thing up completely.

But I'm glad you asked, even though I'm not glad you felt you had to. I'm glad you make me see myself, and that you have the confidence I lack in that respect. I want you to keep it, my dear, and use that gift without malace. I may not always know what I feel, but I know love you. And I know I've loved you for always and ever.



Love,

Mommy.

Turn your head and cough

He snuffled his way through a fitful night's sleep, coughing and breathing needles of air through tiny snot-lined nasal passages, and still awoke as chipper as a chipmunk this morning.

As I dressed him for his doctors' appointment today all the things a mother could think go through my head. Not just the worry that they'll find something devastating, but the idea that they’ll find fault with the care he’s been getting from me.

Each time we took Annabel to her appointments I'd always feel like I'd failed when the doctor noted a host of things that regular cleanings and maintenance should have prevented:

*Neck cheese.

*Red in the folds.

*A spot of eczema that regular applications of hydrocortisone would have cured.


But as I check him over I just see a happy baby with peachy skin and chubby legs. This time, I brag to myself, I have to be an Olympic contender in parenting.

And I was still feeling all sorts of faultless when she clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and noted the condition of his toenails ...

"Looks like someone needs a trim ... "

I wanted to protest. To tell her that Annabel’s nails nearly curled upon themselves and she never noticed. But then I realized, I had gotten away with something. Best not to remind her.


*** Silas weighed in at 12 pounds, 10 ounces and measured 24 ½ inches. His head circumference is 40 cm. (They dispensed with the percentiles this time). Also he repeated four injections and one oral vaccine. The kid stopped crying the moment I picked him up.

The story of her life (thus far)

i will not have fun, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Her cheeks still red from considerable exertion in the bounce house she threw herself on the ground and pronounced she was not having any fun.

More to the point, she would never have any fun ever again. Never! Not Ever! and a few more superlatives thrown in just for (ahem) fun.

Of course then she popped up, dusted the seat of her pants and ran back up the hill and toward the house of air, yelling "I'm going to beat you there, mama ... I'm winning the race."

Sometimes I feel like a walking cliche. I wonder if it's possible to love a child more than I love her at this very moment?

As I complain about my general dislike for the things that are common at this age -- the tantrums and the tests, the non-stop jammering until break out in a screaming rant of my own pleasebequiets -- I am totally in love with the round-faced girl sitting placidly in her car seat when I turn to back out of the driveway. I'm taken with the child who smiles back at me when I catch her frowning, and I'm smitten with the kid who kisses my cheek with a slurpy smack.

On top of it all, she still loves her brother with a ferociousness I can neither explain nor truly understand. I just know it's real and it's complete.


I imagine this love she has for him will last until he touches her stuff.

The only thing I know for sure is that it won't surprise me if she surprises me.

Party Animals

oy, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We returned from our second annual Please Send Vodka extravaganza largely unscathed. (Although, as you can tell from the photograph, I've not taken any future psychological breakdowns into account for that assessment).

Please Send Vodka (or PSV) for those of you wondering is a kind of a moms' group that meets 'round the clock in the wide open space of the internet. It's a bulletin board-type forum where people post and run or post and read as time permits.

For many of the group's members the place is a lifesaver. We show up with questions, concerns and our feelings of complete inadequacy, and we leave with answers and reassurance and enough confidence to try it again or attempt something new.

Although I can't really adequately describe all that went on at Party Central because I was drinking heavily only one small cog in the wheel of many conversations, I can give you an overview of what the experience leaves me thinking:

* First and foremost, the MEN (husbands, fathers, others) who make random guest apearances on the boards as they are often featured topics in multiple occasional complaint boxes (shush ... we dole out credit, too) deserve nothing but props for making the trip to meet people who are, to them, total strangers. Although we women feel like we're all friends because we chat online and we drop names that you have picked up in passing, you guys are the real troopers for smiling, making small talk and generally being the supportive people that you are without really knowing a soul.

* The women are all more beautiful in the flesh. And the kids are positively edible.

* Children who eat lollypop rings for breakfast, lunch and dinner can bounce in an inflatable house ALL. NIGHT.

*Beer consumption doesn't make parents equally as athletic ... but an hour long session inside the house (along with copious amounts of alcohol) makes one think 'why hasn't someone made this into the latest fitness fad before?'

*Any party involving children will be made better if there are at least two realistic looking baby dolls that can be placed in precarious locations.

*If all kids are wearing the same clothes you might go home with the wrong kid.


*Bringing temporary tattoos and teaching my kid how to apply them to others? Two words: Ice. Breaker. Also, made her not climb up in the sling with her brother or attach herself permanently to my leg. All good.

*** We've got scads of leftover tattoos. So if you missed out, drop me a line and I send one your way.

Pumping 9 to 5 ...

