Fertile Ground #11

INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
I Have a Daughter by Sarah Diegl

THE REAL DIRT
Hannah Unanswered by Wendy Sumner-Winter
The “No, Seriously, Are You Really, Really Ready To Have A Baby?” Quiz by Andria Brown
Conversation with My Ovaries by Marrit Ingman
Blue Streak by Stacey Greenberg
Each Morning by Ali Sullivan

FERTILIZER
TV: Friend or Foe? by Stacey Greenberg
Rock-N-Romp by Andrea Butler Donato
Band Names Inspired by Children by Ashley Harper
What I Did on My Summer Vacation by Julie Greenberg
Top Ten Thrill Seeking Toddler Activities by Stacey Greenberg

IN THE FIELD
The Drive Home from Preschool by Ali Sullivan
Herbie’s Bladder, Fully Loaded by Christoph Meyer
Special Parts by Bridgette Burge
Braids by Lisa Deanne Smith

RUTS INTO FURROWS
Nighttime Parenting by Stacey Greenberg
Mid-Century Modern Mom by China Martens

Soil Chart

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg


Greetings from #11! Sorry this issue is a bit late, but I got a little behind schedule due to the fact that I was on my own again this summer. (Warren was sent to dig up buried treasure in exotic lands—aka the tick infested Mark Twain National Forest) and I was working on Mamaphiles #2 (to order your copy go to www.mamaphiles.com). My eight-week stint flying solo flew by a lot quicker than my sixteen-week maiden voyage last summer. But I am really happy to have Warren home. Life without daddy is not nearly as fun as life with daddy. Plus, the boys and I were getting awfully tired of eating pasta! Every night!

This issue has a few loose themes running through it—body issues (both mama and baby style) as well as a bit of “Summer Fun.” Since I have literally three vacation days for the rest of the year, we have had to be creative this summer—finding pleasure in the places around us. I’d like to thank all of my contributors, both old and new, for continuing to give me great material! Fertile Ground would be pretty dull without all of the awesome mamas (and two papas) who share their work with me. So mwah! I also wanna thank all of the sweet mamas who took the time to include notes and letters along with their orders telling me how much they enjoy Fertile Ground. I love being stroked, so thank you! Keep the submissions and letters coming!

For those of you who want more Fertile Ground check out my website. Erica Carter keeps it updated and there are links to my blog at Rescue Magazine and my monthly column at Philosophical Mother. I’ve also become a bit of a regular on LiteraryMama.com, so check it out.

I Have a Daughter

I Have a Daughter
Sarah Deigl


At 39 weeks 6 days I walked back into my midwife's office proclaiming, "I'm not going home without a baby." After a few false alarms I was certain the time for my second child to arrive was upon us. I had been contracting for hours, although they were fairly far apart and not very strong. I had bloody show all morning. I had my mother leave a Garden Club conference and break the land speed record to drive home and care for my son. I had a bag packed. My in-laws were waiting anxiously by the phone. Short of alerting the local media, everything had been set in motion.

Everything except the baby.

I should have guessed the truth by the expression on Donna's face as she checked me. She very kindly explained if this was in fact labor it was really REALLY early. I was 2cm dilated 50% effaced and 0 station. I refused to believe her. I was ready dammit. People had been called, 150 Garden Club ladies were waiting to find out if it was a girl or boy. I could not go home and report I had cried wolf. Donna said to try walking and sex and nipple stimulation and said I could drink castor oil if I wanted to.

Paul and I hung out and walked and shopped and snacked and nothing happened. I called my best friend and whined. I decided to go to yoga and see if some Om vibrations and downward dog would spark anything. I felt much calmer and looser after the class, but sadly, no closer to birthing.

I slept pretty well with a few potty breaks until 3:45am when the contractions made me get out of bed and move. I watched infomercials with contractions that were six to ten minutes apart. I finally went back to bed at 5:30 and dozed between contractions. It was all quite different from my first labor when I was too excited and nervous to do anything but pace and freak myself out. I had a crying jag at 6:30 for no real reason, which I took as a good sign.

I spent the entire day of my due date at my parents’ house. Being in my childhood home with my family was the ideal safe space to let my labor progress. (I didn't realize until some time later that spending the day with a pacing contracting occasionally panting woman was not exactly relaxing for them.) By mid-afternoon I felt like a panda in the zoo being watched intently for any sign of action. I started to give the castor oil serious consideration.

After some breast pumping at 6:00pm contractions got a bit stronger and more regular. Much like my first labor they were short and pretty easy to pace through. I worried about how effective they were. I started getting anxious about the 40 minute car trip to the hospital at 7:00pm, but wanted to get Rhew to bed at my parents’ before we left. Paul got him almost settled and then I started feeling like we must go. We called Donna and agreed to meet at her office for a check and if it was still early we'd go to a friend's house in town. I was quite sure she was going to tell me I had a long way to go and the contractions were not effective just like with Rhew. I considered asking for Pitocin if that was the scenario. I clearly was losing my mind.

The car ride was hard but oddly zen. I sat in the back so I could move around. The contractions were five minutes apart, twenty seconds or so long. As one ended I just focused on letting the next one come and do its job. Just as we got into town I thought I might throw up, but after a frantic search for a barf bag, managed not to.

Donna checked me, and again her expression gave me no hint of the future. She asked us to guess how dilated I was. I was just praying for four or five. Paul guessed six and I started to laugh at his optimism.

I was seven with a very bulging bag of water.

We went right to the hospital and I got the IV antibiotics for Group B Strep. We ideally needed two hours before delivery for the antibiotics to do their job. The contractions were stronger but I was still coping with them on my own.

I got in the tub and it felt great until the first contraction, then I wanted to jump out of my skin. I hated sitting down—I stayed in the water and just kept crawling around and splashing. I got on my hands and knees when the pressure in my back and pelvis became too intense. I told Donna how and where it hurt and she said if I wanted to push I could. I was shocked. It was too soon! We had hours to go! She hadn't even checked me!

I tried pushing with the next contraction and it was like a rocket taking off. Everything happened at once. My water broke and I could feel the head go way down. When I stopped pushing I felt the head slide all the way back up. The sensation was very odd and unexpected. I was screeching and moaning as the next contraction started but also giving a play by play. "I feel it moving down, owwwww it burnnnnsssss, I'm pushing, DONNNNNAAAAAA!" I felt the head come out and then the shoulders. With Donna's guidance Paul was able to catch the baby.

The relief when she slid out was enormous. Paul and Donna were saying, "Sarah, Sarah it's a girl." It barely registered for a moment and then it did and I was totally fine and everything felt right. All my fear and negativity about having a girl disappeared. I think part of me knew who she was all along, I just wasn't ready to accept it until that moment.

Avery Coleman Deigl was born at 10:16 pm on her due date, 50 minutes after we arrived at the hospital.

We got out of the tub and made it to the bed and she was so quiet and just looked at us. She stayed attached for a number of minutes with the cord pulsing. I remembered to look at the placenta and it was beautiful.

Avery's birth was a life changing, empowering experience. No one told me what position to get into or how to breathe. No one counted or shouted, "Just one more push." I listened to the life force inside me and was not so afraid this time. I got my mind out of the way of my body and it did the work in its own time in its own way.

I didn't cry at all. I felt so amazingly good and strong when it was over. All night after she was born as I lay there wide awake I just kept saying to myself, I have a daughter, I have a daughter.

Hannah Unanswered

Hannah Unanswered by Wendy Sumner-Winter
Photo by Erica Carter


The question is often asked of me, “When are you having children?” My reply is always simply: “I’m not.” Rarely does anyone leave it at that. Usually the follow-up comment is something like, “Sure you will” or “You’ll change your mind.”

I am Hannah Unanswered. As I have, she prayed, plead, and pined for a child. God gave her Samuel. My Samuel will never come. I am a barren woman.

When I finally reveal this wound to someone, and once we’ve wrestled through the “Have You Tried Everything…I Know A Great Doctor…Yeah, That’s What I Thought Before My First Child” diatribe, I get one of two responses. The first is an offhanded “Oh, well, you can always adopt.” The second: “Then you will always have your body and lots of time and money all to yourself.” This is what people see. I suppose that it is true. I suppose I should feel relieved.

