Hello Maya

The good life

2010-01-22T18:32:00.000-08:00

An afternoon with the twins, Yo Gabba Gabba reruns, pinkie bear and the coveted blue pacifier. Really, could life be any sweeter?

The birth of a snow obsession

2009-12-21T12:44:00.000-08:00

This child is impervious to the cold. Even in her thin fleece mittens and sweatpants yesterday morning, I could not get her to go back inside. Then, last night David and I foolishly left the warm glowing pod of our apartment to wander the dark icy sidewalks of Brooklyn as a family. Our ploy was to tire Maya out before bedtime with a little chilly walk around the block. But after the first bitter 15 minutes, it became clear that Maya had no intention of going back inside. We tried the two-minute rule. We attempted to lure her home with gummy bears and the promise of extra TV shows. By this time, our fingers were numb and we were contemplating picking her up and making a run for home, despite her protests. Eventually, we took turns running around the playground to keep warm while Maya built meticulous snowmen. When we finally convinced her to leave the playground, she happily sat down in a pile of snow and began to bury herself, smiling and laughing as our lips turned blue. The strangest part of all was that when we finally got her back inside our cozy abode (not without plenty of kicking and screaming on her part) her fingers and toes were actually WARM. She's simply not human . . .

Question of the week

2009-12-15T09:44:00.001-08:00

If you were 3 feet tall and fond of tiny secret places, where would you hide your daddy's wallet?

The very short lifespan of cat makeup

2009-11-22T18:16:00.000-08:00

At a school fair today, Maya had her first--and definitely not last--experience with face painting. I was impressed that she: 1) let anyone do anything to her face (since teeth brushing, face wiping, and hair washing are an ongoing battle), 2) sat still long enough for it be reach this level of finish, and 3) kept it on for the entire seven-block walk home. But most impressive, was that the minute she got home she happily let me take it all off before naptime. Considering how she morns the gradual loss of a temporary tattoo, I thought we were definitely going to be living with a daughter in deteriorating cat makeup for days.

What price, oh lollipop?

2009-11-20T08:45:00.000-08:00

Red lollipops, red lollipops. If only global leaders were 2-year-old toddlers, so much could be solved over a bag of red lollipops. For Maya, it changes a flat-out "NO" to a casual, easy-going, "Okay." Then, as she loses herself in cherry-flavored sugary nirvana, her hair gets cut, her nails clipped, or it's bath time, or time to get strapped into her car seat, plus a whole slew of other unpleasantries she'd rather skip out on altogether. A little sweetness goes a long way.

Post-Halloween bliss

2009-11-10T14:15:00.000-08:00

The parade is over. The candy is gone. The pumpkins have rotted. But when you're 2 1/2, the costume-wearing and happiness can last for days and days and days . . .

The sheep-robot-rugby mashup

2009-11-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

At least a month before Halloween, Maya had lots of costume ideas. And they changed sometimes on an hourly basis: ghost, robot, scarecrow, Elmo, string bean, ballerina, ghost again, robot again, etc etc etc. Fortunately, I instinctively knew not to run out and buy any of these costumes. Sure, we had parts of them: ballet skirts and shiny silver robot pants and pillowcases ready to be cut into the perfect ghost costume. But as the hallowed day grew nearer, Maya was reluctant to actually try on any of these costume ideas. She examined ballet skirts skeptically before announcing, "Hurts me" because they were itchy. Her Dorothy costume from last year caused her to run and hide in the bedroom. And the ghost costume got a simple, nonnegotiable, "No!" She did, however, love her silver robot pants, which she wore every day for a week after we bought them. (You can't see it from this picture, but they're down there, a permanent fixture on her chubby little gams.) At last, we settled on sheep ears she found in her dress-up box plus her robot pants, plus a green and red Christmas dress she pulled from her drawers. And even though it was simple, it was a hit. A few people even asked us where we bought the get-up, as if it all came together. I squeezed into Maya's child-sized Indian headdress from Ikea, David cut his skeleton costume in half and wore just the rib portion with jeans, and we all headed out for the Cobble Hill Park parade -- a motley crew, indeed.

Vegging

2009-10-26T13:35:00.000-07:00

Funny, even though their just watching dancing puppets on Yo Gabba Gabba, Maya and her buddies Jane and Georgia somehow already look 16 to me.

Rainy days and Sundays

2009-10-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

Remember when you used to think rainy days were great because it meant you got to pull out your umbrellas and rain boots? The minute Maya sees its raining outside her arms start flapping (to this day, it's still her way of expressing EXTREME excitement). She insists on opening her umbrella immediately--inside the apartment. And putting on her rain boots with whatever she happens to be wearing. This morning, it was with her pajamas. So here we are, strolling the absolutely deserted streets of Brooklyn Heights with a child completely absorbed in rainy day bliss.

It's helmet-time!

2009-10-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best part of getting a new aqua blue scooter isn't how fast it goes or how much other kids want to play with it--or even how much cooler aqua blue is than boring red or ordinary blue.

Nope. It's the amazingly cool green helmet you get with it. It's all about the helmet.

Swing sisters

2009-08-11T19:57:00.000-07:00

One of the hottest days of summer so far, but Maya and Jane still hit the swingset.

We're on a first-name basis now

2009-08-06T12:59:00.001-07:00

This morning while eating breakfast, Maya called out something that sounded a lot like, "Eileen? Eileen?" Both David and I had no idea what she was saying at first. (Are we that far-gone into parenthood that we don't remember our own names? Okay, well, sometimes: yes.) The mental light bulb went on for David first. "I think she's saying your name," he said.
Like a summoned court jester, I went and stood in front of her perch in her high chair. "Yes?"
"Hi Eileen," she said, holding her baby spoon up with pudgy toddler fingers. And then, "Hi David."
"Hi Maya," we replied in unison, a little dumb-founded and as euphorically impressed as only first-time parents are by things like this.
And then, cool trick accomplished, Maya stuck out her arms and went right back to being two again. "Uppee, Mommy!"

Two things I'm bummed I'm missing this weekend

2009-07-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

We've been out of town almost every weekend this summer. Don't get me wrong, it’s been great. And this weekend is really the most amazing weekend yet. We're going to a real sleep-away CAMP with Maya, her Nana and Papa, two of her best friends, Jane and Georgia, their parents, and a bunch of their friends. Between the s'mores, archery, making leather wallets in arts and crafts (guess what you’re getting for Xmas), and short-sheeting David's bunk, it's going to be a blast.

But since I'm not going to be in town, here are two weird events at two very cool locations that are actually kid-friendly, cheap, and only in NYC:

This Saturday, the Bash the Trash parade on the brand-new High Line Park sounds kind of fun. It's the new park on the old El, part of which runs from Gansevoort Street, in the Meatpacking District, to West 20th Street, in Chelsea, between Tenth and Eleventh Avenues. My friend Mindy can't believe I haven't gone there yet. But I didn't even know it had opened. (Shows my faith in Bloomberg!)

Then Sunday, it's over to the Frying Pan to celebrate the Belgians’ independence from the Netherlands with so many waffles you'll want to puke overboard. Plus, burgers from Petite Abeille, Belgian rock band Monsieur Dupont, mussels (my favorite), and pommes frites (pass the mayo!). And a beauty pageant. You don't even have to be Belgian to win.

Best of all, thanks to the weird weather we've been having, it's not even going to be that hot this weekend.

Because I said so?

2009-07-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

Wait, did I really say that? “Because I SAID SO?”

Problem is, using this little phrase just seems easier than explaining to a 2-year-old that if she climbs that fence and gets out onto that golf course -- right where the 18th hole is -- she's going to get whacked with a golf ball.

Thankfully, I somehow manage to suppress the urge to say, “Because I’m the mommy, that’s why.”
Of course, it doesn’t work for me any better than it did for my own mom.

Brrrrr!

2009-07-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

The colder the sprinkler, the better.

Let's get ready to TUMBLE!!!!

2009-07-16T11:33:00.000-07:00

Maya at gymnastics class with her BFFs: twins Georgia and Jane to the left, and Kate (Maya calls her "Cake") to the right.

Maya & Kate hit Ikea

2009-07-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

Here's how you have an amazing play date when every kid you know lives in a small NY apartment:

1. Grab a parent and get on the bus headed to Red Hook.
2. Text all your homegirls and boys (and their parent-for-the-day) to meet at Ikea.
3. Stop for cupcakes at Baked (IMPORTANT: do not skip this step).
4. Make a beeline to the second floor of Ikea for the children's toys, gear, and most of all: beds.
5. Jump, snuggle, bounce, and try out every bed in the place.

Without a doubt, it is the best bed-hopping in all of Brooklyn. There's plenty of room, you can make a bit of a mess, and it's FREE.

More Wooo-Wooo.

2009-07-13T10:52:00.000-07:00

There are some things that, to a 2-year-old, must seem so universally underappreciated by adults. Balloons, for one. Bubbles, bouncing balls, blimps, bubble bath, candy, cartoons, ice cream cones, and poop jokes, to name a few more. I can just see Maya looking up at us grownups, dumb-founded that we don't jump up and down with sheer, unadulterated glee the moment we experience anything fun. This is photo shows just how excited she gets playing peek-a-boo, for example.

Yesterday, we were watching the news, and Al Roker was doing his thing on TV, walking into Rockefeller Plaza, working the tourists into a cheering frenzy. Maya jumped up from her breakfast and started clapping wildly and shouting "Wooo! Wooo!" right along with a family from North Dakota who were waving a homemade "Go Tomcats!" sign. But when the commercial break came, it just wasn't enough for Maya. She begged for "More wooo-wooo!" until I figured out how to rewind the weather segment of Good Morning America over and over. We then spent the morning cheering along passionately with the North Dakotans, clapping and shouting at the top of our lungs. (Hey, it beats Teletubbies).

Turning two

2009-05-11T15:05:00.000-07:00

Then the little girl made a wish and blew out the candles.

"What did you wish?" everyone asked her.

"I wished for it all to happen again," said the little girl.

-- From my sister Diana's favorite book, Over and Over, by Charlotte Zolotow

This could get ugly.

2009-05-04T15:22:00.000-07:00

Slowly but surely, Maya is learning to dress herself. Here are today's results. The highwater bellbottoms were hiding in the back of a drawer. And yet, despite my determination to get her to wear something a little less explosive, she hunted them down with the tenacious instincts of a highly trained bloodhound.

Chillun'

2009-03-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

Baby, it's cold outside. But that doesn't have to stop the fun.

All the fun they're having

2009-02-26T15:12:00.000-08:00

Usually, this is dress-up day with Maya. We pretend to be fortune tellers, or ballerinas, or personal chefs. Whatever comes out of the box of used clothes, halloween costumes and dollar-store junk. Maya mostly likes to look in the mirror and speak toddler-ese, as if she's really telling a fortune, or preparing a souffle before a live TV audience.

But this week I've been freelancing at an office (in a cubicle, waaaah). It's the first time since Maya's birth some 22 months ago that I've freelanced on site. So throughout the day, our nanny and David send me pictures of Maya dancing at the Moxie Spot, or riding the bus to get cupcakes, or making a tent out of the sofa cushions. For me, it simultaneously makes the day better and worse. I miss her so much sometimes I feel itchy and claustrophobic. But hey, cubicles in agencies can do that to a person anyway. And when I get home at 7:00, she's all mine.

Double trouble

2009-02-07T06:57:00.000-08:00

Why settle for just one binkie?

Does this look like the work of a flunkie?

2009-02-03T09:01:00.000-08:00

Last week Maya had three preschool "interviews." This week, I'm laid up with a bad back. Could the two things be related? Maybe. Perhaps it's just me, but I hate the idea of anyone judging Maya. Did she A). play well with others? Demonstrate independence? Take direction well? Say please and thank you? OR: Did she B). cling to me the entire time, pulling at my shirt, begging for "BA-BA" (aka breastfeeding)? Okay, so it was B. The kindly old schoolmarmish ladies smiled politely and warned us gently that with only 25 spots and 150 applicants, Maya's chances were slim. Especially since we'd had to cancel her school interviews the week before because she had the flu.
So Maya, David and I came home and recited the Gettysburg Address, counted backwards from 100 (in Chinese) and then drew this picture in honor of Maya's muse, Jackson Pollock. So I'm thinking, forget preschool. Let's go straight for the majors.