This is my work station at 8:57 a.m.

pump station, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

It's difficult to tell from the above photograph that Friday is "Page Fest" -- a single day in which we produce the guts of at least three days worth of newspapers -- because I am one of the first to arrive. We call the act of production on this day pumping.

And if you look to your right, here, you'll see my work station at 10:30, 1:30 and 3:30 and sometimes 5 p.m. -- The ladies' lounge.

This may be too much information but sometimes the place smells like the monkey cage at the Bronx Zoo. I wish I were kidding.

I'm lucky, though. I've got a somewhat comfortable chair and handy table, as well as the use of a small refrigerator in the newsroom, not to mention coworkers who pretend there's nothing out of the ordinary about a woman returning from the bathroom four times a day clutching a bottle of human milk. I know there are many, many women who make a commitment to feeding their children breastmilk when they return to work who have to lock themselves into washroom stalls and hover above toilets to squeeze out the medically preferred substance for infants.

But even in my more opulent surroundings, this part-time pumping gig feels like a full-time job.

The first few days back I was absolutely frantic thinking I wasn't getting enough to replace what The Champ ate while he was with the sitter. It was a struggle that first week to get a few ounces. When I sat in the same lounge, listening to the whirr of the mechanical suction for Ittybit three years ago I seemed to have an abundant supply, and only required two brief sessions in the ladies loo.

This time, with a manual pump that is supposed to be just as good as the electric, I seemed to be failing to get even a fraction in twice the time.

And yet, this kid, contrary to his older sibling, seems to be eating like a horse. Or a small goat. Or perhaps a bird ... you know, six times its actual body weight.

"Don't panic," I told myself. Just keep at it.

So what if the door opens every four minutes?

So what if the automatic toilets flush mysteriously when the place is empty?

So what if you feel a little like a cow hooked up to an antique milking machine?

So what if you want to run amok, or at the very least sending a strongly worded letter to the Avent people, every time the equipment you dropped $100 on throws a valve? So you have to stop everything twice a session, reset the system and start again. Big. Deal.

Just keep your nose to the gridestone.

And so I am keeping at it. Pumping 9 to 5.

We have no formality at 7:30 a.m.

7:30 a.m. Pink Moon, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Ittybit: Oh Mommy, look. It's a pink moon.
Terri won't believe it.

Mommy: I have my camera, should I take a picture?

Ittybit: Oh yes, please. Can we? Can we take a picture? I'd like it for my room. ... Only, I don't want it in one of those black things.

Mommy: A frame?

Ittybit: Yes, a frame. I mean NO I don't want that.

Mommy: I'll just print one out and we can tack it up on your wall, is that what you'd like?

Ittybit: Yes. That's what I want when you take it out of the camera.

Things to remember periodically ...

Daddy arms as seatbelts, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Annabel,

Eat dessert before dinner every once in a while.

I don't care what your father says.

Love,

Mommy

Behold the power of books

She saw the box sitting on our front porch before I even pulled into the driveway.

MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY, MOMMY ... there's a package ... maybe it's for me?

Mail is big at our house. Huge.

I was crossing my fingers it was the Halloween costume I ordered for her from some scabby Internet company, but seeing as how I'd received no notice of its impending arrival (or any indication they had planned to procure said item) I was fairly certain it wasn't that.

"I have an idea. You get Silas out of the car and I will go and get the package," she said clenching her fists and hunching down in her carseat as if the sheer force of my approval would propel her from the vehicle. (We usually don't let her mill about the driveway on her own, as it sometimes is used as a detour by neighborhood drivers who are in a hurry.)

"OK. You can get the package, but remember to watch for cars."

I hadn't even had time to unlatch the boy from his seat before she was back carrying a box that had "AMAZON" printed on the side and her name hand lettered on the top.

"Look at that, honey. It's for you."

"Really? For me? Show me my name," she said skeptically.

"A-N-N-A-B-E-L," I pointed at each letter. "Last I checked, that's you."

So upstairs we went, me with the boyo and all of our bags and she with the box, carefully placing it on the step above before climbing higher.

"Can we open it now," she asks once I've put down the bags.

I get a pair of scissors and start to score the tape. She worries I'll hurt myself and tells me to be careful as I open the flaps and reveal a card from Aunt Dody and Uncle Joe.

They are presents she, as a new big sister, can use to amuse her little brother. Books and puppets.

"PUPPETS" She squeals with the enthusiam only a three-year-old can muster, AND BOOKS!!!!

"Can you read them to me ... I mean Silas? "

"Now?"

"Before dinner?"


**** That bookmark over yonder on the right? Available. FOR FREE. Just send me a note with your address and I'll send one to you. You can stick it in your Harry Potter books if ya like.

Holding you up, not holding you back

Dear Silas,

Most people who meet you wonder if you have legs.