My body will be spared. It will never be subjected to morning sickness – they tell me – never undergo the pangs of bone shifting and stretch marks and toxemia. I will always be the flat-bellied forlorn one in the waiting room searching desperately for anything but the parents’ magazines or Highlights. The only reason my ankles will swell will be from unbridled jaunts of all-night dancing. I will never feel the discomfort of seven pounds of human doing a jig on my bladder or suffer jabs in my ribs from little fists. My arms and neck, legs and back will never ache from carrying life inside of me. I will never have an excuse for craving ice cream or be able to explain away the extra twenty pounds on my hips. My breasts will never sag or deflate.

I am reminded that I will never subsist on a diet of soggy zwieback toast that I’ve found smeared into the rug or smell of rancid baby formula. I’ll never settle for strained peas and chicken fingers. I can drink Diet Coke, coffee, and wine to my heart’s content and never check for Aspartame or worry about fetal alcohol syndrome. My clothes will never be stained with spit up or runny noses.

My time will be my own. I’ll take a shower whenever I please – without having to wait for naptime. I will never have to kiss scabbed knees or hold my cookies and a bloody tourniquet in the emergency room. I will have no sleepless nights.

My home will not become a playground. Sharp and breakable objects will always have a place on my coffee table, and I can listen to Joni Mitchell instead of a purple singing dinosaur. My foot will never be bruised from the mislaid Lego and I won’t ever have to put on a robe to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Dirty diapers will never fill my garbage pail and my walls will remain crayon free. Layers of finger painted masterpieces won’t clutter my sleek stainless refrigerator. I can have a white couch.

My counselors also tell me that I will be rich. I will be able to pursue my dreams, assuming they do not include Saturdays at Chuck-E-Cheese with rugrats or field trips to planetariums with prepubescents. I will never have to shell out quarters for the gumball machine at the grocery store or offer consolation when the wrong color comes out. I will always have the resources to be Santa Claus to all the young nieces and nephews, cousins and siblings. I will always be able to buy the extra special gifts that their parents cannot afford to give them. Babysitters and braces, school clothes and space camps will never be line items in my budget. My extra money will buy cruises and couture instead of private schools and prom dresses. I can drive a two-seater that will not accommodate a car seat and never inquire about the school district when shopping for homes.

I am assured that I will always be able to come and go as I please – with no need for planning or forethought. Morning time will be quiet and peaceful with no wailing or gnashing of teeth – I’ll be on time for everything. I will not have to wait for summertime to take a vacation. I will never stand in line for the carousel or a Nintendo Super Duper 64½. My husband and I can have all the time in the world to sit on the front porch reading the paper. We will never be interrupted while making love on the kitchen table. We will never lose the romance in our marriage. My husband and dog will never have to feel second place and I can swear without worrying about my influence.

Of course, holidays will never be stressful. Christmas Eve will never find me piecing together a bicycle or doll house with Danish directions at midnight; and the Easter Bunny will never darken my door with his basket of amphetamines. I can turn the lights off at Halloween, pretending not to be at home. I’ll never hire a clown for a birthday party or bake a teddy bear cake. The Tooth Fairy will not have my address. There will be no need for home movies.

I’m told that we will never have to fight about whether to spank or use time-out or over our favorite boy and girl names. We will never worry over body piercings, tattoos, drugs or curfews. We will never pay for the wedding, deal with a daughter-in-law, or fret over spoiling grandchildren. We will grow old peacefully, quietly, together.

Barrenness, they seem to say, is a gift. I have been spared all the horror, heartbreak and hell of bearing children.

The “No, Seriously, Are You Really, Really Ready To Have A Baby?” Quiz

The “No, Seriously, Are You Really, Really Ready To Have A Baby?” Quiz
Andria Brown

1. Are you tired of all the clothes in your wardrobe and wish you could get them out of your sight for at least two years, and possibly forever?

2. Do you feel you spend too much time with your friends and want to cut it down to once every couple months?

3. Would you prefer having someone other than you or your partner decide when and if you have sex?

4. Do you dislike going to first-run movies, restaurants with tablecloths and stores that don’t have carts?

5. Do you feel that you get way too much sleep and would prefer that your alarm clock go off whenever it feels like it?

6. Two parter: a) Have you saved enough money to live on for at least a year, in case one partner doesn’t go back to work right away? b) Have you saved enough sanity to be the person who stays home?

7. Do you hate watching an entire TV show at one time?

8. Have you been with your partner long enough that thoughts of separation/homicide would be quelled by a sheer lack of the time required to find someone else you can tolerate?

9. Do you suffer from a chronic surplus of energy that can only be relived by having a small helpless being suck the life force out of you?

10. Do you get lonely when you poop?

Scoring: Give yourself a point for each “Yes” reply.

0-4 points: Hmm, maybe you haven’t thought this parenting thing all the way through. Maybe you should go hiking through the Pyrenees or have a $300 dinner and think some more.

5-7 points: It’s going to be an adjustment, but you’ve got a chance. As good a chance as anyone else, anyway.

8-10 points: Congratulations! Your ability to bury your own desires and sacrifice every personal aspect of your being, 24 hours a day, renders you the perfect potential parent!

Conversation with My Ovaries

Conversation with My Ovaries
Marrit Ingman

My ovaries talk to me sometimes. They became particularly vocal after I turned 30. They are single-minded of purpose. They want cock.

Ovaries: Uh-oh, we're getting a little low in here. Better crank the libido up a few notches, get some good spermatazoa up in this bitch.
Me: God, I can't sleep.
Ovaries: Get up! You want cock now.
Me: (Yawns) It's the middle of the night. I want sleep.
Ovaries: Go get some cock first, okay?
Me: What? No.
Ovaries: Aw, come on.
Me: Where am I going to find any at this hour? Baldodad's asleep. Should I wake him up?
Ovaries: Not so much.
Me: But he's right over there!
Ovaries: Naw, you already bred with him, remember?
Me: Yeah, I remember that. We have offspring and a vasectomy.
Ovaries: Go get somebody with better eyesight, okay? And fewer allergies.
Me: We discussed this, okay? You know I'm O.P.P.
Ovaries: Yeah, you know me! (giggles)
Me: I'm not stepping out, okay? We've been over this.
Ovaries: Look, I'm just doing my job here. It's almost time to ovulate. Here, let me get a Morphine song stuck in your head for a while. You like "Thursday"?
Me: Oh, don't do that.
Ovaries: Go get me some. I think you know where to look.
Me: Bad idea. We've ruled that out, remember?
Ovaries: I'm ovaries. I don't rule anything out.

Later at Zinger Hardware on Anderson Lane...

Ovaries: We're not going to find trash cans back here.
Me: I know. Just those plastic ones. I want a maggot-proof brushed steel motherfucker.
Ovaries: Yeah, no more maggots. Hey, ask that guy!
Me: I really just like to browse in here.
Ovaries: Hello, sailor!
Me: (to guy) Are those up front all the indoor trash cans y'all have?
The Guy: Yes. I'm afraid we don't have a very big selection.
Ovaries: Honest. I like that.
Me: (to ovaries) Not this again, okay?
Ovaries: (to guy) Say, how tall are you?
The Guy: You might try an outdoor can in the kitchen. We have a bunch in the back. I'll show you.
Ovaries: (to guy) Where'd you get that ass from? You get it from your mama?
The Guy: Here are our smallest ones.
Ovaries: (to guy) Nothing small about you. Can I see your hardware?
Me: (to ovaries) Please be quiet.
The Guy: I beg your pardon?
Ovaries: Wow, he looks like Jake Gyllenhaal. You think he's Sensitive and Tortured Jake or Doofy Jake?
Me: Yeah, I think I'm going to hold out for one with the flippy lid. Thanks.
Ovaries: I'm flipping my lid. I bet he's handy and can, you know, install stuff.
Me: We're going home, girls.