Walking with Willy

2009-01-23T18:26:00.000-08:00

The flakes were so soft they melted under our fingertips. Like flour piled on a baking sheet. As much as I tried to get Maya to wear her mittens, she insisted on touching every inch of white we passed until her hands were wet and red. I had to keep her from eating the snow. Who knows whether a dog peed on that fence or park bench? It was getting dark, but I took her to a tiny park across from the hospital down the street. It's just a stretch of lawn with a path that winds through it, on the edge of the roaring traffic of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. It's actually the very park that I looked out at when I was in labor, having my second epidural jabbed into my spine. I promised myself if I made it through the next few seemingly endless hours that someday my daughter and I would walk in the park outside my window.

Maya and I slipped inside the gate and stepped down on untouched, pristine snow. A guard suddenly appeared with his keys out, insisting it was closing time. But when Maya started to cry, he let us walk through it once, leaving footprints in the glowing stretch of white under the high street lamps. Maya seemed satisfied. How could she know she'd been cheated out of a real walk in the snow?

Walking home, I couldn't get Willy Nelson's "Moonlight in Vermont" out of my mind. And I can't help dreaming of vast snowy fields on the edge of little towns somewhere outside of Brooklyn.

Maya's Drum Solo

2009-01-17T18:07:00.000-08:00

Sure, it was her cousin Em and Jack's Christmas present (the latest version of Guitar Hero). But that didn't keep Maya from grabbing the drumsticks and making her rocker face.

Date day

2009-01-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, David and I decided that in order to ever speak to each other like grown-ups again, we’d need to take serious action. So we set up an every-other-Thursday date night. At first, it was bliss. We saw live music, ate sushi, smooched in the back of movie theaters, etc, etc, ETC.

But then we got a bit of sticker shock. After the $14 an hour in childcare, plus food delivery for our sitter’s dinner, plus her car service home to somewhere deep in Brooklyn, we were shelling out some serious coin--before purchasing a single overpriced movie ticket.

So here’s our New Year’s resolution: find a neighborhood teen who eats dinner at home, shows up after Maya’s in bed, and who lives close enough that David can walk her home at the end of the evening. All for about $10 a hour. (Currently, we’re still looking for such a dream scenario: we’ll keep you posted.)

Until we figure out date nights? We’re squeezing in date days. So today after a meeting with our accountant in Midtown (while Maya was with her nanny), David and I took the 6 to Grand Central and sat at the counter at the Oyster Bar. We split a cup of chowder, an oyster po’boy and crab cakes. It may not be as fabulous as when some parents hit the town. Nor is it exactly a candlelit dinner for two. But with enough PDA, it just might do the trick.

Anybody out there?

2009-01-08T08:05:00.000-08:00

Everything is a telephone to Maya. This morning she made a very lengthy call (international, I’m afraid) on my photo card reader. Yesterday, she made several calls to I don’t know who on a soup ladle. I like how well she imitates us—so well that I’ve even started to feel a little self-conscious on my iPhone. Maya knows there’s always a good amount of dialing, a hello, plenty of meaningless babble, some nodding and gesturing, and occasionally even a good-bye. But since we use AT&T, even pretend calls typically end with no warning whatsoever.

A five-bear load

2009-01-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

Today’s laundry has set a new record. Five—count ‘em—five pink bears in a single load. Mostly because Maya is getting a lot more experimental with her beloved bear. Pinkie is eating her French fries with ketchup and her Ikea Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam. Pinkie is swimming in sidewalk puddles and playing in the sandbox. Pinkie is taking baths with Maya more frequently. And now, as Maya’s vocabulary (and persistence) grows, she’s handing me a stinky Pinkie every night and saying, “Wash.” So I take the smelly bear and, while pretending to rub it clean with a bath towel, switch it with one of the 10 or so freshly washed bears from my underwear drawer (not the most ideal hiding place, maybe, but its one of the few drawers out of Maya’s reach these days).

I wonder if she still thinks Pinkie is only one bear?

Homeward bound

2008-11-16T11:00:00.000-08:00

We just got back from a trip to my hometown, Lynchburg, VA. Highlights: Long strolls on the Blackwater Creek Trail. Yoga with my dad at the Y. Beers and fries at the Cav. Two dogs all the way at the T-Room. Jogging it all off on Peakland Place. And five days to do nothing but hang out with Grandma, Granddaddy, and Aunt Liz.

Babymooning

2008-11-08T08:41:00.000-08:00

"Babymoon: A vacation couples take before their babies arrive and life as they know it changes completely.” But really? It’s the last chance to get busy before you start feeling like a beached whale with a bladder the size of a walnut.

Wikipedia further defines babymooning as “usually taking place at a resort that offers relaxing services like prenatal massage.” If only I had known! Our babymoon was on the Puerto Rican island of Vieques. And even though I was as big as a house, it included daily Jeep rides down miles and miles of jungle dirt roads to deserted beaches. Hiking around jagged cliffs to find nudie swim spots. And jumping on and off a plastic kayak for a moonlight swim in the Bioluminescent Bay. (Believe me, I wouldn't have minded a prenatal massage or two.)

Some people think babymoons are overrated. But since these days our vacations basically include all the same rituals of home, including diaper changing, endless food prep, and plenty of sleepless nights (only somewhere sunnier)—I highly recommend it.

Somewhere over the rainbow

2008-11-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

Maya fought putting on her Dorothy costume for Halloween. She refused to wear the wig (even when we explained it was really just a "hair hat"). She spent so long admiring the shiny red shoes it took us half an hour to walk a single block. And she ditched Toto for her bear, good old stinky Pinky. But somehow, she made the costume her very own, and people got exactly who she was. All the way to the Cobble Hill Park parade, we heard people calling out, "Hi Dorothy!" as Maya waved from her stroller like a Homecoming Queen.

Bosch?

2008-10-21T19:37:00.000-07:00

What is bosch? I have no clue. Maya says it so often, and with so much determination, I know I must be missing something. Out of the 40 or so words that she says that I clearly understand (cat, nose, purple: that kind of thing), this one is a mystery. Not even her Nana or David or her nanny Heather can figure out what she’s talking about. “Bosch!” she says, and points out into oblivion. Maybe she’s asking for some nice pears. Or a really high-end kitchen appliance?

Girls will be girls

2008-10-15T08:22:00.000-07:00

I don’t know why I’m compelled to raise a tomboy. Or how I think I could have control over such a thing. My sister likes to remind me (often) that when she offered to host my baby shower, I asked her to write “No pink, please” on the Evite. It seems funny to her now because we got loads of pink stuff anyway. And then, even I ended up buying Maya almost all pink clothes in her first year. (What can I say? She looks really good in pink.)

But even in pink, I wanted her to understand how cool boy stuff can be. So I’ve filled her toy bin with trucks of all shapes and sizes and brought her library books on trains. I’ve given her coloring books of tractors. And, until she recently met her new buddies Jane and Georgia, her playdates were mostly with little boys.

Then one day this summer she saw a toy stroller at the playground and suddenly, it was all very clear. She had to have one. Immediately. It’s the first toy Maya has ever really seemed to want. (In pink, of course).

So yesterday, on a whim, I got her a baby doll. Naturally: she loved it. She immediately cuddled it, fed it a bottle, strapped it into her beloved toy stroller and took off walking her new baby around the house.

And left her toy trucks in the dust.

Our budding thespian

2008-10-05T08:57:00.000-07:00

I’m the one who got a college degree in theater and never did a damn thing with it (just as I’m sure my parents predicted). But my darling progeny doesn’t seem to need any formal training. Here, she throws herself into a bit of dramatic improv with the kind of emotion that would make Scarlette O’Hare look subdued. What inspired this afternoon’s performance? My simple but firm refusal to her drawing on our bedspread with one of my Uniball ink pens. I was able to distract her with washable markers within seconds, but still.

At 18 months, this seems early for the Terrible Twos, doesn’t it? Someone say yes. Or else, I am so screwed.

Deliver us from diapers

2008-09-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

This fall, I’m not fantasizing about Marc Jacobs boots or Linea Pelle handbags but . . . potty training! Because now that the diapers--and their contents--are growing in size, I’d really rather it all end up somewhere that I don’t have to touch it. Is potty training possible at just 17 months? Once a toddler learns to walk, can't she just walk over to a toilet and GO? When I’ve asked my more experienced parent friends, they say potty training begins when the child can pull up her pants. Which means waiting at least another YEAR. And then there's this bit of advice from the Mayo Clinic:

“Many kids may not be ready for potty training until age 2 1/2 or older. If you start potty training too early, IT MAY ONLY TAKE LONGER.”

Which is why I've been surfing the net today for the scoop on potty training alternatives. Yesterday, David got an email from an old friend who joined a commune. He sent David a photo slide show of his new off-the-grid life with his girlfriend and their adorable newborn. In one particularly arresting image, the smiling girlfriend is nursing her new BOJ at the kitchen table and holding something that looks like a plate of gravy. But noooooo. That’s not gravy! You guessed it: they’re poop catchers, otherwise known as 100% diaper-free.

Fortunately, the art of poop catching has a lot more enticing names (thank goodness for marketing writers like me!), including Elimination Communication, Natural Infant Hygiene, and Infant Potty Training. David’s friend directed us to their favorite diaper-free site, where I spent a solid hour reading about options like practicing FTEC (that's Full-Time Elimination Communication), Part-Time EC (PTEC), or just Occasional EC (OEC). (Personally, if we're going the acronym route, I think ICUP is really catchy.)

And I gotta tell you, even as an environmentally conscious, stay at home mom in hyper-aware, uber-progressive Brooklyn, I couldn’t go the diaperless distance. Even OEC--which means letting Maya roam the house in the buff for a few hours every day--runs the risk of messy accidents on several pieces of mid-century modern furniture and a new rug that I'd prefer to keep poop-free. So for now, I’m sticking with my recycled, organic Seventh Generation diapers and no small amount of guilt.

Nonetheless, I have to give it up to these poop catchers. Thank you from the bottom of my nowhere-near-as-environmentally-committed heart for reducing the nearly 27 billion disposable diapers that end up in the landfill each year. I’m not worthy!

Birked

2008-09-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how it happened. In the shoe store, some hormonally induced dementia overtook me long enough to try these things on, get my wallet out and actually purchase them. I even wanted to wear them home. But this morning at Maya’s doctor appointment, I saw the error of my ways. Every single Brooklyn mom in there was wearing the very same cork-soled fashion foible. The same thong style. The same silver leather. (Although one really, really edgy mom had on the thong black patent leathers). I think David is right. All these sleepless night with Maya really are taking their toll on me. Because it’s happened. I’ve become a cliché.

The post-pregnancy dress

2008-09-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

Sometime in my first trimester, I read this sentence in one of Dr. Sear’s books: “But your body will never really be the same after childbirth anyway.” This was news to me. In fact, I didn’t think they could legally say that. “How do they KNOW?” I asked David when I read the line out loud to him. “Not EVERYONE’S body changes. Right?” David wisely kept silent. He already knew what I would eventually realize: they know because they are two of the foremost experts on baby making. A body can’t do this and just “snap back” to what it was before.

It’s like your own personal Ice Age. Things melt and drift and collide. Something that was once there--like a slim waist--has moved on. Other things, like breasts the size of the Andes Mountains, take shape, at least during breastfeeding. The best you can do is try and love what’s left behind after the tectonic shift.

Which is why I try not to let it bother me that I’ve had one dress resized 4 times. You see, after we got married, I asked the woman who made my wedding dress to make me my “married dress.” I wanted it to be harlot red and low cut and aggressive. Nothing like the chaste, white thing that I said my vows in. This was its I’m-taken-and-can-wear-anything-I-want successor.