I'm not kidding.

It's because I wear you like a bookbag in a colorful pouch made of cotton. For nearly four months you've been laying down, sitting up or, at times, standing in the sling with only bits and pieces of you showing.

I've referred to this time as the fourth trimester, soon it's turning into the fifth.

Lots of people have wondered what it's doing to your development.

Many people have wondered if it wouldn't be better for you ... and the babysitter ... and virtually anyone in your life who deals with you when I'm away ... if I had put you down more often.

And while I know your dad would like to see the adoration you show me (and your sister), I know and he knows his time will come.

Perhaps it would be easier for us if you were happy merely looking up at the mobile on the ceiling, or bouncing in a chair for hours at a time. Perhaps it will be a difficult transition when you move from our bed to a bed of your own because you've slept with me each night since your arrival.

But really, it isn't about easy. It isn't about the other people in your life; they will find a way that works for them. It isn't about social norms or past experiences.

This is about you. And me.

There will come a day when you will run off on your own. You will want and need your space.

I'm not talking about high school or college or moving into adulthood, I'm talking about six months from now when you are learning to walk.

Soon enough you will want to be put down. You will want to explore our world.

I'm not doing you any harm by holding onto you until then. All your milestones are happening regardless: You are finding your hands. You are making sounds that sound like words (I like to say you say MAAAMA already). You are even grasping at things you can pull toward you, and turning over from your front to your back on the occasions you are not being held. You react to the sound of our voices, especially
your sister's.

I know you are fine. You are just taking everything in now so in you can run with it
later. I know that holding you up isn't holding you back.

Love,

Mama

Why we've always been a little sad our dog sitter just isn't all that into kids

This came in the mail addressed to Madeline Dog ...

In the fashion

Is that what you're wearing?

Yeah!

Out?

Yes.

You are a crazy nut.

No I'm not, I'm fantastic.

That, too.

This too shall pass

wrong way, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

The gigantic meltdown we experienced this morning - number 294 in an infinite series - was caused by me wanting to comb Ittybit's unruly hair; Jed taking over, ending up putting her in time out because she used her hands as a moving obstacle course through the strands he was trying to tame; and then him coming out to tell me that he doesn't even believe it's a fight we should be having with her anyway.

"I mean, I don't comb my hair."

Uhm. ... You don't have hair to comb Mr.Rocket.Scientist.

So what is a mother to do? I go back into her room and explain that if she wants her hair to be long she has to comb it once a day. When she turns into a screaming, scrabbling beatle, I FORCIBLY comb it for her.

She struggles and screams, and hits her head on the chair, and then she does the only thing left in her power to do now that I'm holding her arms at her side and raking the child-sized brush through her tresses: she FIRES me.

"You're fired, MOMMY. Your fired."

Then, with her hair combed and 10 minutes late, we leave with her breakfast in a to-go box and I spend the next 22 minutes (almost the entire time it takes to get to the sitter's house) listening to her cry and rail against how mean I am, how she can't touch her brother because he's too far away, and she's not ever, ever, ever going to talk to me again. Sorry, "Never ever."

And she meant it, too. Until she saw the furry creatures dotting the hillside a few minutes from our final destination.

"Oh, but Mama, look. There's a LLAMA. See it rhymes! MAMA. LLAMA. MAMA. LLAMA. mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama mamallamma mamallama ... "

No way was I telling her they were alpacas.

Becoming (our) parents

There's an anthem I hear a lot. It's a fight song that's a few bars after adolescent angst, and it goes like this ... "I will NOT raise my kids the way my parents raised me. Nope. I won't."

For some it's an ideology based in reaction to actual harm done to them in childhood. For others it's a philosophical desire to deviate from norms thought to be antiquated or restrictive. Whatever it is, though, most of us say it.

I've said it, too.

Before I had kids, that is.

But now I realize the truth in that statement: I WILL never be like my parents.

That's not to denounce the way I was raised or magnify their mistakes, it's just that I am a wholy separate person living with a new set of expectations.

Here's how I think it breaks out:

At my age my parents already had kids in their 'tweens.
They had clergy their parents and their physcians to go to for advice.
They winged it.
They acted like they knew the answers (even if they didn't)
For all intents and purposes they were The Adults.

At the age they had me I was still trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.
I don't know what's best for everyone.
I have my parents, physicians, Google, Internet support groups, about a zillion self-help manuals to go to for advice.
I still have to wing it and pretend I know what I'm doing.
For all intents and purposes my parents are still The Adults.

Art speak

Arts Walk, Hudson, NY, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"Wow! Look at this MAP!

We live here, right?"

Sunshiny day

hello kitty, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I am miserable.

Miserable.