Each Morning

Each Morning
Ali Sullivan

Each morning
Upon meeting me in the bathroom

My husband sends out a little
Thank you

That he doesn’t
Have

poor vision which requires contact lenses
bikini line issues
uneven skin tone
an eyebrow brush
piercings
cellulite
fine hair
stretch marks across his belly
worries about upper lip hair
or one breast smaller than the other

I get to stand to pee, he thinks, as he
Looks me over in the mirror.

TV: Friend or Foe?

TV: Friend or Foe?
Stacey Greenberg


On his first birthday, Jiro’s favorite present was a universal remote control (sans batteries) that my husband bought at the thrift store. When we handed it to him, he instantly lost interest in all of the other toys and books he had been given. He ate his birthday cupcake with one hand while clutching the remote with the other. After cake, he crawled into the living room and pointed it at the TV. I laughed and said, “Look how smart he is!”

Once the novelty wore off and he realized it didn’t actually do anything, the battery-less remote was tossed aside and forgotten. He went back to grunting and lunging toward the real remote whenever he got within ten feet of it. “Where’s his fake one?” Warren would ask.

“He doesn’t like the fake one,” I replied.

When a friend was over a few weeks ago, Jiro was in his highchair changing the channels, turning up the volume, and enjoying a snack. A little embarrassed, I laughed and said, “Isn’t that cute? He likes to watch it work. I bet he’ll be an engineer someday.”

My friend, not one to mince words (and not a parent) said, “I bet he’ll be a couch potato someday!”

I laughed along, but thought to myself, Maybe he’s right. Maybe the continuous Baby Einstein music is brainwashing me!

My three-year-old, Satchel, is also a fan of the little screen. Like his brother, he spent many mornings in his highchair watching “Sesame Street” or a Baby Einstein DVD while we got ready for work. For a good two years he was all about Elmo. Anything red was immediately incorporated into his vocabulary in terms of the fuzzy red monster. Fire trucks became Elmo trucks, roses became Elmo flowers, and so on. (Even now, he can often be heard saying, “We’re elmost there!”)

Satchel can mimic complex choreography while holding a light saber, sing “We’re off to see the Wizard” while skipping through the dining room, and explain why Violet Beauregard turned into a big blueberry, among other things. When his dad had to leave town for a long dig, Satchel started watching a Hakaider (Japanese movie circa 1970) DVD because he missed his daddy (who resembles the main actor). Now we own the box set of Kikaida (a spin-off of Hakaider, also circa 1970) DVDs and Satchel loves them despite the fact that no one speaks English.

I don’t know whether to be worried about my kids’ love of TV or not. If they didn’t regularly stand at the front door clamoring to go to the trails, to the playground, to the yard, anywhere with bugs and dirt and fresh air, I might be more concerned.

Still, when I was pregnant and reading books on cloth diapering, unschooling, and natural living, I never imagined I’d have two kids so immersed in popular culture.
For example, I’ve overheard Satchel having the following conversation with a dad at the playground:

Satchel: Scaling the railing, “Anakin got his hand cut off.”
Dad: A little surprised, “Oh really?”
Satchel: “Luke Skywalker got his hand cut off too.”
Dad: Curious as to the extent of his Star Wars knowledge, “Who cut off Luke’s hand?”
Satchel: “Darth Vader.” Not one to hold back when prompted, “When Darth Vader grew down, he became Anakin!”
Dad: Clearly overcome, he looked at his thirteen-month-old daughter who was making eyes at Jiro, cleared his throat, and tried to hold back his tears.

Okay I made that last part up. But the guy was impressed. He followed Satchel around for a good thirty minutes “talking shop.”

When we met another dad at the playground who grew up in Hawaii watching Kikaida on TV like Warren, he tried to endear himself to Satchel by singing the theme song. Satchel got a grin on his face and blushed a little. Then before running back to climb on top of the tunnel slide, he quietly said to me, “He’s singing it wrong.”

On some level I think it is pretty cool that he is watching a show in Japanese and can not only sing the theme song, but can follow the story. And Kikaida is about the funniest show I have ever seen. Think William Shatner as a young Japanese mechanical man (named Jiro, no less) in tight jeans who carries a guitar, rides a motorcycle, and fights evil robots like Orange Ant, Blue Buffalo, and Green Mantis. It’s awesome!
I really don’t think TV is inherently bad. Sure, if my kids watched TV around the clock it would be bad. But in small quantities it can be quite nice, especially if it allows me to take a shower uninterrupted. I let the kids watch a little TV in the mornings and a little at night. It is usually a DVD or something on PBS so there are no commercials.

The commercials are what I object to the most. This is the chant I hear when shopping for toilet paper: “I want Buzz snacks! I want a Spiderman skateboard! I want Dora the Explorer Band-aids! I want Darth Vader shampoo! I want Bob the Builder underwear!” If I have another kid, before it is too late, I’m going to buy some Blues Clues stickers and put them all over the organic produce.

For now, I am doing the best I can to raise my boys in our consumer culture. As long as they always answer the question, “Who wants to go outside?” with a resounding, “I do, I do!” I’m not going to sweat a little TV.

Rock-N-Romp

Rock-N-Romp
Andrea Butler-Donato


For a successful Rock-n-Romp you will need:

1 host family
1 backyard
6 weekend dates from May to October
2-3 local bands and artists per show
1 dozen or so offspring accompanied by their socially and/or musically deprived parents
1 keg of beer

Combine all ingredients and mix thoroughly. Yields a rockin’ good time for the whole family!

This delicious recipe is a local dish of the Washington DC and Baltimore region that was originally thought up by Debbie Lee and her husband who live in the DC area suburb of Silver Spring, Maryland. After having their first son, they came up with the idea of having shows in their backyard with local bands actually coming to them since making it out to clubs at night was not so much of an option anymore. They made the idea of being able to hear bands play at a kid-friendly volume during kid-friendly hours of the day in a kid-friendly atmosphere a reality. A small stage area was made in their backyard, bands brought their equipment, parents brought their kids and a sensation was started! What started out as a small backyard gathering became a real hit by the fall of 2002. Much more than just a catchy name, Rock-n-Romp was actually someplace where you could take your kids and listen to local (non-children’s) music, drink a beer, and almost remember what pre-breeding life was like. That is, until your child screeched for you to come and push them on the swings.

This summer Rock-n-Romp was brought to Baltimore by Tracey Gaughran-Perez and her husband Jamie, which snuffs out the need for an hour drive to DC. Initially, some of Tracey’s neighbors were concerned that this alternative family fun was going to be a rowdy event that charged admission and sold alcohol, but they were reassured by the fact that the event was free (Yes! Free!) and no alcohol was being sold (which also circumvented the need for any permits).

The first show was May 21 and featured Kim++, The Materials, and Sylvan Screen. Envision front row seating of little plastic tot chairs and the bands being critically eyed by the children. Some of the kids completely disregarded what was happening on the stage since they were too busy playing on the swings and with the toys throughout the yard. Other kids were ready to jam…and were free to do so with the miniature drum set that was near the band. Parents mingled around, chatting and catching up and enjoying the music. My one-year-old rocked out with me in his sling while my six-year-old ran back and forth between the sandbox and the swings along with other kids. It was fabulous.

Baltimore Rock-n-Romp is planning on rocking through the summer with local bands like South Carey, Sick Sick Birds and The Tombs among others. Between the DC RnR and the Baltimore RnR, there is plenty of rocking and romping ahead. Which is great, since parents sometimes need that concrete date and time to corral the kids and go out and be social. Rock-n-Romp has been such a hit in Baltimore and DC, others should really try and get something similar started in their areas. For more information on the event, check out www.rocknromp.com and www.rocknrompbaltimore.blogspot.com.

Viva la Rock-n-Romp!

Band Names Inspired by Children

Band Names Inspired by Children
Ashley Harper

Count to Ten
Water Pistols
The Breakables
Drivin’ and Cryin’ and Shoutin’ to the One in the Back
Permanent Staind
Neck Funk
Fever Pitch
Druel
Medicated

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

What I Did on My Summer Vacation
Julie Greenberg


New York City is an amazing place. Having lived in the city for a year in the 60s, it warms my heart to see how it has blossomed into a safe, family-oriented paradise for tourists. If you do one thing for your kids while they are growing up, take them to the Big Apple and open their eyes to the many wonders this world has to offer them.