But then in vitro made me bloated. And pregnancy made me squishy. And after that I just got bigger and bigger and more and more misshapen. Even a year after Maya’s birth, nothing about the dress seem to correlate to my body. But I’d already shelled out the cash and the unfinished frock was still hanging in a half-assembled state in the dressmaker’s chaotic studio. And I was determined to wear it in a blaze of post-pregnancy glory.

So I called her again. She’s a tiny Greek woman with a shingle in Alphabet City that’s littered with needles, thread, remnants of chunky lace, and balls of crinoline the size of tumbleweeds. Even she is chaotic--with a pack-a-day habit, chin whiskers, and a strange, painfully honest way of telling you exactly what kind of body you have.

Years ago, when I first came to her with pictures of the wedding dress I wanted, all sleek and fitted and dripping satin like Carolyn Bessette wore in her Cumberland Island wedding, she just coughed wetly and said, “No, you have bad hips. Your waist is good. You need THIS dress.” And she directed me to the exact dress that I would wear down the aisle. It was A-line, fluttering with tiny, torn tiers of fabric. And it was unbelievably beautiful.

Now, body after baby is nothing you want to flaunt, especially around call-‘em-like-you-see-‘em Greek dressmakers. But as I disrobed, she clenched a smoldering cigarette butt in her lips and cinched a measuring tape around my middle. “Your breasts are fabulous,” she said. Strike one up for breastfeeding--if only they’d stay this way. She turned me around, “You lost your butt though.”

“Is that good?” I dared to ask. (Maybe my butt had been too big before?) She just shook her head and released a short burst of smoke.

So once again, I ended up with a dress completely unlike the photos I’d brought her so many months ago. Instead, she designed a post-marriage, post-baby, flaming red dress for my new nothing-like-it-was-before body. And when I someday find myself at an occasion that doesn’t require a diaper bag or comfortable walking shoes? I’ll look FABULOUS.

Whistlin'

2008-09-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've seen other babies Maya's age do some pretty amazing things. Yesterday, for example, I heard an infant who could barely walk say “cappuccino." And the day before, a girl half Maya's size walked straight up the tallest slide in the playground--a slide Maya can barely go DOWN, much less UP.

But Maya, on the other hand, can whistle. And whistle A LOT.

Maybe she's just bypassing the whole talking thing and creating her own whistled language like the Silbo tribe of the Canary Isles. Although she IS saying things like shoes, teeth, and books (at least I think that's what she means when she says shooooths, teeeez, and woooofs).

So next time the pediatrician gets our her chart with all it's percentages and boxes to check and quizzes us on Maya's developmental milestones, her cognitive skills, her future SAT scores, etc, etc, etc, I want to say, "Maya, honey, whistle a little ditty for the good doctor."

I'll bet they don't have a little box to check off for THAT.

A year to the day

2008-09-08T07:02:00.000-07:00

We just got the bill for Maya’s potential siblings. You see, before we got pregnant with Maya the all-natural way, we went through one exhausting, emotional, seemingly endless round of in vitro. Because after years of trying, it seemed that something in me wasn't working quite right. Most likely, it was the endometriosis that had been weaving it's tight web around my ovaries since I was 14.

And then the amazing thing was that our in vitro was successful, sort of. I got pregnant, but it wasn’t meant to be. After so much time and so much hope (and so many shots with giant needles), it was a devastating blow.

We did, however, manage to fertilize a little brood of my 38-year-old eggs. Which is theoretically better than my current 40-year-old eggs. And now they’re just waiting for that moment that we decide to take on babyhood all over again. (Colic can’t strike twice, can it?)

It’s strange to think that Maya could have younger siblings who were actually conceived before her. I just know there’s a Kurt Vonnegut novel or a sequel to the Matrix in here somewhere. And, believe me, just getting the bill for our potential offspring and thinking about it all over again made me feel weak in the knees. Our embryos. In a lab. In Midtown Manhattan.

But then I saw a number on our bill that really sent a chill down my spine: 05.11.06.

You see, they were frozen exactly one year to the day of Maya’s May 11th birth. Which makes me think that the whole in vitro process wasn't just a meaningless, wasted year of shots and procedures and heartbreak.

Maybe something incredible was already aligning.

Maya’s many backyards: the playgrounds of Brooklyn Heights

2008-09-04T07:42:00.001-07:00

This may not be exactly like having our own little plot of grass in the ‘burbs. But it’s close enough. Because Brooklyn Heights is playground NIRVANA. Maybe it's because after the age of 30, half of Manhattan crosses the East River to spawn. And after making our teeny, tiny nests in the brownstone apartments of the Heights, we need a place for our offspring to go.

So get this: there are exactly 12 playgrounds within walking distance of our little historical hood. Which is like having a dozen backyards. So while Maya may not have her own gated garden, she’s a lot less likely to get jungle-gym burnout with all this selection. Click this link to check out the interactive playground map I spent the better part of yesterday creating on Google. Once there, click the blue push pins to get the goods on each park (yes, maybe I went a little overboard, but STILL, it's cool). If I missed a park or play spot, definitely let me know about it. Because when it comes to slides and swings, variety is everything.

A little jealousy goes a long way

2008-08-28T20:23:00.000-07:00

Now, maybe this doesn't seem like a big deal to most bloggers. But it's pretty exciting to me. Here's how a little misguided envy inspired 46 people to visit Hello Maya on a single day:

First, I blogged about feeling envious of my nanny when Maya was about six months old. (True, I was a little out of whack to feel that way, but that's motherhood for you.) Then one day, out of the blue, I got a comment from a guy who was putting together a story with Good Morning America on nanny envy. Naturally, I didn't believe him at first. I mean: Good Morning America? But lo and behold, a day or so later, a bona fide producer from the show called me for a phone interview. Looking back, I think I sounded: A) respectably presentable for national television, B) fairly funny and somewhat intelligent, and C) entertainingly neurotic as a new mom. At least, that was my goal. But unfortunately, I wasn’t able to produce "the goods" they were looking for. The producer asked if Maya would choose the nanny over me in front of a live studio audience. I admit, laughing in astonishment probably hurt my chances of getting on prime time TV. Nonetheless, my nanny envy simply wasn’t of that caliber.

But it got me thinking: maybe I was on to something. So I started researching and writing an article on nanny envy to pitch to a parenting magazine (no news yet, I'll keep you posted). And THEN, because I'd looked for nanny-envying moms like myself for the article interviews on an online parenthood group, this cool parenting site linked to me. Just as a way of helping out my search. Nice, right? And next thing I know, people I've never met before are reading my blog. (Maybe I should get a little jealous more often.)

Tails, you lose

2008-08-26T07:44:00.000-07:00

The poop thing changes. At first, when babies are really tiny, it’s sort of frequent and benign. Maybe it’s just nature’s way of warming you up for bigger things to come. I even claimed once that the smell of Maya’s poop didn’t bother me. But that was then. Now that she eats real people food . . . well, you get the picture.

And the diaper-changing thing changes right along with it. Because at first you have this little blob that can’t even hold it’s head up, or roll, or wriggle anywhere, much less off the edge of a diaper table. But now that Maya is a full-fledged toddler, she’d rather do just about anything than lie still for a few minutes. To make things even more complicated, the second her diaper comes off her hands just have to explore whatever it is we’re doing down there. Needless to say, it can get quite messy. So it’s a two-man job. One of us controls the head and the hands, the other takes on the diaper end.

But why is it every time we’re in this situation, David says casually, “I’ve got the head,” and does a quick two-step around me? With Maya squirming and fussing and kicking the powder and the wipes onto the floor, there’s a lot going on. So his little move actually used to work. For a while.

Now I just pick Maya up and turn her towards him, tush-first. “She’s half yours,” I have to remind him. “And right now, this half is all you, Daddy-o.”

Chalk one up for Maya

2008-08-24T08:13:00.000-07:00

I'm weaning Maya (or so I thought). For starters, I never imagined I’d have a practically verbal 15-month-old asking for “Dat!” and pulling up my shirt in very public places. So the time has come. Plus, I feel like if Maya weaned we might actually have a shot (drum roll, please) at this sleeping-through-the-night thing. After all, how many 15-month-olds still wake up 3 or 4 times to feed?

But right smack dab in the middle of my painstakingly orchestrated weaning process, I got Mastitis this week. Mastitis! I felt like Joe Namath getting a Charley Horse. I mean, I’m a PRO breast-feeder at this point, so how could I not see this coming? At 4:00 AM Tuesday night, I woke up with a breast the size, shape, and density of a football. And once it’s that bad, breastfeeding alone won’t do squat. So I soaked in hot baths, drank Echinacea tinctures, took ibuprofen for the fever, even took naps (very hard to do for a stay-at-home-mom who is also a fulltime freelance copywriter).

For Maya, it was a boon. Here, I’d been pulling back on feedings, using Dr. Sear’s “don’t offer, don’t refuse” technique and suddenly it was like Happy Hour at the Hustler club. All topless, all the time. Once or twice, she even did a double take as I pulled up my shirt. And a couple of times, she even turned ME down—a tough blow when you’re in so much pain you’d do just about anything for a little relief. But fortunately, two days of constant feedings nipped it in the bud, so to speak.

Current weaning score? Maya: one, Mommy: zero.

Hasta luego, amigo

2008-08-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

Last year? Our our go-to summer outing was the Red Hook soccer fields. But this year something has gone awry with our secret burrito of paradise. There are fewer but bigger vendors, longer lines, and less selection. Last summer, it felt like you were eating Grandma Roja’s special Honduran baleadas out of the back of Grandpa’s van. And the smell of charcoal, Sterno, and propane mingled with onions grilling and corn cobs roasting and cheese melting into tortillas. It was gastronomy gone ga-ga. But now? The professional-style food trucks have come in and somehow (for me, anyway) the magic has gone.

So this weekend we’re going to explore this new place, the Fort Greene Flea Market. Our friends tell us it’s like the 6th Avenue Annex Flea but smaller with better stuff and less junk. There’s new and vintage furniture, lighting, records, clothes, jewelry, crafts---the works. And while there may be some of the kinds of crafts that David calls “fArt", our friends say at the very least the food is great. In fact, some of the old vendors from the soccer fields are flipping tortillas there. So, Grandma Roja, here we come. Because that alone makes it well worth the trip.

Bow chicka bow WOW

2008-08-20T18:12:00.000-07:00

Ain't motherhood wild? It's like an instant membership into this tight-knit club of women—a big, global sisterhood of sharing. As if strollers and poop and v-backs make us egg-bearing comrades and child-rearing cohorts. With complete strangers, no less!

I mean, some moms are REALLY friendly.

Today, at the sandbox in Cobble Hill Park another mom just opens up the conversation with, “Boy, could I use a rub-down," and then smiles at me just a little longer than necessary.

In turn, I gamely complain about a crick in my neck. This is apparently her cue. She stands up, arches her back and rolls her head from side to side like Bob Fosse getting ready to hit the stage. “I just wonder why I have to be in so much pain,” she whines with a playful pout.

“Maybe you should look up a chiropractor,” I suggest, trying to demonstrate the most closed body language I can muster. (And yes, I consider the Head In the Sand position.) Undeterred, my new mammary soul mate moves over to my side of the sandbox. “Hey, I have an idea,” she says, “Let's help each other out. Why don’t I rub your neck and you can rub my lower back?”

Now, if I was a freer kind of girl (oh, how much more fun college might have been!) I could have said, "Well, hang tight, honey. 'Cause I just happen to have some massage oil warming up in my diaper bag."

Instead, I turn into an awkward, no-eye-contact, robot person and pretend that Maya is suddenly tired/hungry/ready for her nap as I high tail it out of there. "Next time!" is the best I can come up with, "We'll make it a mommy massage circle!"

And here, all this time I thought these things were just the adolescent fantasies of sex-deprived husbands.

