NYC Moms

An Urban Green Thumb

My family and I are squeezing into a one-bedroom apartment with a “nook” for our children.  Their cribs are so close together that I have to turn sideways to walk between the two.  Even my daughter is beginning to be too wide to fit into that small space.  Some parents have bought crib tents for their children to prevent them from climbing out of the crib.  My kids would only be able to climb into another crib with their sibling.  Not so appealing. My family continues to ask me what and when our next move will be.  

One of the major selling points when I purchased the apartment was the outdoor space, a real anomaly in Manhattan.  In the beginning we used the space mainly as a bathroom for our dog.  I was not ready to walk him with a newborn every time he needed to go out so I opened the door. 

Despite buying patio furniture, a BBQ, and a little plastic slide, my family and I rarely used the backyard.  It showed off great to guests, especially with the white Christmas tree lights around the back door, but… for six months the neighbor’s construction made our space a dusty and noisy.  And I’m a creature of habit.  I’d go outside and be disappointed that our plants had not survived, or the upstairs neighbors dropped their cigarette butts, or the dog chewed the corner of the chaise.

The Disciplinarian

I’m not a good disciplinarian.  I try not to make empty threats and maintain my authority but the chasm between theory and practically is at times insurmountable for an exhausted mother of two. 

My pediatrician suggested I start giving my fifteen-month-old time outs.  “But he’s perfect,” my husband said oblivious to the times that he climbs on my lap and bangs the keyboard distorting the computer screen.  The doctor said it was about teaching him to respect me when I say No and teach him to handle disappointment therefore I should give the little guy time outs in the crib.  According to the medical professional there is no fear of creating a negative association with the crib.  Nonetheless, a flight of slippery stairs separate our living area from the bedrooms, so a time-out for my toddler punishes me as well.  Instead I threaten the time-out, which has actually worked or put the little guy in the stroller.  Usually he climbs out except for the time that he was tired and content, especially when his sister pushed him around.  

Humor in the Sorrow

The other day the local Lexus dealer called my mom’s house.  According to its records her lease was due to expire.  I explained how my mom passed away and Toyota Financial has insisted we buy the automobile for the total value of the lease and previously agreed upon buyout price.  I did not ask why the dealer did not offer my mom, a woman with self-proclaimed Stage VIII cancer a.k.a. two stage IVs the death insurance option when she signed the lease nor did I discuss how Toyota was so unwilling to negotiate the buyout price when other creditors were. 

 

“You bought the car?” the dealer asked.

 “Yes, I had to.”

 "So it all worked out.”

 “Except for the fact that she died.”  I smiled subversively. 

Mom Envy

On Friday my mother-in-law came to town and despite my husband’s promises that she will be a big help, I spent the day entertaining her.  We visited my sister-in-law who had her mother babysitting in the morning and I developed a pang in my side.

It’s not as if my mom ever babysat my daughter at eight months old, even if I cajoled her.  She was thrilled to be with my and my daughter, but a solo supervising situation was never on her to-do list.  But still, seeing my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law’s mother, I had mom envy. 

Birthday Party Protocol

Going though the pile of mail, I found something buried between the solicitations, bills and magazines: a hand written card with an unrecognizable return address.  One of my daughter’s classmates invited us to his third birthday party.  I’m excited not because I felt a special affinity towards his parents who I’ve only met a handful of times – they never made much of an impression on me, or because it is being held at a fancy locale – it isn’t, or because I haven’t been to a three-year-old’s party – we have, but because it feels like a rite of passage.  Being invited to party by a family I barely know is the stuff that Jerry Seinfeld jokes about, or other bloggers here comment on, and now I am a part of it.  

I’m sure once every child in the class has a party and feels obliged to invite all of the other classmates or once my child is enrolled with more than five students I will feel differently. But now, I’m excited and slightly curious about the protocol. 

(Re) Gifting for a Newborn

My older successful cousin recently welcomed his fifth son.  Being that he was not particularly generous with my kids or thank you notes I did not feel any pressure to necessarily send a present, but a new baby is so much fun.  And buying and sending and receiving presents for a little baby is fun.

So I found myself in the aisles of Buy Buy Baby trying to find the perfect $25 present that looks like a $35 present to fit in a Priority Mail envelope.

I imagine by their third son they had amassed enough toys to open an outpost of FAO Schwarz, more books than my daughter’s preschool, and plenty of clothes to directly support the children’s center at the Salvation Army thrift shop. 

To Wash or Not to Wash

I was ten years old when my mom told me to bring her friend to the bathroom so we could both wash our hands before dinner.  No, this is not a revelation of abuse but rather a memory of revealing a secret of mine.  “I don’t use soap, I just run my hands under the water,” I said.  The response wasn’t a secret smile or an admonishment, rather a statement that he would use soap. 

 How many people truly wash their hands after every bathroom visit? In a random polling, especially in the presence of one’s contemporaries, I’m sure at least 88% would admit to washing with soap and water after every flush.  Install a secret camera in the bathroom and the answer must be a lot less.  When I go to the bathroom at the gym before working out, I debate whether I’ll have to walk by the sink and wash my hands.  The answer is often contingent on the presence of other people. 

Do pregnant women who have to pee every fifteen minutes really spend two minutes washing their hands? Many bathroom trips the hand does not come in to contact with any excretions.  I know if my sleep is interrupted for an emergency tinkle session, I’m not scrubbing my hands long enough to recite the ABCs before going back to bed.  I’m just not. 

What to do with all of the artwork?

The other day my daughter ran out of her preschool classroom handing me a piece of red construction with a little fringe made during “safe scissor time” and some red circles.  “Here Mommy,” she gleamed.  I followed with the requisite oohs and aahs but then a piece of the paper that had been cut tore off.

My daughter made the rounds of showing the torn shred of paper to me and her teachers.  When I explained I couldn’t fix it she insisted I hold it, so the paper found its way to the recycling bin.   My daughter followed suit, stuffing the rest of her art work into the bin.  While I protested when she was contorting the paper to slide into the narrow slot, I was admittedly relieved not to bring home yet another project.

Ill-Prepared, Again

Many Manhattan families have one nanny per a child.  “It helps with the scheduling,” they reason.  I do not.  I have one nanny for two children and I still cringe at the word nanny.  It sounds so privileged and as a harried mother of two working sporadically at home, I don’t feel privileged.  Logistically, I’d much rather have a massage at the gym instead of paying my nanny to watch the kids.  While I don’t divert the funds to the masseuse, I still ensure that I have at least one day a week without help. Usually a day with lots of activities scheduled.  

Please Leave a Message After the Tone

When call waiting first appeared, the telephone company offered the service for free for two months.  We had all seen the commercials on television indicating how easy it was to click the flash button to switch calls but I remember how excited I was to hear that initial beep.  “I have a beep,” I squealed to my mom.  “What do I do?”  She walked me through the single step just as I had two days earlier when she heard her first call waiting beep. 

Every subsequent call waiting beep was answered without any guidance.  Yet, I’m still amazed at how many answering machines still leave directions for callers.  Is the “please wait for the tone” absolutely necessary?  Even my two year old toddler knows to wait for the tone before leaving a message.  Yet so many voicemails have that greeting.