Stinky Feet

There is just no nice way to say it: my babies have stinky feet.

My older kid, the 3 1/2-year old Juban Princeling, has grown out of it, but I remember how bad his feet smelled as a baby. And now my younger kid, the 5-month old Duke of Juban, has the same stinky feet.

I don't understand it. It's not like the baby puts on his old sneakers and goes for a jog. He doesn't play in mud, and as far as I know he isn't friends with any skunks. I don't let him play in garbage. He doesn't even sit up yet, much less stand, much less walk, much less walk around all day in stinky shoes.

The irony is that the Princeling does wear shoes all day, sometimes old sneakers with no socks, but his feet smell fine. Well, maybe not fine, but they certainly don't smell like cat diarrhea anymore.

And yet.

The Juban Princeling's dirty feet, circa July 2009. At least
these feet had a reason for being stinky.

When I give him a bath - which he has finally come to terms with (Mommy-1, Baby-0) - I wash between his toes and scrub his little feet. Then, without putting lotion or socks or ANYthing on his feet, a few minutes later they stink like a homeless person stuffed Camembert cheese in his armpits.

How is this even possible?

My theories:

• If babies' heads smell so good, then the law of balance dictates they have stinky feet
• The Duke is making cheese with his feet in his crib (unlikely, since I have a video monitor and can see him when he's sleeping) (unless we're talking about a "Speed"-like trick here?)
• Ghost Mommy is soaking his feet in turpentine and sour milk during his naps
• The MTA has found a way to bottle that special New York subway station smell and has filled invisible baby shoes with it and put those shoes on my baby the last time we were on the subway
• That one time we took him to New Jersey stuck to him, but only his feet
• He's found a way to vomit via his toes
• It's a defense mechanism to keep me from eating up his yummy chubby little baby feets and toesies

Ideas? Advice? Commiseration?

Angelfish

My husband and I do not consider ourselves helicopter parents. We're too lazy for that. If a reality show were to spontaneously appear in our home, my soundbite would be, "Get off your ass and get it yourself." 


And yes, I do speak to my 3 1/2-year old, the Juban Princeling, that way, and no, I don't care what you think about that.


Even if we wanted to be helicopter parents, he wouldn't let us. The Princeling is so independent-minded he would have gotten his own apartment when we brought him home from the hospital if he didn't absolutely need us to change his diapers and feed him. And even then we suspect he was just humoring us.


We're fine with that. We're not the type of parents to encourage our kids to depend on us because it's just so sweet and we need to be needed or something like that. We love our children, and we love them more when they do shit themselves and leave us alone.


So I signed the Princeling up for swim classes every Saturday this summer. Because knowing how to swim is important, especially for us, because we're from Florida and my parents have a pool and my mother-in-law's condo development has a pool and my husband and I would rather splash about than hold our children so they don't drown.


We had the choice of signing up for one of three levels of "Angelfish" classes: Angelfish Plus, for 3-5 year olds who can swim without an adult; Angelfish, for 3-5 year olds who can't swim but can go in the water without a parent or guardian (...I don't know, either, so don't ask me); and Angelfish with Caregiver, for 3-5 year olds with their parent or guardian. I let the Princeling choose which one he wanted, and to my utter shock he said he wanted me in the water with him. 


Oh, yay. Because if there's one thing a 36-year old mother of two, with hypothyroidism, who has had three major abdominal surgeries in the past three years, wants, it is to wear a bathing suit in public.


But I love my son. Angelfish with Caregiver it was.

Photo by Heinz Albers

(Note to the mom in the class after us: just because you have the body for it does not make it appropriate to wear a skimpy string bikini to your child's swim class. Save that shit for "MILFs Gone Wild" or whatever.)

For class, the kids have to wear a floatation device that sort of makes them look like tiny Transformers. I think this is because the instructors realize they are in Park Slope and probably most of us parents are too drunk at 11am on a Saturday morning to keep our kids' heads above water for half an hour.

Despite having part of Optimus Prime strapped to his back, at his first lesson the Princeling would bob under water every time I let him go, sputtering back up and grasping for me with this look on his face that can only be described as a combination of terror and amazement. (AKA "Roller Coaster Face.")

At his second lesson we did something called floating airplanes, and somehow the Princeling actually managed to hold still and be a kick-ass floating airplane. And I told him so. He was the best damn floating airplane in the 11am Saturday Angelfish with Caregiver class, y'all. I'm not saying he's the next Michael Phelps...but I bet Michael Phelps didn't suck at floating airplane, you know?