I spent ten glorious days in NYC with my eight-year-old grandson this past summer. We were on the “go” constantly and barely touched the surface of what was possible. I’ve never had a better vacation (even though this trip was part-business for me). To watch this child discover the city was thrilling and I found myself rediscovering my love for NYC along with him. We had a fantastic time! Everything worked out so well. Branch was in love with New York from the get-go and he took to it like he was a native. He has big plans to become a famous athlete (if we can find a sport he can play), earn lots of money, and become a New Yorker.

The success of this trip didn’t come automatically. I spent a lot of prep time with guide books focusing on having children in the city and a wonderful new magazine called New York Kids. Also, I made up my mind that it was going to be expensive. This was not going to be the time to look for bargains (I love a good bargain). I also pre-planned our first two days from my computer so we would get off to a good start, buying some tickets so we had a few planned activities.

At night, as the week progressed, I would get the books out to plot the course of the next day and Branch would say, “Gigi, you don’t have to do all that planning, we can just get up and do some stuff.” In many ways he was right, no matter what, we would have had a great time just being in this amazing city. But I had an agenda, I wanted him to not only get the benefit of my past experiences in the city, but I wanted him to experience things that were right for his age – and that took research. And I wanted him to do as much as possible in the time allotted.

Here are the highlights of a trip that we’ll never forget and a trip that hopefully will inspire his life...

We started out on Saturday on the red double decker bus for an overview of the city. That was great fun – to be above the traffic, to see everything, and to have someone explaining it. The bus pass was a 24-hour thing, so we did half on Saturday and finished up on Sunday. We saw all of the different NY neighborhoods, famous buildings, oddities, etc.

Saturday night we saw our only play, "Little Shop of Horrors" with Joey Fatone (of 'NSync fame). It was terrific and Branch laughed a lot and seemed to like it. I picked this one because Branch was a fan of ‘Nsync and I thought that was a good tie-in.

Sunday we took our tour bus to Battery Park and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge with a ton of tourists. It was so beautiful and interesting. Apparently this is a top ten activity for tourists that I didn't know about until I read a zillion travel books trying to get ready for 10 days with an eight-year old.

Next we went to Central Park and the zoo, visited the Plaza Hotel and other famous spots from the Home Alone movies – favorites of B's. That night we went with all of the other New Yorkers to see the 4th of July fireworks and they were spectacular. That was quite an experience – to be in an orderly NY crowd. We bought a picnic lunch at Grand Central Station, walked to the river, and hung out until it got dark. We worried if we would be able to see anything, but were blown away by the display.

On the walk home, B was tired but I cajoled him into getting all the way back to our hotel on foot. We stopped at a NY deli and just keep going with the crowd on a beautiful night. It was magical.

Monday I started work (at the convention I was attending for business) and for three days a friend of a friend picked up Branch and took him to do stuff: The Empire State Building and the Skyride; Rockefeller Center and the Pokemon Center; Coney Island, the famous roller coaster, and Nathan’s hot dogs; Brighton Beach, swimming and a Russian restaurant where they spoke no English and had great cheesecake (Branch carried home a bite for me to try!); St. Patrick's Cathedral; The New York Public Library to see the original Declaration of Independence; The Wall Street Stock Exchange; Ground Zero; Washington Park to play chess with the men who hang out there; and last but not least, pizza in Greenwich Village. Sky (the babysitter) did a great job.

On Thursday, the tournament daycare kicked in and I was able to leave Branch there when I needed free work time. He loves the daycare program. There are a ton of kids and they play games, have Bridge lessons, and do art projects.

When I got off work, we fit in what we could. We went to two Yankee games; took a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the best children's program I've ever seen (Branch cried when I said we were going to a museum, but he loved every minute of it.); visited the Empire State Building at night (you have to see it both ways); saw Spiderman 2 at an amazing four-story multiplex; got up early to catch the bus CBS sent for our company (another wonderful red double-decker) and saw ourselves in the crowd of the “Early Show” (“Gigi, I’m on national TV!”); walked over to Rockefeller Center to see the “Today Show” filming; went to a street fair that covered twenty blocks outside of our hotel and ended at beautiful Bryant Park where there was a Ben and Jerry's, a Starbucks and dancers performing (we intended to go to the outdoor free movie on Monday night too, but it was rained out); visited Grand Central Station and the Transit Museum; spent the afternoon at the Museum of Natural History (the Frog exhibit and the Exploratorium and the Hayden Planetarium); visited NBC where Branch made a "situation" video with Conan O'Brien (a really cute gimmick and a great souvenir to take home to show his parents); rode the full-size carousel inside the Toys 'R Us store at Times Square; rode NY taxi cabs and held on for dear life; visited my old stomping ground and showed Branch some of the places his PoPo used to love; and of course, ate ourselves silly.

It's hard to have a bad meal in NYC but to have a great meal you have to be willing to spend more money than I wanted to spend. We had some fantastic eating experiences, however: yummy steak in a beautiful street cafe; hot dogs on the street out of a cart; Chinese at the Yankees game(!); cheesecake at Lindy's Deli; an Italian restaurant in Little Italy, and lots of meals at the Hilton because they had a great kid menu. We also visited two theme restaurants that were outstanding: Mars 2112 where you had to take a space ride to arrive on the planet for dinner and Jekyl and Hyde that was very clever with constant performances taking place all over the restaurant.

We went everywhere on the subway where we did find a bargain – the weeklong subway pass. Branch and I were transit-pros by the time the trip ended. The NY subway system is amazing and safe. The weather was fantastic and believe it or not, some nights we actually needed jackets! It was quite an experience.

So, my advice is to forget Disney World and focus on the real-life experiences you can find in The Big Apple. Your children will love it!

Interview with Branch, Age 9
What did you like best about New York? All the big buildings and having a good time.
What would you like to do again? Go to the top of the Empire State Building and play chess in Washington Square
What would you NOT like to do again? I loved it all.
What would you want to do differently next time? I'd do everything just the same way.
How was New York different from Memphis? Loud, lots of big buildings, so many taxis.
What was the best thing you ate? Lindy's cheesecake.
If you took your sister, what would she like best? I don't know.

Top Ten Thrill-Seeking Toddler Activities

Top Ten Thrill-Seeking Toddler Activities
Stacey Greenberg


10. Popping bubble wrap. Remember doing this as a kid? It’s still lots of fun! Especially if you lay it on the floor and jump on it while you are wearing your red cowboy boots!

09. Unrolling a roll of toilet paper. The toilet paper is just begging to be unraveled. It is! And your kids can hear its pleas. Buy a cheap roll or suck up the small cost and let them unroll the whole thing for fun. You can still use (most of) it later! It just won’t be as pretty!

08. Hop on Pop! Can’t get your husband out of bed? Your kid(s) can! You may want to do a brief anatomy lesson and make sure your kids aim for the bladder and not the more delicate features!

07. Cardboard sledding. Sledding can be fun in the summertime too. All you need is a big box, a grassy hill, and good form. Especially fun in groups and on hills that do not lead into traffic!

06. Tandem skateboarding. Kids too young to skateboard? Have your husband hold them in his lap as he maneuvers the board with his buttcheeks! This is especially fun at public parks where other parents can look on in horror! Don’t forget your helmet and knee pads.

05. Water the lawn! Kill two birds with one stone. Turn on the sprinkler and let the kids run through. Or let the kids hold the hose and have your very own wet t-shirt contest.

04. Water the kitchen! Too hot to go outside? Fill up the kitchen sink and let your kids play boats, splash around, or hey, teach them to do the dishes!

03. Build a fort. Boxes, pillows, blankets, tables, chairs, scrap lumber…any old thing will do.

02. Play airplane. Cover the bed with pillows and toss your youngins on top. Or be the coolest parent ever and let them jump on the bed with abandon. (Just make sure they are dirt, sand, and crumb free beforehand. Naked bed jumping/throwing is highly recommended for potty-trained children.)