The greeter

2008-08-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

We have a new daily ritual: every afternoon Maya likes to stroll the Brooklyn Promenade. Not just to sharpen her new walking skills. She’s compelled to say a personal daily hello to every single person sitting on a park bench. With over 1,826 feet of park benches on the Promenade, that's quite a bit of ground to cover when you’re only 32 inches tall. Maya greets every tiny old lady, every couple in the midst of necking, every group of tourists, every gang of teens, and every sullen, sad-looking person sitting all alone.

Her technique is simple, straight-forward and unchanging. She stops and points at the person as if to say, “YOU have been selected for a personal hello.” Then, once she knows she’s got their attention, she raises her hand and says, “Hi.” And the funny thing? Almost every one she greets lights up and smiles at her. Even the downtrodden loner types suddenly seem like friendly, ordinary people. They say hello back, ask how she’s enjoying the weather, and then engage in an endless waltz of good-byes. (“Bye” happens to be the one word that Maya has mastered best so far.) Then, just as the byes have worn down to a finish, Maya eyes her next target. And then the Greeter moves on.

The other side of the mountain

2008-08-17T20:01:00.000-07:00

Today I turned the big 4-0. And let me tell ya, I had big plans for the day. I was going to turn it into this massive soul-searching milestone and spend it looking back over my life, considering my haves and my have-nots. I was going to write the biggest list of resolutions ever created, as if to make up for 40 years of sitting on my butt. There were going to be categories like Deadlines Missed and Opportunities Botched and Projects Dropped and even The Ones That Got Away. A whole slew of guilt was going to rain down on my newly middle-aged head.

But then a mere 15 minutes in front of the tube last night changed my mind (hey, who says all TV is bad for you?). Because while I watched (still sitting on my butt), a 38-year-old woman won the Olympic Marathon, and a 41-one-year-old woman took the silver in the 50-meter freestyle. And yes, they may be genetically gifted. But they’re also living proof that I can't use age as an excuse for missing out on anything.

I’m not even the oldest new mom I know, not by far (which is one of the great things about having a baby in Manhattan). In fact, one 45-year-old friend delivered her baby in her living room after 55 hours of labor. Best of all, she birthed a gorgeous, healthy baby boy after refusing to get an amnnio to rule out the purported one-in-five chance of having a child with Downs Syndrome. She didn’t worry about statistics or rules or averages. Like those Olympic athletes, she just knew that crap didn't apply to her.

In my birthing class, however, things are a little different. When I get together with the tight group of absolutely amazing women I met there, they'll say things like “The year the Mets won the World Series I was in second grade.” Oh my god. That was 1986 and I was starting college. But the weird thing is I FEEL like I’m they’re age. Sure, there are plenty things that I thought would be different about being 40. I pictured having a closet full of long evening gowns and digging opera. I thought I’d own a decent (or at the very least clean) car and have a few published books gathering dust on some very adult-looking bookshelves. My plans were based on what I thought 40-year-old women did when I was little. But the rules have changed since then. Forty is no different than twenty. And I’m not just making this up so that I won't freak out the next time someone asks me how old I am. It's true.

Now if I could just make my post-pregnancy abs look like Rihanna's.

Quicksilver girl

2008-08-12T11:41:00.000-07:00

We just got back from a week at the beach in Charleston, SC, with my extended family. I can’t take credit for the picture above, that’s all my brother’s doing with his swanky new digital camera.

But when Maya ran into the ocean waves as if her own Mermen tribe was calling her home? That I’d love to take credit for. Even my dad seemed surprised by her sudden attack of tidal magnetism. "Maybe we all instinctively know this is where we emerged from?" he mused, gazing out at the horizon. Whatever it is, she’s got her mama’s love of the abyss in her. Only, it took me 20 or so years to discover my aquatic fascination. And then, as if in some frantic rush, I went for my divemaster's certification and my captain's license and swore never to live too far from the water's edge again. Maya, however, just gets it instinctively: water is good. I like to imagine her snorkeling, surfing, and boogie boarding someday when she's ready. For me, it can't come soon enough.

Here are more photos from our week-long escape.

Birth by numbers

2008-08-09T09:29:00.000-07:00

Secretly, I wished Maya had been born a few days before her May 11 birth date. Because then her birthday would have been 5-6-07. And if, on top of that, she could have been 5 lbs and 6.7 ounces it would have made the symmetry complete. Instead, Maya was born on a day which will be Mother's Day every seven years, which can also be pretty cool.

Only my friend Dominic really gets the importance of my obsession with dates, since for years I've been writing him emails of numerical symmetry ("Hey! It's April 4, 2004 at 4:44 in the afternoon!! This will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN!"). So today he emailed me this story about two babies born yesterday that beat Maya and I to the numerical symmetry punch.

If David and I play our cards right, there's always kid #2 and dates like 10-10-10 out there on the numerical symmetry horizon just waiting to be claimed. But a 10-pound, 10-ounce baby? Hmmmmm . . . .

Hormones in check (I hope)

2008-07-31T10:01:00.000-07:00

How’s this for a blog post: today, I killed a bug in the shower. Big news! Because this can only mean one thing (besides the fact that we might need a new exterminator). My hormones are in a much better place than when Maya was born. For a few postpartum months there, I was emotionally a little off. Violent movies (I'm talking about anything with more than a PG rating) were out of the question, as was those animal-rescue reality shows.

In fact, one weekend when David and I were fishing upstate, I got queasy the minute we reeled in a little Perch. In my hormonally induced state, all I could think about was his Perch next of kin, and the fact that he’d never grow old enough to lay Perch offspring. Pretty twisted, eh?

So today, when I eighty-sixed the creature with a million legs that crawled out of the drain, I knew everything was right with the world again. And while I’m all for sharing the earth with God’s lovely little creatures, I’m not like the Jain in India who sweep the ground as they walk to avoid crushing innocent bugs. So on any given day, I must be responsible for some unintentional ant-squishing and gnat-swallowing, right? Although I have to admit, for a moment, I couldn't help but imagine this multiped's “Shawshank Redemption” moment: it crawls to freedom all night through a drainpipe--only to get smushed and flushed on the other end.

Howdy stranger

2008-07-23T18:52:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? Good question. I’ve been all over the California coast visiting oodles of relatives, I’ve been in the ‘burbs of Allentown and the remote playgrounds of Brooklyn. David’s been in Cambodia shooting a spot. And I’ve been losing my mommy mind in between. I sort of unhinged from the whole mom-as-lifestyle thing around Maya’s first birthday. I had to step back, try to regain some sense of self, stop contemplating poops and pacifiers so much. As my friend Amanda said yesterday (also the mother of a just-past-one-year-old), “You just hit the wall after a year, and you can’t keep talking about all this stuff. You’re over it.” Honestly, I just couldn’t think of another interesting thing to say about motherhood.

Here’s where I have to stop and direct your attention to the adorable photo on the left. Because in those "off" moments when Maya bites down during breastfeeding or empties an entire plate of freshly buttered and cheesed pasta onto the clean kitchen floor, this is what keeps me going. Her absolute spectacular-ness. The first time she said the word “hot” (it sounded more like “Otttt!!” as she touched her just-microwaved pasta), I almost cried I was so overcome with love. As a bonus, she is also fabulous and funny and far more outgoing and inventive than I think I ever was.

Now, it’s not exactly like I could throw in the towel, mind you. Unlike everything else in life, this has absolutely no expiration date, no pink slip, no Dear John Letter. And that can get a little overwhelming for a girl who dreamed of globetrotting her life away. But then, globetrotting can get lonely and meaningless and empty after a while. And there’s no buttery, cheese pasta to throw around.

It’s my party

2008-07-08T19:05:00.000-07:00

This weekend David and I decided to escape the 100-degree swelter of Brooklyn Heights by taking Maya to a birthday party in an air-conditioned community center. True, Maya barely knew the little girl who the party was for—and we barely knew her parents. (I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce their exotic, South African first names). But the minute we stepped into the vast, icy cold “multi-use room,” Maya grabbed two balloons and appointed herself the ambassador of all things wildly fun. It’s moments like these that I think it’s entirely possible Long Island College Hospital gave us someone else’s baby. Like maybe Meat Loaf's.

Wee manipulation?

2008-06-20T08:41:00.000-07:00

First, the bottom lip slowly curls down and begins to tremble, ever so slightly. Then, the big, big eyes start to well up with teardrops so gargantuan, we could water the plants with them. Next, the tiny nose wiggles, and there are little sniff-sniff-sniff sounds. And finally, there’s the soundless, open mouth drawing in as much oxygen as possible to release a wail that could rival Fire Engine 224’s siren down the street. As David puts it, she’s as cunning as a highly trained government spy, and her powers of negotiation can flatten the unsuspecting parent.

Especially me. I fall for it every single time.

Gone, baby, gone

2008-06-13T20:19:00.000-07:00

Like most babies her age, Maya’s developed a fascination for everything mommy and daddy touch: cell phones, wallets, remote controls, keys, etc. I say fascination, but I mean a full on, shrieking, crocodile-tears obsession. So today, when I was paying at the Duane-Reade and Maya let out a blood-curling scream for my wallet, I did what any frazzled, overwhelmed mom would do: I handed it over.

It only took 10 minutes and two city blocks before I realized the damn thing was missing. But already it was far, far too late. By then, my wallet had hitched a train to Disappeared and changed its name to Invisible.

Calmly, I called the manager of the Duane-Reade on my cell, hoping for a simple, that-was-a-close-one resolution along the lines of: “You know that wallet that’s laying on the floor near the cash registers? Be a doll and grab it for me?” But that’s not how the conversation went. The wallet was also not on the sidewalk, or the crosswalk, or the gutter, or the garbage. Nor had the Asian family selling fruit on the corner of Court and Atlantic found it. Although each time I tried to communicate with them that I’d lost a wallet, they seemed delighted at the prospect of selling me a new one. But unfortunately, it wasn’t the actual wallet that I cared about. It was all that good identity stuff inside it.

You see, tomorrow morning before all of Brooklyn and the Eastern Seaboard or even Maya wakes up, David will be boarding a plane to Cambodia for a shoot. So it’s bad enough that I lost my wallet, but along with it, I lost every credit card we share. So as I’m calling him with my inconvenient news, it's dawning on me that it’s after 5:00 on a Friday, that all the banks are closed, that there is no way on earth to get the credit cards renewed before he leaves.

After pacing the same two city blocks for over an hour, a few more tearful phone calls to David, and several more futile trips to the Duane-Reade, I finally headed home.

And the most amazing thing happened. Standing on the stoop of our brownstone, there was an older black couple dressed in crisp white shirts and crisp white shorts with giant gold crosses gleaming against their chests. (I’m not making this up). “Are you Elaine?” they asked. And for once in my life, I didn't mind someone getting my name wrong. They had my wallet. They’d seen a guy throw it down on the sidewalk on Court Street and walked blocks and blocks in the mid-summer heat to find my apartment. The cash (about $50) was cleaned out right down to the last penny, but nothing else had been touched. I wanted to crawl onto the couple's crisp white laps and cry I was so delighted. All I could say is, “Why? How? What made you walk all this way?”

The man wiped his sweaty brow and said, “Well, my wallet went missing once and I always wished someone would return it.” They loved Maya, even as I explained her hand in the afternoon’s debacle. “Oh no,” said the woman, “Don’t ever give her your wallet or your keys or any of that.” And I promised not to, ever again. Hands down, it was the best $50 lesson I’ve learned in a long, long time.

Maya’s “Best Eats of Brooklyn”

2008-06-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

Here’s how my daughter’s extensive exploratory of The Outer Borough’s gastronomical offerings began:
She shunned formula.
Turned up her nose at rice cereal.
Wouldn’t touch baby food of any kind, including exotic organic brands like Brooklyn-based Happy Baby.
And then one day at local pub called the The Waterfront Ale House, she downed a dill pickle like she’d waited her whole life to discover it. Which, my guess is, she had.