I have a cold. The kind that gives you a mildly scratchy throat for a few days, mild enough so that it also gives you false hopes that you can beat it.

Three days later your head feels like an overinflated tire and your nose leaks.
Ordinarily you'd spend the day in bed. Sleeping.

It is, after all, a Saturday.

If it were raining, you would be justified in staying indoors. Keeping a low profile.

But it's not raining. It's unusually hot for October and the kid is begging you to go to the playground so she can run around hoping to impress the "older" kids with her irresistable giggles.

Like I said to Jed: I can feel miserable at home in front of the TV or I can feel miserable at the park with this goofy little thrill seeker, who spent a joyful half hour spinning in the swings going "super, super fast."

Yet I was feeling punky. And I decided to leave half the family in the park and walk home, at which time I noticed a delivery truck parked in the middle of the road in that tell-tale "Which House Am I Looking For?" stance.

It was the chest I bought for Silas' room.

And I am reminded, yet again, life is good.

Reverse psychology

french toast fairy, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

"I don't think there's room in that little mouth of yours for any more French toast, sweets," I tell her, my own fork jammed with the impromtu dinner.

"Oh sure there is. ... watch."

The big squeeze

Lunchtime walks, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We interupt this "Baby Book Gone Wrong" to send the following message: Hell has frozen over.

The home fires and work flame have intersected, at least for the moment. It seems I'm getting whatever the opposite of DOOCED would be. ... perhaps we shall call it JUICED.

The newspaper where I work is trying to find its niche online and is asking me - apparently the only blogger in the office - to try and jumpstart them into the 21th century by getting reporters up to speed on what it means to keep a Web blog, not to mention get our Web site all decked out to show all these inner monologs off.

As a bumbling idiot myself when it comes to the nuts and bolts of computing (for all I know a squirrel on a wheel really does run things inside the whirring black box that sits on my desk), I've finally figured out how the twain shall meet technically if not thematically.

It's going to feel a little like walking uphill for a while though. Maybe I'll have to institute a Bring Your Kids (and Dog) To Work day once a week you know for laughs at the damage they can cause just to bring the whole mixing of lives thing full circle.

... Stay Tuned.

Let me whisper in your ear: Silas is Golden

HE SAYS, SHE SAYS, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Dear Silas,

I didn't cry when I left you with the sitter for the first time on Monday, but I was profoundly sad. I drove to work with my coffee, my lunch and a bag full of bottles and pumps hoping to keep you in milk until you are at least year old.

Everyone else was happy, or so it seemed. Your sister was excitedly anticipating a new ability to watch over you. When I she asked if it was time to go to the NEW BABYSITTER'S house and I told her "yes," flinching for the litany of "I love THE OLD BABYSITTER'S HOUSE," I was heartened and surprised to hear an enthusiastic "Hurray!"

It has occured to me, after weeks of explaining why she couldn't go back to Lori's house, why now it seems OK to be at Terri's. Lori didn't have room for you, her brother.

Her brother: The boy she will tell strangers about. The chain of thoughts that come stream out of her mouth when she meets someone new: "I have a baby brother. His name is Silas. He's a good boy. He loves me and I love him."

She wants to be with you more than she wants Lori; and that's something huge.

So please, dear boy, try to be patient with her when things aren't going your way. Try and be kind when she's angry with you for touching her stuff or when she wants her privacy. You will not remember this time, but you should know she loves you more than you might ever imagine.

She thinks Silas is Golden; Golden.

Love,

Mommy

'Tween and twitch

love, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Thrump, tum, tum. Thrump, tum, tum.

I shift in my seat, my back slumped into the same position it held three and a half months ago when my belly was arguably larger.

Can't call too early. They are not home. Traveling about the county, dropping off one kid to preschool and picking up another. Silas along for the ride.

I am restless. Working on the things I can, reading the news I largely ignored during the summer. Getting depressed. Another murder. Another health scare in Africa. Epidemic here. There. Everywhere.

I watch the clock. They should be home now. I call. Three rings, four rings. ... there is a connection and I hear screaming on the other end. Silas.

So often I listen to him cry and feel my own tears close to the surface. Not today. Today his tears comfort me a little. He misses me? Probably not. He isn't eating as well for the sitter as he did for my mother on our night out. Only two ounces so far. He's hungry. I've already pumped 8 ounces.

I hang up so as not to make it worse. I know how hard it is to do anything with a baby crying.

My eye starts to twitch with that familiar stress energy I haven't felt in I don't know how long.

I should really start sitting up straighter.

Over yonder ghost town

there's the city, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

I go back to work tomorrow. And in preparation for the tumult, the hubs and I left the kids with my parents for a night on the town. While we went to dinner and a movie, they wrestled the girl into jammies and the boy into taking a bottle.

His first. Ever.

Of course we had to call home to see how things were going between dinner and catching the "3:10 to Yuma."