01. Share a Popsicle/ice cream cone. This can actually pass as a low-key activity full of juicy smiles and puppy-dog licks if you don’t think about the contents of the saliva you are passing back and forth.

The Drive Home from Preschool: Conversations with a Three Year-Old

The Drive Home from Preschool: Conversations with a Three Year-Old
Ali Sullivan

Mom, I broke chewy.

You what?

Chewww-y.

How can you break chewy?

It was a stick and I broke cheww-ly.

Honey, I don’t understand. It was a stick and you broke it?

It was a country.

A stick country?

In South America. The continent.

The proverbial light bulb. On.

You broke Chile?

Yeah. It was a stick. So I broke it. Cheee-lay.

Was it a puzzle?

Yeah, Jen was sad. She glued it. Someone broke the snack bowl.

How did the puzzle break? How did you break it?

With my head.

Your head?

Yup.

So, you broke Chile with your head? And Jen was sad?

She just was.

So, what did you say to Jen?

Silence from the car seat.

Maybe we should write a note to say sorry.

I will use a pen.

Okay.

I spilled my bean work and Bella helped me clean it up.

Oh, that was nice of her.

Yeah it was.

Did you thank her for doing such a nice thing?

Um...yes.

Good.

Well, next time she helps me I will say thank you.

Oh, that’s a good idea.

He wants to change the subject.

I got five stickers on my chart so you got me a milkshake.

That’s right.

There was a dinosaur on the cup.

You bet there was.

Is that truck working?

I think it is. It looks like it.

What is it making?

Maybe a new road.

Cars can go on it. And trucks.

I want to change it back.

You bet. So what else happened at school today?

Um... I passed out the napkins.

For snack?

Yes, but I didn’t want any apples.

Well I know you don’t like apples. What else did you have?

There were crackers and I ate some.

Did you sing a song today?

Well, yes. I did.

How does it go?

OOOOOOOhhhhh, the earth is good to me, so I thank the earth for giving me the sun, the rain, and the apple tree, the earth is good to me.

Very nice.

But I don’t eat apples.

I know. Do you know where some apples come from?

A tree!

Well, yes they do. Do you know where some apple trees are?

There aren’t any at our house.

No, but there are apple trees in South America.

Oh, we have Souf Mereka in our classroom!

There’s a very long and narrow country in South America where apples grow.
Argentina?

Yes, some do grow in Argentina, but I’m thinking of a country that might look like a stick on a map.

Chee-lay!

Yes.

I broke Chee-lay.

I know.

A few days later, we run some errands.

We’re going to the bank.

The one with the bumps?

Our bank was built to look like a log cabin, a bumpy one.

Yup.

Will she have candy for me?

Oh, I don’t know.

Oooooh, maybe it will be a Nemo sticker!

I remember last time you got Bruce the shark.

He’s scary.

Well, he’s a shark.

Maybe it will be Spider-man!

It could be.

Or Butt Man!

Who?

Butt Man.

Who is Butt Man?

He was the spooky one at Halloween. He had white triangle teeth.

Why is he Butt Man?

He just is.

Do you know what a butt is?

A silent smile.

It’s your bottom.

A laugh.

I didn’t know that my bottom was a butt! Butt, butt, butt!

Some people call it a butt.

I didn’t know that. Will we go in the bank?

I’m still confused about Butt Man, but I’ll let it go.

No, baby’s sleeping so I think we’ll drive through.

And the yellow thing will go WHOOOOOOSHHHHHH!

Yup, I can send her things in a tube under the ground.

And she will give me candy.

Maybe.

For over five minutes, he sits like a statue listening to the business of monetary transactions. Sometimes I worry about his fascination with pennies.

Do you have the boys with you today?

Yes, I do.

Would they like some stickers?

Oh, I think they would. Thank you.

WHOOOOOOOSHHHHHH!

Oh, look, Shrek stickers!

Ooooooh, it’s Donkey and, um, oh, Puss in Boots!

You can have them both since stickers aren’t really for babies.

I can peel the paper off.

Go for it.

Quiet concentration, a minute of actually hearing the radio. I did not glance behind me once.

I have stickers on my nipples!

Now I look.

Yes, yes, you do.

I saw each sticker on his jacket over, what he figured, his nipples. A proud smile.

Nipple stick! Nipple sticker! Nip-nip-nipple stick!

He began to sing. The baby woke up.

Nip-nip-nippy-nip-nip (waaaaa--waaaaaaa, ear-piercing scream, waaaaa-waaaaaaa)

Nipply-nip-nip, nipple stick!

Okay, kid-o, that’s enough singing.

Nipple stickers. Is it funny? (waaaaaaaa-waaaaaaaa)

Yeah, it is. We’ll have to tell Daddy.

Does Daddy have nipples?

Yes. (waaaaaaa-waaaaaaaa, burp, waaaaaaaa)

No milk, though.

You’re right. Only mommies have milk for the babies.

And cows.

Yes, cows give us milk. (waaaa---mumma, mumma)

And pigs.

Well, mommy pigs only have milk for baby pigs. It’d be hard to milk a pig.

Pigs are mammals.

Yes they are. (hysterical baby giggles)

Hey, baby! Did you wake up you little nipple baby! Hee-hee-hee.

Another day, another emergency.

Hey, Honey, how was your day at school?

Hmmmmm.... good

What did you do?

I did cracker spreading work.

Yum.

And, aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh, some cutting, I think.

You’re not sure.

No, but I usually do cutting so I probably did.

Okay.

Anything else happen?

I painted my belly.

You painted your belly?

Yeah, and some got on my pants.

Why did you paint your belly?

I just did.

Isn’t that messy? I thought paint was for paper.

Well, yeah, but I just did it.

Did you clean it up?

Yes I did. Jen told me that’s it’s not a good decision.

I agree with her.

It was a silly thing to do, wasn’t it?

Yes it was, mister. I hope tomorrow you will paint only on the paper.

Okay, I will.

There, lesson learned. Check that one off: He will not need to paint on his belly again as he already knows what it feels like. Feeling content, I enjoy the quiet from the back. I begin to suspect something is wrong, as quiet doesn’t last long. He starts to make guttural noises, grunts like he’s holding his breath for too long. A backward glance at the traffic light is all I need to see.

Honey, we’re almost home. You can go potty as soon as we get there.

Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh, I goooottttttaaaaa gooooooooo pooooooootttttttyyyyyyyy!

I know, sweetie, we’re almost there. Two minutes.

Mom?

Yes?

Ooooooohhhhhhh, Ineedtobeinthatgrass.

I, too, look out the side window at a waving meadow of tall brown grass. It is remarkably inviting. I consider pulling off the road and letting him run into the middle, peeing with absolute freedom and complete lack of inhibition.

I know sweetie. You can hold it. I know you can wait, just a little patience, okay?
Uuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh, oooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh.

The drama continues for two minutes longer. When our car reaches the driveway, he releases the seat belt from his booster chair - a talent which is convenient, but scary - and races to the back yard. I also jump out and follow behind, leaving the sleeping toddler unaware of our hillbilly ways. I can’t help but laugh when I round the corner and peek through the gate. There’s my boy. Pants at ankles, hands on hips, belly protruding, and a steady stream of urine, observed by the proudest three year-old face ever. Relief and entertainment in one.

I did it!

Good job, kid-o!

I’m proud of him, too. Not long ago, I’d have been washing the booster seat cover from poor bladder-negotiation skills. But, now, he can hold it and I’ve never been more proud.

Herbie’s Bladder, Fully Loaded

Herbie’s Bladder, Fully Loaded
Christoph Meyer

Lisa, Herb, and I went to see The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Since we don’t have a TV at home but still love movies, it’s exciting that he’s old enough that we can go see an occasional movie as a family. Lisa and I used to be connoisseurs of arthouse flicks, but since Herb was born and we moved out to rural Ohio, two hours away from anything but a 6-screen theater that plays mostly crap, we’ve learned to appreciate seeing any movie, even the mindless Hollywood drivel produced for the rabble. I’m pretty certain that Hitchhiker’s Guide was actually a decent movie but the once highly-developed cinema critic portion of my brain has atrophied to such an extent in the past four years that I can’t say for certain.