Here are a few of the fine foodstuffs that typically get smeared into her food tray these days:

Spinach pies from Sahadi's
Tabouleh from Fatoosh
Cilantro hummus from Pita Grill
And of course, an assortment of half sours from Fairway in Red Hook

She’s got a bit of a strange palate, this one. But fortunately for me, I don’t mind eating the leftovers.

Let them eat (homemade, misshapen) cake

2008-05-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

Today was Maya’s first birthday. And while there probably should have been streamers and noisemakers and party favors for the 40 or so guests that crammed themselves into our little apartment, we figured Maya and her one-year-old friends wouldn’t remember enough of it to care. So we ordered a few plates of Middle Eastern fare from Fatoosh across the street, opened a few bottles of Prosecco for the parents, and called it a shindig.

But then David’s mother pointed out that at the very least a birthday cake would be appropriate. “People expect a birthday cake,” she explained. “Because after it’s served, they know they can leave.” She had a point there. So she and I headed out to the nearest Key Foods where we filled our cart with all the riches Duncan Hines had to offer: chocolate cake mix, a tub of buttery chocolate frosting, candles, decorative icing, and plenty of sprinkles. And for good measure, we grabbed a bag of M&Ms.

Back home, things didn’t go so well. Neither of us had communicated to the other that we’d never actually made a Duncan Hines cake before. And while the TV commercials make it seem ever so easy, what came out of the oven looked lumpy and inconsistent. Burnt edges surrounded a mushy center. To make matters worse, the two circles of cake were either concave or convex or something so that we had to trim them to get them to stack properly. And then, the cake was so crumbly it was almost impossible to frost the darn thing. So we just smooshed some frosting on it, loaded it up with candles and sprinkles and M&Ms and hid it under a big bowl.

But once the birthday candle was lit (two exhausting, endless, incredibly loud party hours later), something magical happened. The over-30 half of the party LOVED it. Unlike the professional bakery cakes at most birthday parties, this lumpy little mound of chocolate reminded people of their childhoods. Back when our own parents naively set out bowls of Wise potato chips and served Oscar Mayer hotdogs and Fanta. In a bygone era when the guests wore tiny, child-sized leisure suits and gave each other deadly gifts like Yard Darts and Weebles. And then spent the next few hours trying to pin the tail on a faded, tattered donkey poster without sticking the thumbtack into their kid sister first. Ah, those were the days, we all agreed. The freewheeling, non-organic, sugar-ladened 70s.

And with that, we all had another slice.

Mommy block

2008-05-05T11:57:00.000-07:00

So where have I been for the past few days/weeks, you ask? What’s with this post-less dry spell? I’ve finally figured it out. It’s not a writer’s block so much as Mommy Block. I’ve been having trouble capturing the motherhood experience in something witty, profound, funny or disgusting. Maybe it’s because Maya and I have been joined at the hip for the past two weeks. Our nanny had to fly home for a family medical emergency and a week later, we took off for a vacation in Miami.
Last night, I was walking through Cobble Hill to meet some other moms at Robin du Bois on Smith for our big night out. And I realized that it was the first time in too long that I had been completely, utterly, blissfully ALONE. It was sort of exhilarating. It made me think back to that clean-slate, blank-canvas part of my life where anything was possible.
Not that my future is measured out in spoons of pureed sweet potato and mashed banana. Nonetheless, it makes my stomach flop to think of pre-school and braces and carpooling and pop quizzes. All the things I’m going to have to figure out.
So. While I missed the bus all through middle school and high school, someday it’ll be my duty to get Maya to class on time. I’m supposed to wake up at some ungodly hour, make a hearty breakfast, and pack her a nutritious lunch with love notes tucked into her Twinkies. For years.
It’s almost too much to comprehend.

Nooook-noooook!

2008-04-25T18:06:00.000-07:00

Maya’s favorite show is Pingu, which we order on Preschool on Demand (channel 1004 in Brooklyn). Truthfully? It’s actually the ONLY show Maya has ever seen, but now that David and I are addicted, it could be very well the only one she sees for a while. In fact, David and I have started using Pingu's signature greeting (“nooook-nooook!") as a regular salutation in our family interaction. I hadn’t intended to introduce Maya to TV so soon (hey, we’ve held off on juice, portable DVD players, and a whole host of other things that the standard sanctimommy might frown upon). But after a few episodes I thought: Pingu’s pretty cool. He argues with his friends, disobeys his parents, and generally tries to get away with anything. These are values I can appreciate! Or at least be entertained by. Plus, since we indulge in just one 17-minute episode a day, it’s not exactly like I'm using Pingu as an electronic babysitter.

But best of all? We’ve found a better option than Teletubbies, Barney or Elmo far in advance. So we’ve headed off these dreaded mind-warping favorites at the pass. Certainly, it's just a small (but ever important) preemptive move, like hanging garlic around the house to ward off vampires. We can only pray it works.

Here’s an episode where Pingu Goes Fishing. Tell me you don’t love it instantly.

Technorati tags: [Pingu]

On mom blogging and backscratching

2008-04-18T12:37:00.000-07:00

I've been doing a little online research about the exploding phenomenon known as the mom blog. It starts innocently enough. You're a new mom, sharing photos and stories both cute and gross with loved ones far and wide. After all, it's so much easier than regular phone call updates, especially when your bundle of joy spits up at least a cup of milk on the closest piece of furniture after every feeding. And keeps you up all night. But then you've built this thing, with lots of posts and pretty pictures and boredom starts to make you ponder. About things like hits, tags, labels, comments, and backlinks. Things they never taught you in your birthing class.

So you go to the next level, and it starts by outing yourself on Technorati (don't worry, I had no idea what this was a week ago either). But there remains this burning question: how do some blogs get so many damn comments? Moms who write about their hairstyle, their laundry, their recycling, whatever and get dozens of fans commenting, "I love your hairstyle!" or "I recycle too! How amazing!" Honestly, I was dumbfounded.

It wasn't until I read this helpful little article about blogging basics that it all became a little clearer. Blogging is so much more than an online journal. It's an I'll-scratch-your-back, you-scratch-mine kind of community orgy. Which means you need to scratch the most popular bloggers backs a LOT. It's social networking in it's most bleeding edge, up-to-the-minute form.

For me? It started to feel a little too much like that exclusive, elusive lunch table where all the popular girls sat in high school. So I'm going back to the comment-free online-journal style of blogging. And keeping my day job.

The best laid plans

2008-04-09T19:50:00.000-07:00

Here’s a copy of our birth plan, just in case you ever wanted to see what a real live one looks like. Admittedly, our version is pompous, verbose, and overblown. But we were HAVING A BABY. We thought we had every right to be pompous, verbose, and whatever else we wanted. When we brought it to our OB/GYN she turned pale and called us into her office. “Who told you to write this?” she asked after we were seated like disobedient school children in front of her desk. “It’s so—DEFENSIVE.”

In truth, the inspiration for our birth plan had come from our birthing class, a class she had recommended. And while we loved our birthing class and made life-long friends there, it approached birth from a decidedly different point of view. Our doctor was trained to trust medicine, but our class taught us that most hospitals simply wanted to hook you up to an IV, drug you with an epidural, toy with the idea of giving you a c-section, then suction the baby out and hose out the afterbirth in order to quickly get the overpriced hospital room ready for the next victim.

Now, what was written on this birth plan and what actually happened were two very different things. For starters, our doctor was absolutely wonderful and 100% right that we had no idea what we were talking about. Yes, we delivered with an epidural—in fact, more than one. And what a LOVELY invention they are! And yes, I delivered Maya into this world laying on my back, pushing towards the ceiling while a nurse shouted out instructions like a cheerleader on cocaine. And when it was over, I wanted to kiss that crazy, shouting nurse. I needed all the shouting and instruction I could get. Also: we had absolutely no use for a Jacuzzi, a birth ball, the iPod pre-loaded with a welcome-to-the-universe mix, snacks, vitamin water, smelly candles or incense WHATSOEVER.

But here’s what I didn’t seem to grasp before: everyone’s birth is different. And no one knows what to expect, even moms who have done it before. For me, birth was like a very, very bad acid trip that made everything on this earth feel like torture. The only things I enjoyed were ice cold water and those absolutely awesome epidurals. I wasn’t interested in massage, funny stories, yoga moves, lollipops, or any of that other crap we dragged over to the hospital in two giant suitcases. I just needed to get this little baby out of me. Preferably without a c-section.

There were a few things from the birth plan we stuck to after Maya was born. We had no separation of mother and baby. (And what a smart move that was, since they almost gave Maya to a whole other mother.) We also didn’t bathe Maya in the hospital. The nurses acted like we were hippy freaks, but I don’t regret it. She’s 11 months old and she still doesn’t stink. (Kidding. Of course we bathe her almost once a day now.)

But who knows? Next time (if there is a next time) it could be entirely different. And chances are, I’ll still write up a birth plan. After all, nine months is a lot of time to mull over one of the scariest and most wonderful days of your life.

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Following in my sweaty footprints

2008-04-08T11:16:00.000-07:00

Now that Maya is getting closer to walking on her own, she’s leaving a trail of tiny, WET footprints across our hardwood floors. It seems that of all the things she might have inherited from me, she’s the lucky recipient of my sweaty feet and hands. It’s a condition called Hyperhidrosis, which makes it sounds oh-so-much-more-dramatic than it really is. I always thought it was caused by a life of vices (too many cups of coffee, hangovers or a pack-a-day habit, when I used to smoke). That, and intense emotional situations like a first date or a job interview. Anything in which someone might want to come into contact with my clammy palms. David’s brother Josh also has it, and David used to be able to make him start sweating profusely just by saying, “Hands, hands, HANDS.” Nice, huh?

I’ve heard of all kinds of treatments for it, including something space-agey called Dryonics or Drysol and even Botox® injections. And it can be caused by all kinds of big, scary things, like hyperthyroidism, low blood sugar, cancer—the list goes on and on. But first and foremost, it’s simply hereditary. Which means like me, my darling girl may spend her first dates and big job interviews wishing she could wipe her damp palms on pants made of super-absorbent terry cloth.

To sleep, perchance

2008-04-05T17:46:00.000-07:00

Ah, Ferberizing. I have to admit, the word has taken on mythical proportions around here. So much so, I was wary of even opening Dr. Ferber's sleep book, even though we've owned it for months. David and I used to watch our friends with babies grow visibly tense at the mere mention of the dreaded Dr. Ferber. We'd heard stories of babies screaming for hours, holding their breath, pleading with their parents through the bars of their cribs like death-row inmates, etc.

Faced with that, I thought, what's a little sleep deprivation? I can handle it. But at almost 11 months, Maya was waking up as often as every 2 hours to breastfeed. Which didn't make a lot of sense, since even a 3-month-old can sleep through the night without feeding.

I'd spend half the night shuffling across the hardwood floors to her room to hold her in the dark. I spent the wee hours listening to the boat horns on the river, the voices on the street, the distant sirens and helicopters. It was an eerie, meditative world I'd never been awake for before, and I gave in to being a part of it. Some nights I couldn't fall back to sleep between feedings, so I'd lay awake watching the light patterns change across the ceilings and walls.

We'd tried recently to deny Maya a feeding at 3:00 AM -- cold turkey, without reading any books, without a plan -- and she'd screamed in David's arms for so long that by the time I took her, she was shaking so bad she could barely get her mouth onto my breast.

So, Ferberizing was sort of a last resort. And once I read the book, I have to admit: his approach is not so bad. We've gradually spread Maya's feedings apart 30 minutes every night, from 2 hours, to 2 and a half and so on. And so far, it's been surprisingly easy. She cries a little while David holds her, then goes back to sleep. We've made it--miraculously--to just one feeding a night.

But it's funny. At this point, I'm not sure if I want to go all the way, even though I know a baby can sleep 10-12 hours without food. Maybe I just like seeing her in the middle of the night--happy for a chance to hold her, in that darkened world of sound and light that seems reserved only for us.