I have to admit my heart sank when my mother's cheery voice reported that he had to be coaxed a little but in no time boyo had sucked down the bottle like he was an old pro.

I wonder what it says about my parenting that I was secretly hoping he'd go on a milk strike without me? What does it say that the girl who in on a nap strike in my care gets the sleep she so clearly needs with the sitter?

It doesn't help that I spent my official last day of maternity leave at th Company Picnic, only to learn the extent of recent departures and future ones ... can you say skeleton crew?

anniversario felice

He asked me what I wanted for our anniversary.

I told him I already had my gift ...

poindexter pair, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Two nerdy kids in beer goggles.

Toothsome and then some

brushing teeth in birthday hat, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

All those sugary treats are haunting me. The fruit juices are laughing at me and the fluoride drops sitting on the counter, abandoned, are calling me "Drip."

Today we took ittybit to her first dentist appointment. She wasn't feeling up to it so I convinced the hygenist to bump my appointment up three days and clean my teeth so she could see the drill in action.

I had such a difficult time keeping a straight face as the masked hygenist chipped away at the tarter and plaque, polished my pearly whites with something suspiciously strawberry in flavor and sucked up saliva with the "slurping straw." For each time a new impliment was introduced, Ittybits eyes and nose came squarely into view, even blocking out the overhead light.

The dentist pronounced me a perfect patient and the spotlight turned to the girl. She bristled, bunched up in my arms and tried to hide. She eventually agreed to lay on top of me while the dentist counted her teeth (20) and looked around.

Not good.

She has one cavity smack dab in the center of her front teeth and it looks like she's going to need orthodontic correction eventually.

Because she wasn't terribly cooperative he's referred us to a pediatric dentist for treatment.

Of course the worst happened in the car when Annabel said my teeth were pretty, but hers were not. She had a cavity.

"My teeth are never, ever going to be pretty now."

**heavy sigh.

Superdooper pooper scooper

So next week I'm headed back to work. The very place that reported THIS bit of news last week.

GRRRRRREAT!!!

... And here we've had to hire a new babysitter. Someone who is legally able to take only two children, and had two spaces available. Someone, who as Ittybit puts it, "isn't Lori."

I know what she means. I feel it myself. She's probably perfectly fine, we just don't know her yet. Going back to work with such an unknown person taking care of the most important people in my life ... well I don't have to tell you what it feels like. If you've ever done it you know.

And now with this death in my head -- on the first day of daycare no less -- I can't imagine I'll be getting much work done.

Not that any babysitter -- or any mother, for that matter -- could prevent the death of an infant to SIDS. However, we'd always be thinking we could have done something should such a nightmare happen to us.

Even if that senario is rare, what's not rare in these early months when life seems so precarious, we are trudging back to work to make ends meet or to keep our jobs secure.

When I talk to people around the world who are given leave for 12 months to make sure the Next Generation gets a good start, I become enraged at the backward thinking that some say has made us a superpower ... Corporations over people.

I'll tell you what ... I for one would like our government to pay women to stay home with their infants for a year if they choose to do so. I'd gladly trade all the bullets we've used in Bagdad for that.

Who needs superpowers anyway? Isn't there some saying ... the bigger you are the harder you fall?

Seriously, if a superpower can't get you decent health care or family leave than how super can it be?

Oh, the suspense

So my writer-friend Martha (she's the purdy lady on the right) visited us yesterday for our second annual Apple Picking excursion at Love Apple Farm.

I've been compulsively checking her blog since she asked me for a few "web" sized photos of our day ...

There's no telling how much fun she will have with me and this clownshow I call a family.

Will she write about how Ittybit self imposed a time out so she wouldn't have to share her toys?

Will she write about how I LOST the keys to the car while we were at lunch (and still haven't found them)?

Will she discuss how the girls would rather go catepiller hunting than apple picking? Or that they had to TASTE every apple on every tree instead of putting ANY in the bag? Or how my Silas was determined to let her Sam suck on his hand?

She'll probably tell her readers all about how I dress in long sleeves and long pants whether it's 50 degrees or 80 degrees and my kid wears a tutu and cleats.

About how no matter what they're wearing, lately out kids wind up naked at some point during the playdate.

Or how about the pork loin we made for dinner that she helped nuke in the microwave when it turned out from the grill still a little pink?

She may even talk about the baby wearing freak I've become. Taking pride in taking out the trash, getting the laundry and balancing something on my head all while wearing the Champ. How I've tried to make her a convert, too.

Whatever it is she writes about, though, I guarantee it will be true and 100 percent more hilarious.

And away she goes

"I am going to be shy."

I've come to realize such statements are more of a wish than reality. She may not jump in with both feet, but girlfriend is taking notes.