After the movie, Herb says, “I gotta go pee-pee right now!” so I escort him into the bathroom, which has but one stall and one urinal, the former being occupied by another father and the latter being used by one of his two boys. While we wait our turn, Herb (almost 4 years old) goes off on a loud rambling monologue:

“You know Papa, I liked that movie.”

“Good, I’m glad you liked it. I liked it too.”

“Yeah I liked all of it. I even liked all the previews for all those stupid crazy movies that they showed before they showed the real movie. You know, I want to see some of those movies too, like the Herbie one about the car named Herbie. That one looked like it was funny ‘cause the car’s name was Herbie.”

At this point, the boy finishes using the urinal so Herbie steps up for his turn. The boys dawdle around the sink, waiting for their father to finish.

“I like these toilets for boys that make you stand up. Sometimes they’re too tall and I can’t pee-pee in them but this one is short so kids can pee-pee in it too. Why they don’t have any of these kinds of toilets in women’s bathrooms Papa?”

The father in the stall finishes and starts washing his hands in the sink. Herbie is talking very loudly. His voice fills the bathroom. Suddenly he has a revelation.

“Oh! I know why they don’t have these toilets in women’s bathrooms. It’s because Mamas don’t have penises. Isn’t that right Papa?”

The other father starts laughing, as do his boys. When we go out to the parking lot, their minivan is, of course, parked right next to our car. As we get in our car I’m telling the story to Lisa and I look over towards them and see the father telling his wife the exact same story. I don’t need to read lips to verify this; the boys are pointing at us excitedly and she’s laughing and sneaking glances our way.

On the drive home, Herbie’s jabbering away about the new Herbie the Lovebug movie, called Herbie Fully Loaded. The preview looked awful but there’s no way we’re going to miss that one.

Special Parts

Special Parts
Bridgette Burge

Lately my son, Jake, has taken to exploring his “special parts” pretty thoroughly, especially in the bathtub. He’s four, and I don’t want him to feel ashamed or embarrassed, and hey, it’s his body, so I generally just let him fiddle away. The other night I’m sitting there by the tub reading a book while he’s playing in the water. I glance up and notice he’s doing his thing again. After a few minutes, he gets particularly quiet and he has this really strange look on his face.

“Jake are you pooping in the bathtub?!”

“No!”

“Then why do you have that weird look on your face?”

“Well, I just pushed a crayon way up my booty.”

“Ah Jesus, Jake. Well get out of the tub, sit on the potty and see if you can push it out.”

He can’t. Not after repeated red-purple faced grunts. Not after 45 minutes. Three different pediatricians tell me I have to take him to the emergency room. I call friends, Jake’s Grammie, other mamas, my dad, my best friend’s mother’s husband just because he’s a nurse…you get the picture.

Finally, my partner Pete gets home. He calls his mom who’s a mother of four and she calmly tells us he’ll “pass it” and not to worry.

I worry anyway, of course. After a few more kids maybe it won’t bother me if they crap out small reptiles, but Jake’s my first and only. So I’m picturing twisted, impacted, internally exploding bowels. I pull out a rubber glove, lube up a finger and go in.

“Mama, you’re touching my special parts. Ha, ha, ha, ha! You’re gonna get poop on your finger! Ha, ha, ha, ha!” I can’t feel a damn thing.

“Jesus, Jake, how far did you push it up there?”

“Waaaay up there. Get it out! My belly hurts! Just push in there and grab it with your hand! Did you get it, Mama? Huh? Did you grab it? Huh? Want the tweezers? I can go get my tool set, Mama.”

No luck. Pete suggests giving him an enema. He’s so brilliant.

Twenty minutes and a buck-fifty later, we’ve got the kid laying nude, sideways on a towel on the bathroom floor, shoving a lubed-up enema in his rectum.

“Ok, ready? It’s gonna feel weird when the water goes in, but I don’t think it’ll hurt.” I squeeze his little cheeks together and tell him the directions say we need to wait five minutes. About thirty seconds later he yells, “I gotta poop. NOW!” Out plops a red, Crayola bathtub crayon, in all its slimy glory. Jake beams.

I was clearly more traumatized than Jake and he knew it. The next morning Jake gets mad at me when I tell him it’s time to go to school. After the ritual negotiation, begging, counting, bribing, I eventually yell at him. He screams back, “You stupidhead! I’m just gonna go up in your bathroom, find something really big and push it way up my booty!”

Braids

Braids
Lisa Smith


It was hot, really hot, and humid, but somehow my mother convinced my three-year-old daughter, Tyla, and I to brave the stifling heat and go to the Bronte Spring Harbour Fest.

Tyla wanted to ride the merry-go-round, the train and all the exciting rides in the little midway where there was absolutely no shade at all. I always make sure Tyla has a hat and sunscreen but me... well... I hate sunscreen, and I forgot my rarely worn hat, and was starting to burn.

After Tyla fearlessly climbed the 50 foot high blow-up slide and eventually came down, not so fearlessly, all she wanted to do was bounce in the Moon Walk. Her face turned redder and redder with each bounce. When will the guy working this thing say "times up" I thought to myself. Then I realized Tyla and I were the only ones silly enough to brave the full sun of the Moon Walk. The guy was probably hoping Tyla's squeals of joy would attract some other kids. "Tyla, you have five more minutes then you have to get out," I shouted. Then I decided I was too hot for five more minutes so I went with a bribe "Tyla, I saw a place where you can get a fancy hair-do, you want to go check it out?"

It worked and soon we were settled under the shady tent with the sign, Barbados Hair Braids. I bartered the price of a full head of braids down to something reasonable for a three-year-old, double checked that Tyla was willing to sit still for half an hour, helped her pick out her beads and finally enjoyed some shade.

To the hairdresser’s amazement, Tyla sat still the whole time. She has always loved having her hair played with but I noticed she was staring at the women’s boobs that were at her eye level! Tyla has always been an avid boob girl, nursing at least every 3 hours until she was eighteen months old.

After she was finished getting her hair done, she exclaimed, "They had really big boobies mama, beautiful boobies.”

Nighttime Parenting

Nighttime Parenting
Stacey Greenberg


I was exhausted and up way past my bedtime. Midnight—what was I thinking? I buried myself in the covers that had been kicked to the bottom of the family bed. My one-year-old and my three-year-old were occupying the entire top half—each had his arms and legs outstretched as if he had fallen asleep while making a snow angel. I desperately hoped I might go unnoticed for a few hours before one of them woke up and I had to start my nighttime parenting shift.

Jiro must have smelled me because less than fifteen minutes passed before he was rooting around, his lips puckering up for my milk. I moved to the top of the bed and started nursing him. Usually a few minutes of nursing is all he needs, but he seemed restless. (I had thought he was so cute at dinner—stabbing beans with my fork and carefully placing them in his mouth one by one. Beans!)

By1:30am, I was still awake, very much wanting to scream. My nipples were aching and I desperately wanted to sleep, but since I was contorted in a half-twist maneuver that allows me to nurse from both breasts without moving, 90% of my body weight was resting on my battered left butt cheek. The throbbing, a result of months of this maneuver, kept me from dozing off.

I should have known better than to stay up late in the first place. By the time I finally got out of the office, picked Jiro up at daycare, got Satchel from Montessori, cooked some pesto, cleaned the kitchen, played Legos and airplane, got them both clean and in their jammies, read books, and nursed and rubbed them to sleep, it was almost ten. I needed some time to myself. I needed to work on my zine. I needed to watch “Kept” on VH1.

As I nursed Jiro, I took deep breaths and tried to think of how far I had come. I was on week six of my husband’s eight-week archaeological dig in the tick-infested Mark Twain National Forest. I don’t know which of us had the harder job, but we each seemed to envy the other’s position. I dreamed of having a bed all to myself in a hotel room somewhere far away and he lamented missing Satchel’s swimming lessons and Jiro’s new tricks.

