This afternoon as I was rattling off a list of all the things we needed to do and how I couldn’t figure out how to do them. Fatherblogger turned to me and said, Motherblogger, we may be broke but you can afford to pay attention.
This story is the reason I started this category. Not to oversell but its true to its title, don’t read while eating lunch at your desk.
A few mnths ago when babyblogger was only about six weeks old my parents came over for dinner. Chinese. We were sitting at the table when babyblogger got fussy and made a big poop in his diaper. Since he was so small I was able to change him on the Island. When I opened his diaper I exclaimed, “Oh my its green!” Preschoolblogger reacted to my surprise and said, “Let me see.” (more…)
Is it possible for a mother to know her child is going to be a stalker? I wonder if Peter Braunstein’s mother knew her son had a social dysfunction. Did she see the longing in his eyes as he watched the jetset on the swingset? Did he glom on to one friend and not let go?
Now of course, I don’t think preschoolblogger is a future stalker. But he is so social, so intensely social and desperate for friends that when he shows up at the playground he’ll walk up to any child around his age and ask, “Will you play with me?” And it fills me with pride that he is so willing to reach out until I see him get shut down. Kids are mean. It breaks my heart to see him longing for that connection and not get it. He keeps trying but he gets frustrated. (more…)
I have made a promise to myself that I will throw out/give away any item of clothing that’s stained, tattered, threadbare clothes, especially any pants where the seem in the butt are pulling a bit too much. Otherwise, I’ll forget that they are stained, tattered or about to split and I will leave the house and or greet my husband when he comes home late at night looking like a crazy person.
A rockstar and his family have moved a few doors down from us. He’s not the kind who fills up Shea stadium, he’s children’s performer but living in Brooklyn in a baby boom, he might as well be. If you’re between 6 months and 9 years old (or a parent of one) chances are you know his body of work and have sung it for hours on long car rides and subsequently had his songs stuck in your head for days.
Saturday night fatherblogger and I went out to a lovely dinner party. We had such a good time that we stayed out past way midnight and I was secretly panicked about how late we’d be getting to bed. Apparently, Fatherblogger was too because when we got home he hopped under the covers, shut out the light, turned and kissed me so fast it was like he was late for a train.
It’s okay for babyblogger to wake up at 4:20 am and insist on being soothed while I bounce him for an hour. I get it. It’s what babies do. And its okay to finally slowly, carefully carry him into bed still swaying my arms as my saint of husband, fatherblogger, stacks five pillow behind me so if I need to sleep sitting up my head will be supported. And its okay to sleep with my arms wrapped around babyblogger even though I’m afraid they’ll loosen and he’ll roll away somehow. But its not okay for me to get perfectly positioned and for babyblogger to fall asleep and all to be well only to realize my underpants are giving me a wedgie I can’t do anything about it until morning.
This morning, pre-kblogger slept late and I needed to get to work so after reading Ladybug magazine on the couch with him I pulled myself away and put on the TV. Huge guilt for offering up TV instead of following through on his request for another book, but I had to go.
Little Bear came on and pre-kblogger turned his attention to the TV. Unfortunately, the show ended halfway through (more…)
Three days a month I get to work from home. They were hard won so I covet them. They keep the week calmer, there are no tears in the morning and we can usually eat dinner together. But all the stress I’m spared came flooding back when in a rush to leave work on a Wednesday night, I forgot to bring my laptop home and only realized this when I stepped off subway in Brooklyn 45 minutes later. The solution: At 7 am this morning I hustled back to the office to pick it up and raced back home so fatherblogger could leave at 8:30 (nannyblogger had the morning off to go to the dentist) cursing my absentmindedness about 100 times.
On the early bird F train commute, there is a woman conductor whose voice is so deep and comforting her tone has a built-in “there, there”. This morning, as we arrived at West 4th street I heard her say, “B train across the platform. Have a positive Thursday.”
My parents came for dinner the other night. It was not pretty. Fatherblogger was working late. Pre-kblogger was tantrumming. Babyblogger was fussy. We ran out of hot water just before bathtime and we had no diapers. Before my dad offered to run to the drugstore he turned to me and said, “You know sweetheart, one day you’ll look back on this time as one of the happiest periods in your life.”
When he left, my mother who was in the kitchen and had not heard what my dad said, came over to me, sighed and said, “Just remember this time is the worst in your life.”