Since Silas had a follow-up visit with the pediatric urologist, and my mom (who, with my father, who has taken Annabel when we need a "babysitter") had a dentist appointment, I decided it was time to take the new sitter for a test run.

It had been a good morning. She ate cereal, peas and corn (don't ask) and was in the car and ready to go to Terri's house by 7:30 a.m. When we got there Terri's son was waiting outside, ready for a playtime bonanza. He was ready to hunt dinosaurs, capture sharks or swing through the jungle vines. Annabel just wanted to watch.

She clung to my pants leg and defiantly informed Terri that her old sitter loved her and she likewise.

She didn't want to be disloyal, but she did want to play on the rope swing. She wanted to do projects and watch a Land Before Time. She wanted to eat lunch and oatmeal cookies.

When I told her it was time for me to go, she just said 'bye' as happily as if she were saying hello.

When I returned, she was happy to say hello but in no hurry to say goodbye.

The black hole that contains my thoughts

Disclaimer: I don't know what I'm saying. Please don't hold it against me.


In fewer than two weeks I will be returning to work. And that frightens me. So much so that I'm going to dig myself a hole in the taboo universe and write candidly about my day job, even though I know colleagues and (gulp) superiors read these ramblings from time to time.

As a second maternity leave draws to a close, I'm doing all the things that one might do to drive themselves crazy. I'm comparing the children, photographing them in similar ways at similar ages. I'm thinking ... This is my last baby; do I really want to miss this? And wondering why it is I work in the first place.

There's the insurance. There's the steady income. There's the independence. There's even a hint that I still enjoy the work ... which as the years go by, I must admit gets more and more defused in the scent of hopelessness.

See, folks, I'm not entirely sure what it is I'll be returning to when I go back to work October 1: Stock prices are in the toilet; A manager at my place of employment has left, co-workers who are already on the low side of the morale see-saw are worried about who will be the replacement; and my job description might change drastically as the people in charge scramble to keep the ship afloat.

I'm sure you've heard, newspapers everywhere are bleeding revenue. Readers are literally dying. Advertizing is going to online entertainment sites and Classifieds - once the bread and butter of periodicals in print -- have had thier obituaries published as Craig's List, e-bay and freecycle move into their old apartment. ... My little rag, just like all the others, is trying everything it can to keep its white-knuckled grip on viability.

There was a time when I loved my job. Well, that might not be entirely true. ... There was a time when I loved what I did. I loved my industry. Not to be a total shitheel, but I also ... for the most part ... love the people with whom I work. I may rail against the corporate skinflints and decry the industry's declining integrity, but I also call a spade a spade. I know if the industry was still in its golden age I'd never be hired to do what I do. For me to have a job as a "journalist" I needed the industry to lower its standards.

But be that as it may, gratitude can only last so long.

And this isn't an indictment of my industry, despite the fact that I have many complaints. This is just me thinking aloud when I would sound (and likely be) smarter silent. I'll begin at the beginning. The first job.

It was at a weekly. My boss was a person who mystified me. I liked her -- we all did -- but she never, ever seeemed to "do the right thing." We called her our layout stringer: a person who showed up in a whirl of activity on the days we put the paper together by hand -- yes I am that old -- and was virtually invisible at all other times.

When we lost a typist she informed us "we all" had to type press releases. Except she never typed a one. When we were drowning in dreck she just clucked in sympathy and then blew out the door in a puff of smoke from her Winston-Salems. When an office worker was reprimanded by off-site management for taking too many smoke breaks -- the perceived reason for underperformance (which was impossible as the dirty secret was that years after the smoking bans smokers were still puffing away at their desks) -- this boss didn't step up to save the woman's job. She didn't want to get in trouble, and she didn't want to have to leave her desk to light up.

There were many, many examples of such shortfalls. Every time the chips were down we thought she's come through for us, or at least attempt to lend a hand. But every time she found a way to cover her ass while we all stood around, mouths agape. And still we liked her. And still, like hopeful children of deadbeat dads, we gave her the benefit even though she never gave us anything but doubts.

You see, she was a person who was at one time fabled to be a bulldog. A full-steam-ahead go-getter. In the interim she had become a mother.

I think about her a lot these days as I'm looking ahead to long days of ferrying the children to daycare, dashing off to work and trying to get everything done -- not to mention replacement milk pumped -- before I have to reverse course. I know there must be someone or two or three out there who grumbles at my ability to keep bankers' hours in a newsroom but I don't let it get to me. I do my job as best I can. I no longer offer to do extra, but I don't hesitate if extra is asked of me.

But I have lost the fire.

I would like nothing better to rant about all the things I find wrong with our society -- one that claims to hold family values but only offers three months when babies are literally LIVING off their mother's tit exclusively for six months. But neither is this an indictment of capitalism. Someone is always getting a raw deal somewhere.