I listened to Satchel coughing in his sleep, wondering how long it would be before he was awake too. Having one baby awake in the middle of the night is annoying; having two is debilitating. Thankfully, Jiro released my nipple and I rolled over. I should have waited because my small movement was enough to rouse him again, and he started kicking his meaty little legs up and down—his prelude to a scream. I’m going to kick and scream too.

More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.

Last summer my husband had a sixteen week dig, and I had a newborn and a two-year-old. That’s when I really earned my stripes. Things are a little easier now—I have a routine in place and a cleaning woman who comes every other week—but not getting enough sleep throws me off course. Last summer I was on maternity leave and could nap during the day if I needed to. Now I have to use precious vacation time if I need to stay home and catch up on my sleep. Besides how many times can you tell your sixty-five year old boss that you are sleep-deprived or that you had the worst night ever before she just thinks you are a complete slacker? At least the boys get to nap at school.

Despite the pain in my ass, I started to doze off. However, my slumber was quickly interrupted by a loud thud. I heard Satchel crying from the floor. I went around to pick him up and to try and soothe him. Of course, Jiro woke up the minute I moved and started crying. Crying in stereo. I’m the one who should be crying!

I got everyone back in bed and reluctantly nursed Jiro some more. I refused to look at the clock and I tried not to think about the day ahead. Usually I look forward to Fridays and my husband’s weekend visits, but he called at dinner to say he was coming down with something—maybe Strep, maybe Lyme’s disease. He had Strep in December (during my only vacation of the year) and was a wreck. For a week he walked around with his hand on his head, presumably to hold in his brains, and his throat looked like a musty cave lined with maggots feasting on raw, regurgitated meat. I was already feeling sorry for myself. I don’t want to take care of three people! I want someone to take care of me.

After a moment or two of silence, Satchel started whimpering. Dammit! I screamed inside my head. “I need to sleep!” I screamed outside my head. Insulted, Jiro started whimpering too. I jumped out of bed, banged my fists on the duvet, then stomped my feet up and down (picture Jennifer Beals in “Flashdance”) while half-yelling, half-grunting at the top of my lungs. I’m a maniac and it shows.

My tantrum was over before it started, and I felt both better and worse. Needless to say, I scared the crap out of the boys. There was a brief moment of silence as they watched me in horror, but now the speakers were threatening to blow.

Calm down, breathe, stop thinking about the time.

I had to pull myself together—my kids weren't purposely trying to make me a zombie.

I’m sure they’d rather be asleep too. “I’m sorry,” I said in my most reassuring voice. A weekend of playing nurse, waitress, and cruise director won’t be the end of the world. “Shhh. Everything is okay…Shhh…How about some cough medicine?”

To avoid more crying, I picked Jiro up and carried him to the linen closet to search for the medicine tote. I grabbed it with one hand and flung it on the bed before I could lose momentum and drop it. I gave Satchel the recommended two droppers full, and then gave one to Jiro for good measure.

We crawled back in bed, but Satchel had already started up again. "My pee pee hurts!" he screeched.

I should have seen this one coming. Somehow he got three of the world's itchiest mosquito bites (chiggers?) on his testicles while playing outside. His testicles! I really did feel for the little guy. “You want some pink medicine for your pee pee?” I asked.

"Yes," he said between screeches and scratches.

I picked an increasingly cranky Jiro up again and went on a hunt for the Calamine lotion. I instinctively maneuvered around the toys scattered on the floor, and just missed bumping into an errant tricycle thanks to the light coming from the microwave clock. Two-thirty am! I remember when that meant last call. I was tempted to reach for a beer in the very back of the fridge, but saw the sought after pink bottle sitting on the kitchen counter.

"Ok sweetie, pull your pants down," I instructed as I came back in and reached for the light.

"Don't turn on the light!" he whined.

Putting Calamine on a three-year-old's testicles in the dark while holding a pissed off one-year-old is not easy.

"You're spilling!" he cried.

Deal with it kid. "It's okay, that will make it feel extra better."

"No it won't!"

Back to the reassuring voice. “Do you need to go potty?” I’ve got to get ahead of the game.

"Yes," he said, sniffling. "But don't turn on the light!"
Normally I wouldn’t trust Mr. Three to pee in the dark, but I was tired and I knew Selma was coming to clean in the morning. Another reason I have to get up early.

I got everyone back in bed. More nursing. More throbbing. More deep breaths.

I needed to put everything in perspective. Worrying about a good night’s sleep is actually a luxury. I’m sure mothers in Iraq have much weightier concerns. For that matter, mothers on the other side of town have much weightier concerns—some of my clients have four, five, six or more kids they are raising on their own with just a SSI check. Get over it.

I heard a whisper, "Mommy...MOMMY...rub my back..."

Why didn't I Ferberize these children? Why am I still breastfeeding? What is wrong with me?

Satchel went back to sleep with minimal rubbing, but Jiro was still awake despite having access to the all night titty bar. I was ready to tear off my nipples and throw them across the room. When do I get to say “goodnight” and have the boys scamper off to their bedrooms, not to be seen again until morning?

Jiro, aware that he had center stage again, crawled on top of me and happily bounced up and down on my bladder. As mad as I was, I couldn’t help laughing. With his newly shaved head (don’t ask) and his big grin, he looked like a giant infant. How about some Orajel?

I took him to the back bedroom where he and I sleep when my husband is in town. Sometimes just a change of scenery will calm him down. I tried my best to rub the magic salve on his gums. He did not like this. I tried snuggling him, but he didn't like that either. Our bed is strategically placed in the corner, so I pretty much had him trapped. Ok scream then. I'm going to sleep.

I rolled over and he screamed his lungs out for about two minutes. Then he grabbed his blankie and thrust his body toward mine and got very still. I readjusted a bit to give my ass a break and then he sat up, alert, like he was just humoring me. I pressed the indiglo button on my watch: 3:45am. Oh my god.

I wanted to cry. So I did. Right along with Jiro. Five minutes later we both fell asleep. Moments later Satchel came running in the room with his blankie. "Mommy..."

"Get in," I whispered.

Now the three of use were snuggled up together in the double bed, while the king-sized bed sat empty in the other room. I was pinned down with one boy in the crook of each arm. Screw it, we’ll just sleep in.

And we did.

All the way to 7:00am when my husband called six times on two different phones to let me know he was on his way home.

Mid-Century Modern Mom

Mid-Century Modern Mom
China Martens


I work in a fairly expensive, up-scale Antique Store on the Avenue. So many young couples come in with babies that one day it was a running joke: “Eleanor loves antiques,” said one couple. So I said to the next, “Yes, the babies do love antique shopping,” and we all laughed.

From behind the counter I view families in all stages. I watch the infants sleeping in strollers so the moms can run upstairs for a moment; entertain my friend’s 3-year-old daughter (who doesn’t know me but places her tiny hand in mine with such heartbreaking trust) to walk around the store and pet the zebra statue which she names “Medium Sparkle”; and measure furniture with a boy of four. I measure him as well! The boy was quite interested in looking around and talking about what he saw. When the family leaves the dad says, “Thanks for being nice to the little guy.” I say, “Oh I like kids.” But I didn’t tell him that I am a mom too.

We mothers of teens are invisible—no scarlet letter of a child’s hand upon our breasts. Mothers (with small children) who are close to me in age look at me as if I am a girl who doesn’t “know,” or perhaps just a childless woman. They speak of breastfeeding, rocking chairs, and their hampered abilities to walk around the store. But I am a mother too! A mother more than they are or at least just for longer. A mother of great sorrow.

I work on the weekends because I no longer have to worry about things like childcare. I have a very sensible 16-year-old daughter who can take care of herself. At least I used to. A month ago she came home past midnight after she woke up from being passed out drunk in a playground where her new friends left her. I grounded her because she wanted me to ground her. I gave her a curfew because she asked me for a curfew. But every weekend she still goes out and doesn’t leave a note. She does what she pleases. I gave up punishing her for it. A year ago when she didn’t come home after school and it got dark, I called the police for the first time in my life and feared she was dead or harmed. Now I go to sleep used to it.