Nesting

2008-03-28T18:39:00.000-07:00

Today David was in LA, my nanny was unavailable, and I had a crushing deadline on an article. So I got Maya down for her morning nap and wrote like the wind: phone off, fingers flying, keyboard-on-fire. Naturally, the minute Maya woke up, the office called with comments, changes, and wouldn't you know it? A full-on, 20-team-member conference call.

There was no time to get Maya down for Nap #2. So I plopped her on the bed next to me and gave her one of her favorite toys: a catalog. Here, she's busy making a nest out the Anthropologie Spring Collection. While she didn't help me with my deadlines, she did help me find an adorable pair of bright yellow platforms.

Bjorn to Rock

2008-03-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

She's tipping the scales at a whopping 23 pounds these days, which is hard enough to carry on your hip. But try strapping her into the BabyBjorn. By the time I've walked a few Brooklyn blocks as well as the three flights to get to our apartment (a total of 53 steps, including the stoop), my shoulders are searing with pain, my abs are aching and my back is buckling. David also has the added challenge of keeping her from kicking him the groin, now that her legs are getting longer. Truth is, she's outgrown her beloved Bjorn. Recently, we shopped for alternate carrying contraptions like the Ergo, which allows you to carry a full-sized toddler on your hip or back. I shouldn't knock it before I try it, but there's just something a little too cave woman about it for me. And besides, Maya loves the forward-facing freedom of the Bjorn. It puts her right out there with the world, right at eye-level with the adults where she can speak her mind. No matter what it sounds like.

All systems go

2008-03-22T13:36:00.001-07:00

Fortunately for Maya, 3 days of constipation have finally come to an end. Unfortunately for us, it came to an end in the bathtub last night.

Sprung

2008-03-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

Good-bye, dingy stroller sleeping bag. So long, bleak afternoon strolls on slushy city sidewalks. Soon to be gone are the warm-hat wars with Maya. The frostbitten fingers trying to undo the stroller straps. The layers and layers of ill-fitting cold-weather baby clothes. The hours and hours spent indoors trying to come up with yet another way to entertain a crawling infant. The tiny heater purring all night outside Maya's bedroom door. The pipes clanking and gurgling and waking her in the wee hours. The dark mornings. And darker afternoons. Don't let the door hit you in the ass, Old Man Winter. Spring, at last, is here.

Stepped on a pop top

2008-03-19T20:46:00.000-07:00

Every day since we’ve been in Miami we go over to Hollywood Beach after Maya’s second nap and stroll her along the boardwalk. It’s funny because before we had Maya, I hated Hollywood Beach and now I think it’s one of the coolest places on earth. It’s everything a beach should be: beer in Styrofoam cups, men sporting rhinestone-studded weenie bikinis, really big women in butt floss, bad sunburns, even worse mullet hair, fanny belts, dingy bars blasting off-key karaoke and offensive t-shirts.
When we used to come to Miami in that unencumbered time known as Before Maya, I would make every day frantic searching for the Most Amazing Vacation Activity Ever. I wanted to wreck dive off the Keys; sail to Mexico; attend ritualistic goat sacrifices in Little Havana; kite board off Key Biscayne; find remote lobster shacks on mangrove islands, etc. I wanted our time in Miami to be UNFORGETTABLE and AMAZING. And if I’m really, really honest, I have to admit I did the same horrible thing in our babymoon in Puerto Rico and our pre-Invitro ski trip to Whistler. I sucked the life out of our vacations until they just sucked.
Back then I thought Hollywood Beach was cheap and cheesy and a freak show. And I still do. It was exactly this bad and wonderful and I just wasn’t seeing it. And now, After Maya, I’m just happy that there’s a big breeze coming off the ocean, the Budweiser in our Styrofoam cups is cold, Maya is laughing in her stroller, and that a delicious dinner of fried something is in our future. Life these days is pretty damn good.

Maya takes Miami

2008-03-15T19:42:00.000-07:00

What a difference six months make. We just took a three-and-a-half hour flight to Miami for a mini-vacation and other people on the plane ACTUALLY THANKED US FOR BRINGING MAYA. This is a far cry from the screaming, colicky Maya that a flight attendant threatened to deplane six months ago. This time, we were sitting in the front row with a family of five very, very large people squeezed into the row behind us. I say this not because size matters, but because they looked so uncomfortable the last thing they needed was a baby to contend with.
Now, I think Maya assumes that all the people behind her on a plane are actually watching her like some rapt audience. She doesn’t understand that they all HAVE to face her direction. So no matter how David and I try to hold her in our laps, she struggles to peer over the seats and make little cooing shout-outs to people in the next row, and then does this cabbage-patch head-bob thing. I have no idea where she got this gesture from, but it’s all hers.
This isn’t the first time we've been on a plane recently when people have said to us, “Wow, that’s one happy baby.” But this time, when the plane landed, the father of the very, very large family stood up and said, “Your baby has made our flight a little more pleasant today—thank you.” THANK YOU? Then I heard his wife whisper to Maya as she and Maya reached out to touch hands, “Don’t forget about me, sweetie.”
The weirdest thing is that, over the years, David and I have become the epitome of jaded New Yorkers in that when we travel, we don't exactly pursue lifelong friendships with our fellow passengers. Not that we're rude--just efficient. And now everywhere we go we have the Social Butterfly in tow. She befriends rental car agents, grocery store clerks, baggage handlers—even surly cab drivers. And half the time Maya’s new acquaintances don’t even acknowledge David and I when they lean over and say “See ya later, honey.” As if, at 10 months old, Maya already has her own circle of friends. Which would be fine if they weren’t all at least 40 times her age and complete strangers.
She’s even won over the snooty co-op board where David’s parents own a condo in Miami. There are staunch rules about babies in diapers not being allowed in the pool. (It’s a health code! A strict offense!) And on the first day, there were plenty of appalled glares from the gray-haired ladies arriving for Morning Swim Aerobics when they spotted a baby in a bright green wetsuit in the pool. But then Maya’s did her cooing shout-out thing, followed by the little head-dance and suddenly they were all putty in her fat little hands. Now they all know her name and talk about her during their class. They even come over to say hello before their workout and good-bye when they’re done. And mostly only to Maya. Of course.

It may not look like much . . .

2008-03-08T20:44:00.000-08:00

But these were Maya's first steps. At least I think they were. It wasn't like one of those first-step TV commercials where the baby seems ready to walk to the corner deli with that initial footfall. But there was something. And with witnesses, no less. Maya set her sights on a toy at her friend Simone's house and lurched out of my arms with 4 or 5 jerky steps on her toes. My friend Sheila (Simone's mom) has some sort of uncanny motherly intuition that she knew to have her camera out right at that moment.

Oh, these things aren't droolproof?

2008-03-06T17:11:00.000-08:00

I had to take my cell phone to the Verizon store on Montague yesterday when it stopped letting me make outgoing calls.
Behind the help desk, there was a young (I never thought I'd hear myself call someone in their late 20s young, but at almost 40, here we are), bored, Asian girl with a nose-ring who motioned me forward with a wrist like an overcooked noodle.
She disassembled my phone in two unbelievably fast, bored seconds. "Looks like the battery unit has come into contact with some moisture," she said/yawned.
"Moisture?" I said. Then it dawned on me: like Maya's saliva. "Oh, you mean like drool?"
She just stared at me, sullenly.
"Baby drool," I explained and smiled.
Her boredom seemed to deepen, if that's even possible.
"No kids?" I asked, still smiling.
"Nope," she said and handed me my new battery.
Or social skills, I guess. (God, I'm even starting to sound 40.)

Pimp my Exersaucer

2008-03-05T10:51:00.000-08:00

After searching into the depths of the internet and even eBay with little success, I’ve finally found all new toys to give Maya’s secondhand Exersaucer a second wind. Thanks to a decent selection of attachable toys at Miami’s Babies R Us (not available online: I checked), Maya’s digs are now significantly macked out. Seated comfortably in her swivel seat amidst all her new plastic friends, she looks like she's hosting her own talk show. Unfortunately for Maya, things like Nitrous boost engines, chocolate fondue fountains, DVD players and miniature basketball courts were not available for her customization.

Hell on wheels

2008-03-02T12:14:00.000-08:00

Now that Maya has gotten the hang of her walker, you really have to watch your ankles. She’s mastered u-turns, high-speed reverse, even the 3-point-turn. She waits for that unguarded moment when, say, you’ve just topped off a cup of steaming coffee or refilled the ice tray. Then charges. Nowadays, nothing is quite as chilling as the sound of tiny plastic wheels accelerating across our hardwood floors when your back is turned. Here, Maya stalks the perimeter of the kitchen, waiting for a lone piece of Tupperware to get separated from the pack.

Newton’s law as it pertains to parenthood

2008-03-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

Is it possible for poop to defy gravity? If you’re 9 months old, apparently so. Today we had diaper-changing session that was a two-parent, all-hands-on-deck affair. And here’s the amazing thing. Even though there was poop as far up Maya’s back as her armpits, shoulders and neck, there seemed to be almost nothing in the diaper itself.
Our friends who have braved the unfathomable seas of childrearing before us used to tell us about washing their babies in the kitchen sink. As a childless couple, this seemed like the grossest idea in the world. Back then, we believed kitchen sinks were designed for things like washing exotic mushrooms, straining hand-made linguine or rinsing martini glasses. What kind of parent hoses down a baby with one of those dish sprayer things? Well, after today, I can tell you. Our kind. I ran to the sink holding Maya with my arms hyper-extended in front of me with as few fingers as possible while David raced after me, undressing in preparation for a full hose-down. And even though we love this adorable little snuggle bunny, we were like middle school students dissecting a frog. Gagging, wincing and holding our breaths until it was mercifully over.
Now we’re in search of leak-proof diapers worthy of space travel.

Hey, it happens ALL the time

2008-02-29T10:49:00.000-08:00

Maya was born on May 11, 2007. And this year, May 11 with fall on Mother’s Day Sunday. How often that will happen as Maya grows up I have no clue how to figure out. But it’s cool to think that every now and then we’ll be celebrating that day both as birth-ee and birth-er. I can already imagine the cheesy "I remember the day you were born" conversations we'll be having long-distance from her dorm room at Oxford, Yale or maybe the Sorbonne. (You can go ahead and puke now).
Today, Feb 29, is Leap Day, which comes around once every 4 years as a way of keeping the calendar in synch. So it got me wondering about babies born today. And because my mind works this way, I started wondering how many Leap-Day parents have Leap-Day babies. I mean, the odds of being born on Leap Day are about 1 in 1,460. So you’d think it would never happen. Right? But it does. And right here in Weehawken, of all places.

My voice alone is music to his ears

2008-02-15T11:37:00.000-08:00

Today. Over the phone:
Me: So I think I'll buy those new crib bumpers today.
David: Mm-hmm.
Me: The ones from Pottery Barn?
David: Yup.
Me: They're on sale for fifteen grand.
David: Okay.
Me: Are you answering email right now?
David: Nope, I'm hanging on your every word as if my life depended on it, honey.
The WEENIE.

Things that go bump

2008-02-12T17:48:00.000-08:00

Because I know this is bound to happen, and because I know I have to learn to not freak out when it does, I'm trying to be very calm about Maya's beautiful, perfectly round melon smashing down on the hardwood floor this evening.

At almost 9 months, she likes to walk from place to place, holding on to my fingers. Foolishly (or egotistically, depending on how you look at it), I thought our darling bionic baby--as genetically gifted as a 20-lb-size Lance Armstrong--was ready for the one-handed stroll. Or, at least, that I was ready to catch her if she wasn't. But suddenly she swung around and fell flat on the back of her head with an incredibly loud SMACK. And then there was that second of silence that seems to stretch on forever, when she's sucking in all the air in the apartment and scrunching up her face to release her loudest wail possible.

Now I know you're not supposed to pick them up at every bump and bruise and run screaming through the house, "Oh my god! My fault! My fault!" Nonetheless, that's what I was inspired to do in that moment.

