NYC Moms

Don't Get Mad. Get A Blog?

The other day I went on to my Facebook account and changed a privacy setting on just one "friend."  I clicked the option to NOT let that person see any links or updates that I post on my wall.  Why?  Because I really wanted to write about them and I needed the space to do it without fearing for the fallout.  Now this person is not a true friend in real life but they are more than an acquaintance; someone whose life intersects with mine for a couple of reasons but none of them of my choosing exactly.  I wasn't going to name names, but the situation I wanted to write about had enraged me and they were a central figure, and to explain the background of my frustration would make it patently clear to anyone involved exactly what and about whom I was angry.

 My husband thought this was a terrible idea.  He felt I shouldn't write about it at all because it was stirring a pot that was already boiling over.  And in the end I didn't write about it because it blew over in real life, and it worked out the way I had hoped anyway.  But still, I couldn't help and think what am I blogging for if not to write about the personal?   For me writing has always been about getting "it" out - whatever that "it" may be.  What I realized though is that my blogging self is much more cautious and self-aware than my normal writing self.  When my kitchen appliances by a major brand failed and basically fell apart I tweeted my disappointment, but I never railed against the company by name in a blog post. (And honestly, after their completely lackluster response I probably will take them to task because now they deserve it)

What's In Your Friend's Grocery Cart?

When I head to the grocery store I have a few lists - my mental list, my husband's written down list of things he's noticed we need, and lastly my subconscious list that gets triggered as I walk the aisles (or depending on how hungry and/or PMS I am the evil list that somehow throws the Mallomars into my cart).  My cart more or less always looks the same, filled with the basics that make up our family's diet.  It never occurred to me that these items were unique, interesting or in any way different than anyone else's.  But, a while back I went to Costco with a friend I don't usually shop with and she looked in my cart and said, "Wow, we have totally different carts.  I would never buy any of that stuff."  I looked in her cart and thought pretty much the same thing.

There we were - two very good friends, with fairly identical parenting approaches, the same political views, the same family backgrounds, even similar husbands and kids who adore each other, with two completely different grocery carts.  How different could they be?  Well, I've written before about my disdain for prepackaged, portioned snack food.  My friend is the queen of those items - it's one of those short cuts that make her life easier so it makes sense for her.  She's a big Vitamin Water drinker.  Me, not so much.  I am a vegetarian (though I eat fish so technically I'm a pescetarian).  So, my cart was full of clams and sardines for various pasta sauces, frozen wild salmon and shrimp and lobster salad.  Hers was full of chicken nuggets, canned pasta and soup.  We joke that my daughter is a fruititarian so I had enough fruit to open a farm stand.  She had applesauce and fruit snacks.  She likes one brand of turkey and yogurt; I like another.  Ditto for toilet paper, paper towels and bread.  I need dark chocolate and good balsamic vinegar in my pantry at all times.  She needs baby carrots and multi-grain chips and salsa.  

The Seven-Year Redecorating Itch

When we moved into our apartment seven and half years ago it was in "estate condition."  This is New York Real Estate lingo for absolute disaster.  It was a sponsor apartment meaning even though the building had gone Co-Op in the 1980s some tenants remained renters and the landlord just waited until they died or moved until he could sell the apartment.  So in we walked to an apartment with 80 years of lead paint, linoleum layers upon linoleum layers, fake wood paneling and a kitchen and bathroom that hadn't been touched (or cleaned) in about 30 years.  We were young, had twin 4 month old babies, and knew that this was the best apartment we could afford - and that we even lucked into - this being Manhattan and all.  So we put in our Ikea kitchen, a new bathroom and the best floor refinishing and paint job we could afford after spending most of our savings on a down payment.

My Seven-Year Old Does Not Need a Bra, Thank You Very Much

My daughters hate labels.  I don’t mean they hate the “name” brands, I mean they actually hate the fabric labels inside of clothes.  They tend to itch and rub.  They also hate seams, appliqués and embroidery that can be felt on the inside.  In other words, I have to touch everything I buy for them from the inside out.  They inherited this from me no doubt since I have an aversion to all stiff and rough material and have the kind of skin that is easily irritated.  So now that my daughters have gone through yet another growth spurt I found myself heading out to replenish all the basics in their wardrobe with the simple requirement in my mind – no secret agitators allowed.

At first this directive seems simple enough: avoid the graphic laden clothing, stay away from shirring and smocking and hard sewn on images.  But while shopping in Old Navy I encountered something even more insidious, something I never expected in the little girls section – a shelf bra.  I picked up a cute little tank top and there it was, a slab of extra material with a strip of elastic across the ribcage.  All I could think was why?  Why on earth would a seven year old (or 5 or 6 year old since those had them too) need a shelf bra?

 This new inclusion of a shelf bra wasn’t just confined to Old Navy. 

First Sign of Spring - Vomit!

The trees are budding, the robins are returning and the hats and gloves have come off.  But, that is not how I know it's spring.  How do I know the weather has turned for the better?  I spent all day Sunday throwing up!  When I picked up my daughters from school two days ago a little girl was heaving up her lunch on the sidewalk.  Three of my friends' kids have now spent their requisite 24 hours unable to keep anything down.  Ah yes, spring has sprung.

After spending an entire fall and winter in a flurry of Swine flu vaccinations and hand sanitizer pumping I forgot about the dreaded stomach bug that wafts into New York City on the first stirring of warm air.  Why?  I'm sure there is some scientific reason for the change over from respiratory to gastrointestinal viruses but I don't think it matters.  All I know is that now that I've been a parent for almost 8 years this spring stomach bug is a more clear indicator of the change in seasons than the groundhog. 

I am one of THOSE PTA moms - and Proud of It!