It’s a change in me, in her, that still shocks me. It feels like the twilight zone. I’m too tired you see. I don’t know what to do. I am talking to her, feeling things out, and considering what to do. I try to calm down and not freak out. This is what teenagers do. Then I worry I am no good at disciplining her and that her life will be ruined because of it. Sure most teenagers come out ok. But some don’t. The time I worried she was dead, I also feared she’d gotten hit by a car. My neighbor’s 12-year-old grandchild was struck and killed on our busy intersection earlier that month. Things do happen.

So I go to work, as my child does whatever she wants to for the weekend. Which used to be watching too much television. And people mistake me for being college-aged. I’m not what I appear to be I smile like Mona Lisa. I am not in my early twenties, or my late twenties, I am 38. My secret: It’s genetics. I have some very good genes. I am thin and have a high voice and like to laugh. I can’t figure it out to tell you the truth – why everyone thinks I am so young. Is it considered young to have a baby just before you turn 22? I wasn’t a teen mother like people think I must have been.

I look in the mirror and see the bags under my eyes, even honest to goodness age spots on my skin. I should feel flattered I suppose, but I feel belittled somehow. I am a woman. I have a dependent. You think I am waiting on you, you with your problems, your child in college (oh what it’s costing me!) as you buy antiques—that I’m young and single. But no, it makes it a little different for me to be making eight dollars an hour, to have already been in college, and to have a teenage daughter I worry about putting through college, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s less charming?

Often I sigh. I watch the two parent families that I like with a kind of hunger.
Sweet young things. They don’t seem to be struggling like I have struggled. This one mama looks like a fresh-faced Natasha Kinski, a European Snow White—with such laughter in her eyes. She asks me for a better price on a silver tray – “But that it is not, after all, so necessary. I am not asking you for the price of a loaf of bread – that my child will starve without.” Now she seems Russian. Appealing. I look back at her young husband holding their child, the baby has laughing eyes like its mother—and continue the joke with her, how she is using her infant to get deals. “Baby needs a silver tray,” I say.

We continue with our purchase banter as her husband tells me how they started to have a collection of roosters in their kitchen and how this store is like an Old World market. The mama goes back to the laughing infant who reaches out to her—she gives her an open-mouthed kiss. It is strange, luxurious, yet like a private joke—a tiny one who must be putting her drooling humming mouth on all the surfaces around her, testing them out. Easy this affection. Then the mother rises up from her domestic setting and floats back to me, where I do give her a better price for the platter.

But what do I know? Romanticizing one moment is easy to do. But I have seen so many young families and it’s mostly like this. They seem tired but tired together, centered on their own importance. Only sometimes do I see the solitary mothers I am familiar with, tired but trying to smile, pulled to stretching soon to tear. “We must leave now. Little hands don’t touch.” (Antique stores make most parents nervous after all.)

I get so surprisingly sentimental these days. And it’s not like I forgot what it was like. My daughter had colic until she was 8-months-old. I remember thinking, Once she outgrows this, it will all be good from then on. These parents think it’s hard now—do you know what babies turn into?! Adult-sized children who eat as much as you, have more expensive clothing needs (that leave you wearing the same clothes year after year—it is more important to keep one’s teen in style after all), still demanding but rejecting at the same time and not very cuddly anymore. Sometimes, I can see my young daughter in my mind’s eye—her exuberant, ebullient face looking to me for affection. I wish I could go back in time and hug her.

Instead I try to love the daughter I have now who greets me with stiff polite hugs when pressed. I wish I could be more positive and encouraging to her. But she drives me crazy. I wish I could feel more positive and encouraging about motherhood, but unlike having an 8-to-ten-year-old, growing independence is not matched with correlating pride on the subject. My daughter smokes, wants to drop out of school, and calls me a bitch when the mood strikes. She pulled her very best cutest baby pictures out of our photo albums to show her friends then left them in a pile by the telephone where she also sat a bowl of Jell-O which melted (after a day) and spilled into the pile leaving them stuck together, ruined. Is this the behavior you imagine out of your child when you imagine a future where every glass of liquid is no longer spilled?

Would you imagine that the best way to get enemies closest to you would be to create them? That this family drama would happen to you? Teenage daughters are thieves; you grow used to it. Just sometimes when looking for a thong so you could wear your fancy pants as you run off to work you wish, Oh damn, my daughter wouldn’t steal my best underwear, deny it, and it’s lost for good. You remember the time you found your best white cotton sheets (which had been missing for months) curled up in her bedroom, hidden from you because they were utterly stained with her menstrual blood. Are these rites of passage?

And the thing is, you are so concerned with how you have failed them, with being good to them, that it hits you so slowly as you cringe under a torrent of abuse—they have double standards. They go in your room but you’re not allowed in their’s. You try to hold your tongue for you know how ugly fights can get, you simply can’t win, but somehow you still wind up saying things you feel bad about in addition to feeling bad about the things they said to you. You have to be the bigger person after all. But is it fair to have these expectations of Mom? You can always be your worst to her and she will still love you? Are you your worst to her because she loves you the best?

The thing about raising children is they change so fast, they change just when you get used to them. Always growing on the edge it seems a bit dangerous, like one fall or spill could cost too much, cost everything. How much to let go? How much to hold on? How much can you control?

Today I came home and my daughter was cooking a special dinner for us. My daughter is a really good cook like my grandmother. She has the touch. I go upstairs and write. Later I eat the delicious dinner my daughter has prepared, watch television and laugh with her on the sofa. Enjoy this too, I tell myself.

Teenagers are inconsistent. Like Ariel Gore said, “Teenagers make horrible roommates.” It tries my patience (tests where I often fail) but I guess increases my humanity. I will regret sounding too negative, or too positive, as the tables will always be turned. I guess in the end I have to believe in her, believe in me, and believe in life. What is the alternative?

There have been times I have thought I am going to make it as a woman even if I don't make it as a mother and I felt bad to be so selfish. It’s too much work to control my daughter, to worry all the time about her. I just do what I can do, when I can do it. Sometimes she hates me. Sometimes, like the other day, she tells me she is sorry she worries me and that she loves me very much and that I am good mom. We talk out new boundaries on curfew. Ten p.m. we agree. We talk and discuss issues. I can't just war with her, draw a line in the sand and fight over it.

Sometimes I see who the mothers of teens are. They walk in with their girls and they look like sisters. I check out the mama’s ass and wonder if mine is as nice. It’s good to see a woman still holding up with the test of time. Sometimes I am met with understanding when I reveal my maternal status and the two of us come out from being (socially) undercover mothers. “It will pass. We could have killed each other and never felt guilty. Now she hugs me. We are best friends,” confides one mother of a 22-year-old. It is less frequent for the mother of teenagers, but mamas still pass the words of wisdom down the line when they find each other out in the world.

I had an especially long conversation with a mother similar to myself on a slow day in the shop. She was a single mother of two children, with hippie ideals living the working poor lifestyle, worried for her unruly ("He used to be such a loving and gentle child") and unsupervised 14-year-old son in their bad neighborhood. After picking her brain about her 21-year-old daughter (who had never hated her as a teen or brought discord to the family, apparently), I didn't exactly feel a lot more hopeful for the future, but somehow I felt at peace. I realized I had been too exposed to parents who put things in perspective by equating the purchase of an expensive (and unnecessary) chair made from Texas Longhorns with a month’s tuition of private school.

Perhaps my daughter wouldn't be hosting tea parties at Saint Johns College (like a mother told me as she bought a fine Hungarian tea cup) but perhaps she wouldn't be working at Hooters with me wishing she would go back to working the night shift at UPS and that she would pursue her neglected talents either. I realized that a lot of what I had been worrying about just didn't matter; that the future would never be more tidy and settled than the present. As long as my daughter was growing—busy in her creative interests, stimulating her mind by challenging herself, and fully living out all she had within her—things would be all right. There are more important things than external trappings.

Anyway, my daughter is already changing again.