David rushed over to give me his best version of the Exasperated Evil Eye while grabbing Maya (who was already reaching for the obvious safer territory of his arms through tears the size of Volkswagons).

Seems like I'll never learn. I've done plenty of other dumb things over the last few months. Like trying to help her roll over and actually bending her arm backwards (that time I cried: "Oh my god! I broke her arm! I broke her arm!") Another time, I dropped my cell phone on her sweet, sleeping face when I was trying to simultaneously tuck her in and check voicemail. So much for multitasking.

As for her knocked noggin tonight, there was no welt, no blood, no trips to the emergency room. Within a matter of minutes she was soaking up all the attention from Mom and Dad. Maybe she's got a hard head, just like her Mama.

Confessions from motherhood’s ugly underbelly

2008-02-07T08:05:00.000-08:00

Since Maya's birth I’ve:

> Exposed my breasts in a crowded restaurant without even the slightest chance of winning a wet T-shirt contest.
> Worn granny panties. (I've since graduated back from boy-shorts to hipsters to low-rises, while thongs and Brazilian-cuts seem like mirages on some distant horizon.)
> Discussed diaper brands at a cocktail party with the zeal of a foodie in pursuit of the perfect truffle.
> Dined on baby food for lunch. (Current favorites: pureed sweet potatoes, mango dessert.)
> Walked brazenly through a Duane-Reade carrying a package of the largest, most absorbent maxi pads money can buy. (One step down from Depends, really.)
> Touched poop. On purpose.
> Talked openly with a complete stranger on the street about peeing in my pants.

Still worth it? Yup.

Delicious, nutritious bisphenol A

2008-02-06T10:58:00.000-08:00

In today's news, a Canadian study found plastic baby bottles could be leaking toxins at dangerous levels. Sound yummy? The plastics industry says, in their defense, that cancer-causing bisphenol A is only released when heated (like baby bottles are every time milk is served) and only shown as toxic in lab animals. And only because the lab animals are small (like babies). After all, traces of bisphenol A (also found in sport water bottles and aluminum cans) have not shown up in results with full-grown humans. So, why worry, right? After all, you're only risking obesity, cancer, diabetes, early puberty, and the like. Maybe it's time to switch to glass baby bottles like these.

You're fired. Definitely.

2008-02-04T08:20:00.000-08:00

Check out this baby toupee that can make your child look like the Donald. Because, hey, nothing's more fun than making your infant the object of hilarity and ridicule, right?

A friend recently told me about a kid in NJ whose parents named him Axl Rosen. Because, they said, "We couldn't resist." Step aside, Donald. I'm seeing a new baby toupee best seller: the Guns N' Roses heavy-metal mullet.

Zero to $65 in one minute

2008-02-01T17:04:00.000-08:00

Today was one of those times when raising children in the burbs made a lot of sense to me. Here's how I was fleeced of my hard-earned cash in one head-spinning minute:

> I made a playdate with a friend in Chelsea, which may as well be another state when you're transporting Maya. (Today was her first solo flight in the backseat with me behind the wheel.)
> I made the maybe-not-so-great decision to drive rather than take the subway because Maya and I would be returning during rush hour, which could get ugly on the E train. Doubly ugly since the forecast called for rain.
> I succeeded in finding my way to the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, entertaining Maya throughout by singing the A-B-Cs over and over (it's the longest tunnel in North America, so that's a lot of A-B-Cs), only to somehow end up on the FDR instead of the West Side Highway.
> I made another possibly-erroneous decision of crossing Manhattan on Houston instead of 23rd, getting stuck in construction traffic on Varick (still singing the A-B-Cs, mind you), and then hitting the hellish Friday-afternoon lockdown on Hudson.
> Arriving an hour late for the playdate, I scored (or so I thought) a metered parking spot on 8th Ave, saving myself close to $35 in parking-lot fees.
> Twice during the playdate, I refilled the hour-longer meter by taking the elevator down 14 flights, sprinting across the building’s football-field-size lobby and up two city blocks just as the meter ran dry.
> The third and final time, I was already in the lobby when I realized Maya had dropped her beloved Pink Bear on the 14th floor. The dash back cost us that precious last minute. We made it to the car (Maya in the Baby Bjorn, me hauling a jumbo diaper bag and trying to run without giving her whiplash) just in time to watch the pudgy backside of the pigeon-toed, baggy-butted meter man lumbering away from my tagged windshield.

So here's to Suburbia. To minivans tucked neatly behind automatic garage doors, playdates on cul-de-sacs, to rec rooms and dens and rambling backyards, and free street parking for as far as the eye can see.

Hold your applause, please

2008-01-31T12:59:00.000-08:00

It seems like I've been trying for WEEKS to get Maya to clap. I've spent the better part of her playtimes patiently demonstrating proper hand-to-hand technique in slow motion. Like some sort of clown on qualudes. And no matter how I tried, she would just stare back at me with her arms hanging motionless at her sides. Then last night at 2:00 AM, she sat up after breastfeeding and started slapping her fat little hands together like a short-circuiting toy monkey. Clapclapclapclapclapclapclap. As if she'd known how to do it all along but was waiting for the perfect unveiling. But at 2:00 in the morning? What you want is a baby who eats, burps, and conks out in rapid succession. So I had to fight to hide my smile. But then she looked up at me in the darkness and said, very manner-of-factly: "Dah?" At less than 9 months old, she's already figured out that cuteness will almost always override bedtime.

Just a little off the top . . .

2008-01-30T11:34:00.000-08:00

Think you've got every gadget a baby will ever needed? Now there's even a special way to cut their baby-fine tresses, express from Japan. The Matsushita electric hair cutter for babies. There are no exposed blades, so you can be certain you're cutting off hair. And ONLY hair. What I wouldn't give for a pair of baby nail clippers that could promise the same.

Sweet addiction

2008-01-27T12:31:00.000-08:00

David is trying to break me of my Coke addiction. That's with a capital C, not lowercase. I got hooked when I was pregnant, in that horrible first trimester of nausea and cottonmouth. Every afternoon I craved the sparkling, cold, sweet, syrupy nectar. Nothing could satisfy me like The Pause That Refreshes, The Real Thing, The Coke Side Of Life. I knew as a pregnant woman I was supposed to only eat wheat sprout bread, herbal tinctures from Chinatown, organic raw whale placenta and mineral water born from French springs. But every day I was driven to the corner deli for my sugar fix. At first, Coke in the can would do, but then I needed it on ice, with a straw, so fast and cold that my temples burned while I drank.
And then came the leg cramps at night. When I complained to my OB/GYN, she peered at me over her spectacles and asked, "Are you drinking soda?"
"You mean like sparkling water?" I asked, smiling innocently.
"Like Coke," she said, and I could feel her x-ray eyes examining my sugar and caffeine engorged bladder. According to her, the phosphoric acid in Coke (which, I've just learned, is also used to degrease engines) increases phosphate levels in your blood.
I pretended to quit when I was pregnant, then when I was first breastfeeding, but now that Maya is 8 1/2 months old, I've stopped pretending. So David has stopped bringing it home from the grocery store. I know he can hear me, rustling through the grocery bags frantically, in search of my fix. But I also know it's time to quit. So much sugar, so much caffeine. And with Maya still waking up every 2 or 3 hours to breastfeed at night: on so little sleep. All I can say is, it won't be easy.

Pinky 2

2008-01-23T09:22:00.000-08:00

Ever since Maya has become superglued to her rapidly deteriorating pink bear, I've been on the lookout for a backup. Not so easy when it's a Ty Beanie Baby collectible. Fortunately, I finally found it on eBay. The woman in Virginia who collects Beanie Babies lovingly described its pristine condition. Pinky 2, it appears, comes from a good, non-smoking, pet-free Southern home of solid family values. She did note, however, that the tag, while carefully preserved in a regulation-approved plastic tag holder, regrettably had a tiny scratch on the gold logo. She emailed me to make sure Pinky 2 arrived at its new home safely, and included a handwritten note asking me to let her know I was okay with its less-than-perfect condition. I don't have the heart to tell her that I immediately cut the tag off and handed it to my 8-month-old to slobber all over.

The many faces of Maya

2008-01-21T09:15:00.000-08:00

There's something slightly Sybil-esque about these photo grids David puts together. But the best expression she's making these days has been impossible to capture. She beats her arms against her sides and opens her mouth like a teenager at White Snake concert shouting "Righteous, dude!" then bites whatever is closest to her. Party on, Maya.

Other voices, other rooms

2008-01-18T07:44:00.000-08:00

There's nothing like a baby video monitor to really mess with your post-partum (yes, STILL), sleep-deprived head. Yesterday Maya was napping, so I took our video monitor into the back bathroom to dry my hair. As I walked to the back of our by-no-means-palatial apartment, waves of static started to appear on the monitor screen. Maya was sleeping in her swing, so I was just using the monitor for sound, and what I saw was her empty crib. Except during every other wave of static, a baby would appear in the crib. At first, I figured maybe the monitor had a memory, like when an image sometimes gets burned onto a computer screen. And so I watched as the screen moved from an empty bed to a full bed. It was a little like playing with a lenticular--one of those postcards that you turn ever so slightly to see Jesus wink at you. (At ad agencies, we actually call them "winky Jesuses.") Then, as I kept watching, Maya's neatly swaddled doppelganger started kicking its feet. I literally rubbed my eyes like a Road Runner-duped Wiley Coyote. I held the monitor up and found if I stood facing the window, I could stay on the baby-in-the-crib screen. I watched as it kept kicking it's feet, then it started crying, and then a woman's arms reached in and PICKED THE BABY UP OUT OF THE CRIB. I think I almost fell into the toilet. Stunned, open-mouthed, shouting "holy sh*t" out loud, etc, I finally realized I was picking up on another mother's monitor. Fortunately, she was a good, kind mother who said a few sweet nothings to her little one and got him back to sleep. I half wanted to walk over to the next block and wait for a woman with a stroller to come out of the brownstone opposite ours. But I think I've invaded her privacy enough for one day.

Legendary legs

2008-01-14T08:15:00.001-08:00

Would you look at these gams? My sister Liz calls them 'makin' biscuits' because they look like what's inside those frozen Pillsbury cans of dough you bang against the counter to crack open. They are firm and strong, yet rippling with cellulite. Like giant muscular sausages ending in cankles (definition: calf-ankles). Sometimes in the evening, David and I strip her down to her onesie just so we can see them in all of their fabulous largess. When I was pregnant, I used to dream of these legs, these tiny little spark plugs punching the air sporadically during diaper changes. They are handed down from the babies on my side--I had them and so did my father. Alas, if only they were as irresistible on the 39-year-old female physique.

The unvacation

2008-01-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

I’m just getting back to work today after the Christmas holidays and I feel like I need about two weeks off. I’m exhausted. When I had imagined our Christmas trip to Lynchburg, VA, visions of relaxing with my husband, baby and extended family danced in my head. I thought we’d take yoga classes, spend hours reading, take long hikes in the woods, and so on. What I failed to remember is that babies like routine. Especially babies like Maya. So every night when the three of us went to sleep in my parent’s dark, creaky basement under old water pipes that clanged and gurgled every hour, Maya would wake up every hour. A few nights she even woke up at 2:30 or 3:00 and decided that going back to sleep was no longer an option. So David and I took turns bouncing her up and down with tears of exhaustion streaming down our faces, until she finally wore down. And then something dawned on me. Something I think maybe all parents know but keep secret from starry-eyed pregnant people. No matter where we go on vacation--a beach house or a hotel or a cabin upstate--it will always be foreign to Maya, and her sleep will always get disrupted. Which brings me to what I really want for Christmas: sleep. Not just a night or two. But weeks and weeks and weeks of it, thick with dreams and cloaked in that sweet, gravitational pull of the mattress that leaves me drooling into my pillow.