In the last few months I've read several blog posts railing against the PTA moms at various schools.  The complaints are usually the same - they're overbearing and pushy, busy bodies trying to vie for the principal or teacher's attention, do-gooders who get off on making the rest of the parents feel bad.  Yeah, yeah.  I get it.  At my very first Parents' Association (PA) meeting at my daughter's private preschool I actually raised my hand and told the PA President that I thought she was condescending and wrong when she made a derisive comment about how no one gave enough to the school and not to count on scholarship parents for anything.  That led to quite the nasty back and forth, and needless to say confirmed all my worst fears about those kinds of groups - and let's be honest, those kinds of moms.

However, a year later, I was roped into co-chairing the school auction.  It was an ungodly amount of work, but in the end it was hugely rewarding when we raised more money for the scholarship fund than ever before.  When my daughters started public school in Kindergarten there was no doubt in my mind that I would be involved.  I didn't exactly know how, but I felt so lucky to have gotten in this school that wasn't our zoned school that giving back and ensuring the school's success was a given. 

You Call This a Playdate?

Here's the thing about the word playdate, sometimes the "play" part goes well, and sometimes, well, it just feels like a date.  An awkward, stressful, when-will-this-afternoon end date.  In the toddler years it's usually a double date with the stranger mom or nanny in tow and then you have to make conversation, which in New York City usually centers around the awful school process, the teachers at your current school, or the kid who still isn't potty trained or picks his nose and wipes it on other kids. 

Thankfully, my daughters are almost eight years old so we are now in the drop off playdate stage.  These playdates have their own set of expectations.  I used to know what these rules were - give a snack to stave off any hunger related meltdowns, keep the playdate to an hour and a half maximum, and basically leave the girls alone with a bin full of Polly Pockets.  But, this year something changed.  This year everyone got a Wii.  And somehow, I have no idea when, the Wii went from a playdate taboo to a playdate must. 

Flying the (Not) Family-Friendly Skies

Of all the ways your life changes when you have kids none is more drastic than the way you travel.  Gone are the days of a small carry-on with a book, an ipod and some trashy magazines.  Suddenly your carry on is like Mary Poppins carpet bag - full of snacks (both salty and sweet), stickers, markers, DVD players, DVDs, coloring books, activity books and depending on the age of your kids, diapers, change of clothes, wipes, ear drops, maybe some pajamas and even a change of clothes for yourself (yes I learned the hard way that mishaps on the plane tend to land in my lap, or down the front of my shirt).    Early on when my twin daughters were just babies we were like a small army going off to war as we marched down the jetway.  Two strollers that we could fold in 5 second flat, two car seats unlatched and ready to load, and an industrial sized diaper bag that just barely fit in the overhead. 

Luckily for me my daughters are long past the nightmare travel age.  They wheel on their own small carry-on bags filled with but a few key possessions - a DS, an ipod, a treasured toy and a book.  But, I remember well those days when every passenger on the plane eyed us with dread as we boarded and made our way down the aisle.  You could see them secretly praying, please don't sit near me, please, please. 

Can a Television Be a Member of the Family?

For the last five years my husband and I have researched TVs. Our steadfast and true 27" picture tube set sat like a big ol' lazy uncle on it's stand and delivered perfectly fine viewing as far as we were concerned.  But, we had the itch.  The flat screen bigger-than-your-kitchen-table TV itch.  One by one our friends and families turned in their old model TVs for sleek and ever bigger sets.  But we held out, year after year, watching prices fall and new models come out, and not quite ready to splurge on something out of pure decadence.  After all, our TV worked perfectly fine.

Then this month something happened.  My husband was home sick and intoxicated by the endless promises of Black Friday sales, of the incessant ads and reviews on the web of all the TVs that were passing us by.   For the first time ever he didn't just browse Amazon and Best Buy and cnet reading the reviews and saying, "what if?" but instead he made an Excel spreadsheet with all of the options.  Now, I knew he was serious.  If my husband could make a spreadsheet for every moment of his life he would.  Once it's on the spreadsheet it's real, it's tangible, it's going to happen.

And so it did.  We bit the bullet and bought a 50" Samsung TV.  My husband came home from work to be here when the delivery guys arrived.  They set it up, plugged everything in, and left.  A calm fell over the apartment.  And I hate to admit it, but we turned on the TV and just sat down to look at it in awe.  It changed our entire living room - we both looked at each other and realized that the TV was nicer than any other piece of furniture in the room.  The TV practically demands a room make over.  Did I feel bad for the sad blob of a TV that now sat on the floor awaiting removal by our Super?  No.  It had been replaced by a much younger, thinner and sexier model, and quite frankly it was time. 

Real Moms Never Pay Retail

I grew up in Brooklyn way before hipster boutiques and cute home furnishings stores dotted the avenues.  Back in the 70's and 80's Brooklyn shopping was synonymous with one word - BARGAIN.  And finding those deals was a sport for my mom, brought to new highs when my grandmother visited from Michigan and the two of them piled us into the Volvo station wagon and headed into the depths of Brooklyn to the major discount emporiums like Century 21 and Aarons.  Stores with salesladies who wore heavy false eyelashes and would eye you up and down in the communal dressing room with a discerning Tim Gunn eye.  This was before the widespread prevalence of nationwide discounters like Marshalls and TJ Maxx, back when if you wanted to go to Loehmanns you hauled yourself up to the Bronx, not the nearest mall.

As if all of this bargain hunting wasn't already in my genes I had an aunt who worked as an advertising and marketing executive at various major department stores (we're talking Marshall Fields and Bergdorf Goodman).  So we enjoyed a family discount that made Neiman Marcus as affordable as Target.  Really.  As fun as this was it can really warp your perception of what things do - or at least should - cost.  After a childhood filled with heavily discounted designer clothing I find myself unwilling to pay retail for most anything - most of all my kids' clothes.