No this is about your head choosing to go back to work when your heart is begging to stay with your children. This is for every woman who wishes she could witness every smile, every laugh, every skinned knee while keeping a hand in her profession. This is about all the people who stop her in the street or the store at tell her to "enjoy this time." This is about every woman who's heart ever broke in a million pieces just thinking of how fast this time really does fly. Because in no time at all, she'll be going back to work and seeing her children at breakfast and bedtime. And in no time they'll be gone.

Yankme Candle

Ok. All the lovey, dovey junk aside -- the children are our future, a child is a marvel *blueshit -- we all know once you have kids a few things are never the same.

Now, I knew I was never going to be able to sleep in again. I knew that I was never going to be able to just go to the store, or to the bank or for a walk on my own. I knew that I was going to be wiping noses and bums and spills on the floor for the forseeable future. I knew that I was going to be answering the same question fifteen times a day for the next 18 years. I knew that I'd never be alone in the bathroom again for a long, long time. And yes, I know about LOCKING the bedroom door. (Ahem).

But I never really thought how having kids was going to affect YOU, the family and friends that I must buy gifts for at holidays.

It turns out that all the crap interesting tidbits parents have to buy as a result of student fundraising begins in PRESCHOOL. PRESCHOOL?!?

*BLINK* BLINK* BLINK*

So this stuff has to go somewhere folks, and Christmas is coming. ...

I hope you don't hold it against me. Remember, there are worse smelling things I could be sending you.

Big trouble

When Ittybit was his age I couldn't imagine getting angry with her. When I gazed into her eyes all I saw was sugar and spice. Even the unconsolable crying jags had a sweetness I didn't expect.

Babies. They are like little old souls despite their awkward, sideways smiles, their lack of motor control and almost total absence of articulation beyond nearly deafening screams.

It seems like a lifetime ago that I looked into her eyes, touched her face and wondered what she was going to be like when she was older. Even as she grew into her own person, enough of the baby remained. Or maybe it was the reverse. Maybe she grew into the sly little wit who I brought home from the hospital on the date she was due.

But lately not a day goes by that I'm not biting my lip and clenching every muscle in my body trying to hold back a rising flood of frustration. "Stop fidgeting. Don't touch that. Please put that down. Be gentle. Will you just sit still. You need to eat more. I made that for you and now you're not eating it. We have to leave now. Please brush your teeth. Don't swallow the toothpaste. We don't waste shampoo. Pick that up. You have to wear a sweater. PLEASE WEAR A SWEATER. Look at your lips they're blue. When I feel your arm it's FREEZING ..."

And with four words she wins the whole war: "Don't feel my arm."

As I hang my head in defeat this little guys is smiling up at me with his cockeyed grin.

And I know. ... I'm in big trouble.

Just keep swimming

23water, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Papa arrived this morning at 8:30 a.m. to take Ittybit to her first swimming lesson at the Y. And promptly at 8:31 a.m. they were out the door. She didn't even look back.

She didn't even utter the words she's been repeating since we told her she'd be learning to swim with her Papa: "OK. ... But I'm not going to put my head underwater, right?"

We didn't need to tell her that she wouldn't have to do anything she didn't want to do.

She grabbed her Dora the Explorer bag containing her new swimsuit and a blue towel (to match the color of the water) and she was gone.

Oh sure, Papa said I could go if I wanted, but I could tell by the sound of his voice that this was something he was hoping would be just for him and Annabel. Their special thing.

So I stayed back to drum my fingers on the table, drink coffee without the interruption of her sing-song voice asking me to play with her and her tiny animals on the livingroom floor, not to mention the possibility of a walk to the farmer's market without having to stop to check the cracks in the sidewalk for treasures.

I miss her already.

***UPDATE***

I haven't missed her FIRST swimming lesson after all. When she and Papa came home I yelled down the stairs, "Hey, how'd it go." And was answered by Papa saying "Not too well."

Turns out the pool lost a motor or something and has been out of commission since Thursday. Papa was disappointed. Annabel was disappointed. A bunch of kids and their parents were disappointed. And an elderly woman who was headed in as Annabel and Papa were headed out was probably disappointed, too.

ANNABEL: Are you going to swim?

LADY: Why yes I am. I go swimming here three times a week.

ANNABEL: Well not today. The pool is broken.

For a second I had a flashback to my ninth birthday (at least I think I was 9) and my father was taking me and two of my friends bowling. I was SOOOOOOOOOOO excited. It was going to be the absolute COOOOLEST, most SPECTACULAR birthday anyone under 10 EVER had.

But we got to the alley and it was closed. Who ever heard of a bowling alley closed on a Saturday?