Don't get too close

2007-12-17T17:59:00.000-08:00

This is Maya's Aurora-bear, named after the little girl who gave it to her. But recently, we've been forced to rename it Stinky Pinky. It's become such a magical bedtime tool that we're reluctant to wash it. Gross, true. But we fear Pink's mojo is in it's oh-so-Maya smell. It's a custom blend, made exclusively from saliva, spit up, and anything else that can end up in a baby's crib. As the mommy, I'm the only one brave enough to take a whiff. So I can attest that it's sporting an oddly salty, baby-powdery funk. But stinky it will stay. We're traveling to Virginia for Christmas in less than a week, and we'll need all the familiar smells we can muster to get Maya to sleep in a pack-n-play in the alien universe of my parent's basement. I just hope the aroma doesn't permeate all the Christmas gifts in our luggage en route.

The new commandments of parenthood

2007-12-13T19:01:00.000-08:00

> You shall spend infinite hours getting the baby down to sleep for what will end up being 15-minute naps.
> Some olfactory survival instinct will make your newborn's poop smell like something benign and almost pleasant. In our case, it was hot buttered popcorn and butterscotch.
> You won't believe how many baby gadgets exist that you can't live without and then find completely useless a month later.
> The smaller the human being, the more stuff they will need for an overnight trip.
> Every baby book will seem to speak directly to you as a parent. Conversely, no matter how many baby books you own, you will never figure out what the hell you're actually supposed to be doing.
> No amount of cleaning with Q-Tips will ever get out all of the schmutz that's hiding in the folds of your baby's neck.
> In less than a year, you'll learn how to strap on a BabyBjorn, assemble a car seat, refill a Diaper Genie and a myriad of other refined skills that you will never, ever use again. (Until the inevitable baby #2, of course.)

The minor catastrophe, reassessed

2007-12-11T19:55:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I was in the middle of warming up a bottle for Maya, emptying the dishwasher and making dinner when David took a phone call from his brother. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal. But since I'd been forced to cut two phone calls short only a few minutes before so that we could get Maya bathed and ready for bed in time to do the Hanukkah candles, I felt a little cheated.
"Honey? Could you just call them later?" I asked. Oh so nicely. Through clenched teeth.
And he tried to get off the phone, it's true. But the conversation somehow continued. So really, he didn't succeed in getting off the phone. And somehow, it just GOT ME. I went into the bedroom and closed the door. Perhaps a bit too firmly, but well. I was still wet from the bath with Maya, still chilly, still barefoot, and OH. SO. MAD.
It all led to a Discussion. Which led to an Argument. Which led to a Stalemate. And led to even more Discussion. And after the anger subsided on both parts, we started to get to the meat of it.
Why am I so tightly wound all the time, he wanted to know? I couldn’t fight him on this one. Truth is, I feel so overwhelmed by responsibility that I don't even know how to relax when I have the time to do it. I constantly feel like something horrible is going to happen if I'm not paying attention.
Here’s an example: a few weeks ago I left a teeny, tiny light on in the back of our aging Audi so that I could read to Maya on a late night car trip. Over a matter of days, it drained the battery. And when David asked a taxi driver to help him jump it, they tried it one way, then they innocently switched the cables and tried it the opposite way and fried the entire electrical system. I didn’t know this could happen, but apparently it can. Since then, we've spent thousands repairing an essentially worthless car. We've broken down in the middle of nowhere, we’ve gotten a parking ticket in a town we don’t even live in, we've been towed and we've taken out a family-sized AAA membership. Which doubled in price just before we got our application in. Of course.
It was a tiny vortex of bad luck. A miniature tsunami of meaningless spending. But it left me feeling that tiny lights were being left on everywhere in my life. And while mistakes like these can be innocent enough, they can really have an impact.
It's times like these that I have to think back to that era fondly referred to as Before Maya when we were trying so hard to get pregnant. And I thought, if I could just have a healthy baby with my husband, I'll never complain about anything. Ever again.

That's my girl

2007-12-09T20:13:00.000-08:00

Here it is. Photographic proof that Maya does, in fact, look a lot like her mommy. I found this photo of myself as a 4-month-old yesterday and since then, I've convinced David to spend the better part of his weekend creating the identical photo of Maya. Now when people tell me she looks like someone on David's side, I have something to back up my side of the story. I've heard that she looks like David, David's mother, David's brother and even (this was from my own Aunt Wendy two weekends ago) David's father. Now, she does rub her feet together after dinner like he does, but otherwise I see very, very little resemblance. Apparently, she's even got David's Grandpa Joe's dimple. You know what I say? Show me the pictures, people. Because now I have proof.

Night battle

2007-12-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

Maya has a routine. Every night we try to give her a little solid food, usually unsuccessfully. Then she's bathed and powered and fussed over. Her ears are cleaned, since she likes that. Afterwards, she's nursed and rocked and cuddled in her dimly lit, distraction-free room. Then she's given her pacifier and her bear and put in her favorite sideways position for perfect, long-term, delicious sleep. And then, about 30 minutes later, she wakes up.

This is when the battle begins. It starts with us letting her cry for about 5 minutes or for as long as we can stomach it, whichever comes first. Then I go in and tell her in soothing but firm tones that it is, in fact, bedtime, and she should go to sleep. When her crying continues to build, I play lullabies for her from her glowworm.

Now I know there are plenty of pediatricians and sleep specialists out there that would say we have it all wrong. That we should be letting her cry in 15 minute increments or force-feeding her cereal before bedtime or just ignoring her altogether. And that by giving in, she'll never, ever learn to sleep and we'll end up with a live-in 30-year-old hooked on Tylenol PM and the Late, Late, Late Show. But we have faith that Maya will outgrow this and learn to sleep just as poorly as both of her parents someday.

Anyway. Eventually, she's sitting up in bed and I'm rubbing her back while presenting her with all the merits of sleep time versus playtime. But when the crying goes on and on and on, I call for backup. So David comes in and tries some of his more advanced techniques. At this point, the screaming crescendos.

So we have this brilliant thing we do to get her to stop crying. We take her out of her crib and bring her back into the living room where we're watching TV or surfing the Internet. And she always stops screaming immediately.

Right after shouting out a short, but unmistakable, victory cry.

Controlling the remote

2007-12-07T08:57:00.000-08:00

Why is it with all the toys we have scattered around our once-beautiful, previously meticulous apartment, Maya is only interested in one toy? Our toy. The remote control. I guess if Mommy and Daddy use it, it must be supercool. No matter how we hide it from her, she's always dropping whatever toy she has and reaching, clawing, whimpering for that gloriously silver thingie with a million buttons to slobber on. We've even started pretending that some of her toys are the remote control by pointing them at the TV and pushing buttons. But she's a smart cookie, this one (I told you: future rocket scientist) and she will settle for nothing less than the real deal. I guess I can feel relieved that while I'm guiltily sneaking a few minutes of Inside Edition or The Real World, Maya's far more interested in what controls the TV than the mind-warping junk on the screen itself.

Nanny envy

2007-12-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

I can't believe how lucky we got with our new nanny. She's loving and warm and smart and funny. She comes with incredible, heart-felt nanny references. She's even studying to become a professional baby nurse. And Maya loved her right from the start. How can I be jealous of a woman like this? How can I be anything but elated that she's in our lives? But for a few days last week, I was. It started one afternoon after I met her and Maya at the pediatrician's office. For whatever reason, Maya would not make eye contact with me. She would look at the nanny, even coo or smile at her, but it was as if I didn't exist.
"Maya," I kept saying, "Maya, honey, it's your mommy." But she just looked away. It was strange how strongly I reacted, but it made me feel queasy. "What's wrong with her?" I asked.
"Maybe she's mad at you," the nanny joked.
The next day, I watched carefully for Maya's reaction when the nanny arrived at our apartment. And it happened. Maya's face lit up when she called out to her. Then I noticed Maya had the same reaction to David whenever he entered the room.
I hate to admit it, but I got a little paranoid. I started watching for proof to reaffirm my worst fears.
Since I had started freelancing again a few weeks before, it's true that I had been a bit distracted. And perhaps I had spent more time facing my computer than engaging with Maya. Had I assumed that my bond with her through breastfeeding would withstand anything? Suddenly I felt reduced by my own baby to 'the woman with the breast milk.' And in turn, my husband and my nanny had become her sources of fun.
The rejection made me feel lovesick and lonely. At night, I lay awake between feedings and wondered what to do. What if my baby grew up being a “daddy’s girl?” What if she felt disconnected to me, even as a teenager? Had I taken the natural mommy bond for granted?
There's was only one thing to do. I started spending concentrated, focused, fun-time with Maya. I made a point of making eye contact with her whenever we were together. And even though it felt fake at first, I talked to her in the high, playful voice that both David and the nanny used. And this incredible thing happened. She responded.
Soon she started to laugh and coo and outstretch her tiny, fat arms to grab my face and dive towards it, open-mouthed, drenching me in her drool. Within a matter of days, she and I developed our own playtime rituals, which are different than what the nanny and David have with her, but no less special.
She still responds to the nanny and David by laughing and cooing. But now when I come home, she looks at me from her perch in the nanny's arms, stretches out her arms and lets out a little yelp that can only me one thing: "Mama!"

Toy recalls, vaccinations, organic food, etc.

2007-12-04T18:52:00.000-08:00

Parenthood is a maze of infinite decisions. To vaccinate or not? Public or private school? Preschool? Home school? TV or not? Juice or not? We have friends who are against having plastic in their homes, much less anything that might have been made in China. Others who won't let their baby see any moving images on a TV screen, including a home video. Some who breastfeed until their child is in kindergarten, others who think breastfeeding is overrated. Parenthood is the ultimate creative project. And we kid ourselves into believing that it all matters. When I'm making Maya's organic baby food, I have to remind myself that I was raised on SPAM and Tang, as well as cartoons and reruns -- in equal measure with ballet classes and art camp. And I grew up okay. I made mediocre grades through college and still have had a career I've loved. In my 20s, I burned more brain cells than I'd like to admit. Sure, I may not be Sophia Coppola or Stella McCarthy or Gabby Reese. And there's a pretty strong chance that Maya won't be either. But even if I fed her non-organic baby food right from the jar, chances are, she'd be okay.

Maya and her bear

2007-12-01T17:29:00.000-08:00

Here's a little filmic fun with our dancing daughter.

Who's the baby here?

2007-11-29T10:16:00.000-08:00

Maya got 2 shots yesterday at the pediatrician's office and she didn't make a peep. I, however, cowered in the waiting area, blubbering like a newborn (don't worry: David stayed with her).
You'd think after months of in vitro, I'd have a thicker skin, so to speak.
I remember one of our first meetings at the swanky Upper East Side fertility clinic. We sat with 6 other babyless couples passing around a life-sized plastic butt, taking turns injecting it with a syringe suitable for anesthetizing a Clydesdale.
I've always been a bit aichmophobic, which means more than a little scared of needles. And so it took hypnosis, ice packs, heating pads, alcoholic beverages and anything else I could find to overcome my hypodermic horror. Nonetheless, I made it through night after night as a veritable dart board while we plumped up my hormones, harvested my eggs, then prayed for the fledgling embryo to grab life by the horns.
But watching our pediatrician puncture Maya's plump little thigh? It was more than I could bear. Our doctor, Michel Cohen, says in his book The New Basics, that as parents we hate vaccinations because we have an unresolved fear of needles from childhood. That we're all big babies, essentially.
Now, his motto is "less medicine is often the best medicine," but his practice still recommends giving children as many as 20 vaccinations before age 2, including the new chicken-pox vaccine. And many of these vaccines are delivered in more than one dose, on more than one appointment. Which means that if we commit to the necessary vaccinations for Maya to be admitted to a New York public school, I could be cowering in the waiting area for the next few years. Guess I'd better get this aichmophobia thing in check. Pronto.

My darlings

2007-11-26T12:27:00.000-08:00

There was a little girl,

with a little curl,

right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good,

she was very, very good,

And when she was bad,

She was horrid.

(Not really).