Thinking fast my father hustled us back into the car and drove as swiftly as a man who NEVER drives faster 40 mph across the river to the Port of Albany. The. Stinky. Old. Port. Of. Albany. Where for a half an hour we watched a garbage barge load up. I'm fairly certain I cried for a week.

And yet, it's the ONLY birthday I remember. It's the only one worth talking about.

I didn't say anything, but I wondered what he did instead since the pair of miscreants didn't make it home until two hours after finding the drain pulled on their pool time. Did he take her to the Port?

"We went to Old MacDonalds and I played on the toys with the kids. It was GREAT."

Because he kinda resembles a geriatric heroin addict

papa, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

As you may recall, I am going to hell.

But since I've decided to at least TRY and be a responsible parent I've put an end to further viewings of "Little Miss Sunshine" by our own little miss sunshine.

However, I neglected to mention it to Jed.

I had to go to a board meeting at her preschool -- The Marilla Cuthbert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children (or MCA-UCC for you acronym lovers) -- and in my absence, the daddy-person let her watch it.

At the part where Alan Arkin, the grandfather, meets his demise she becomes VERY concerned.

Daddy, I HAVE to call Papa. NOW!

... So Jed rings him up ...

"Hi, Papa? Hi. It's me. ANN-A-BEL.

Are you OK?"

Here's hoping this doesn't become part of show and tell.

War of the Roses

ME: The Nassau Public Library is showing "Flushed Away" on September 28th. It's a family night pajama party.

HIM: Are they showing it outside?

ME: No. They've got a little projector downstairs in the storytime room.

HIM: I am NOT spending our anniversary in the basement wearing fuzzy slippers.

ME: Well maybe Papa can take her.

HER: I don't want papa to take me. I want to go with yoooooooooooooooooooooou! MommyMommy MommyMommy Mommy MOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMEEEEEE!

ME: Well if you go with papa I'll bet that he'll let you get all hopped up on sugar ...

HER: OK. Going with Papa'd be good.

Wait a while and it changes

like the weather in NY, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

We just got back from a weekend trip to New York City, the cruxt of which was to visit the big Toy's R Us store in Times Square.

You may wonder why on Earth two reasonably intellengent people -- parents of Ittybit and Champ to be more precise -- would travel two hours on a train and then schlep the kids, two backpacks, a stroller and a camera to visit a toy store that arguable has less going for it than any of the the locally owned toy boxes in our own neighborhood?

The occasion was a "potty party" in honor of our dear friend CC, who was celebrating a dry summer by taking a few spins on the gigantic indoor farris wheel the toy behemoth has jammed inside its multi-storied establishment.

We thought we'd try and take it easy on ourselves and take a bite out of the Big Apple a day early, stay at a Greenwich Village hotel and see the Richard Serra show at MoMA.



I can honestly say we had a wonderful time, even though we expected to be shooting ourselves in the face bringing a nap-striking three-year-old through the bowels of Manhattan's mass transit system in a souped-up umbrella stroller and then making her stay in the contraption through five floors of modern art, when all she really wanted to do was see her friends and ride the ride.

I must also point out that waiting to cry and throw an all-out tantrum three hours into the museum experience should be put down on her application for sainthood. I, myself, lobbied for an hour at the museum and an hour at the Central Park Zoo. (I was overruled).

But I'm not bitter or anything.

Perhaps the most interesting part about the whole experience was just witnessing the city for the first time at the vantage of parenthood. New York, a place that ordinarily seems cold and austere despite its opulance, where people race from place to place and barely make eye-contact, melts when tiny tots are in the picture. Having children really is the great equalizer. Everyone stops to talk to the kids, to ask about the sling that kept Silas comfee and quiet the whole trip. It was exactly like being in a small town.

From the moment we stepped off 34th Street on our way to West 4th and back to Penn Station, we were engaged by people who wanted to know how old the baby was, how old Annabel was; they worried about his safety in the sling and wondered where I got it. They told me about deals they saw on such things in SoHo.

When Silas cried, grocery clerks clucked in empathy, coffeeshop baristas told us about their teenagers at home. ... how they'd go back to the baby days in an instant if they would just stay babies ... and hostesses at restaurants offered to walk him around so I could eat.

Everyone smiled and said 'Have a Nice Day.'

And they meant it.

Even in the toy store we had to admit the kid of ours who walks and talks was walking the line, and on her best behavior. The only thing I regret, out of the whole experience was not photographing the tower of boxes containing dolls fashioned from the musical "Hairspray" that Toys R' Us was hawking.

As teeny-bopper types were shrieking with glee at the chance to have their very own Amber Von Tussle doll, I found myself handling an Edna Turnblad, turning the box over and over in my hand and feeling sad. I wondered momentarily if John Waters is turning over in his grave ... then I realized the poor man's not even dead. Hell must have frozen over for sure.