Then we played a game where the parents had to keep throwing little rubber duckies ahead of our kids and let the kids do their "reach and pulls" to "swim" to them. And I held tight to the Princeling while he did his reach and pulls and kicked me under water. Finally he turned around and said, "Mommy! Let! Me! Go!"


And I protested, because, sputtering and grasping. But he fought me and pushed at me until I had no choice but to let him go.


And he swam.


Not well, and not far. But he swam. My little angelfish. 


All I had to do was let go.

Ghost Mommy

My 3 1/2-month old baby, the Duke of Juban, has a Ghost Mommy.


I don't really believe in ghosts. When I told my Harry Potter Wife a few years ago that I want to do a "haunted castles of Europe" tour for our honeymoon, it was with the idea (at least on my part) that we'd get a good laugh. I believe in creaky floorboards, howling winds, and overactive imaginations, but I don't believe in ghosts.


I also don't believe in angels, or guardian angels, or things like that. I'm a sort of Buddhist/Jewish/non-theist/none of your damn business. (A non-theist is not the same as an atheist. But, again, none of your damn business.)


Still. I freely admit I could be wrong about pretty much everything in life, including the existence or not of ghosts and angels. 


And I think the Duke might have a Ghost Mommy, or guardian angel, or something.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little star..."
By Gallowglass (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0
(http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Yesterday morning the husband told me he heard the Duke chatting to himself - not crying, but chatting happily in that cute baby way - around 5am, roughly two hours before he wakes up for the day. (Yes, we do know how lucky we are, not to rub it in or anything.) When he flicked on the video monitor he saw the Duke chatting and staring at something OR SOMEONE! outside his crib, which is highly unusual since the Duke usually sleeps (and dream chats) facing the wall. He's a baby, and babies like walls. At least, my babies like walls. My older child, the now 3 1/2-year old Juban Princeling, had an entire relationship with a brick wall in the apartment we lived in when he was born, two moves ago. So when we watch the Duke on the video monitor in a totally non-creepy or helicopter way, we've noticed he generally favors the wall next to his crib and not the entire rest of his room, including the corner with the monkey nightlight. Who needs a monkey nightlight when you have a bare wall? Certainly not MY son! Monkey nightlights are for assholes, not for the youngest child of Brooklyn's favorite wino!


So when my husband saw the Duke cooing happily with the air, that was strange enough. 


Stranger, still, was my husband swearing he heard a woman humming to the Duke, and the Duke going quietly back to sleep.


Now, I've gone over before how no one has their best brains on in the wee hours of the morn, and my wonderful husband is no exception. We live in an apartment in New York City - the humming could have been anything.


INCLUDING THE HUMMING OF A GHOST MOMMY PUTTING MY BABY BACK TO SLEEP.


Why not?


Later that same day I left the Duke happily napping in his room, with the door closed, when I took the Princeling and his friend downstairs to play. YES, I TOOK THE VIDEO MONITOR, STOP NAGGING ME YOU JUDGEY MCJUDGERSONS. I didn't hear anything on the monitor, but when I checked it I noticed the Duke was awake. Awake and happy and quiet. We went upstairs...and his door was open. I didn't open it. No one else was home.


Since there is no way even the most gifted of 3 1/2-month olds (of which mine certainly qualifies) can climb out of their cribs, get to their bedrooms doors, open the doors, and then climb back into their cribs I have to assume it was Ghost Mommy.


Am I jealous? No. As any normal mother will tell you, every child needs at least four parents, maybe more. I would not mind a few extra parents living in my house, helping with the kids, not getting paid, and certainly not having sex with my husband. So if Ghost Mommy can soothe my baby at 5am and make him go back to sleep, and she forgets to shut the door every now and then, I can live with that. 


If she wants to change poopy diapers and watch both kids while I make a Tasti-D-Lite run, that would be cool, too. 


Do you believe in ghosts and/or guardian angels? Why or why not?

So It Will Make Us Mad

My brother, Mr. Funny, is pretty unflappable, generally speaking. He spent a chunk of time in college working at a store called Fairvilla (warning: link NSFW), which featured things like a people cage, medical-grade horse-size speculums, and something called "The Simian." 


So it takes a lot to shock him.


Something like hearing his sister say the following sentence:


"There was a part in the blood orgy that reminded me of my children."


Let me explain.


Saturday night I went with my husband and his brother, Gilligan, to "Sleep No More," which is probably one of the most awesome experiences of my life. It is, to paraphrase my cousin-in-law, like "MacBeth" on peyote.


An entire building in Chelsea was turned into the hotel set, and the actors go from room to room performing (very) loosely interpreted scenes from The Scottish Play. Guests are given creepy masks to wear, and are instructed to break off from their group and not to speak. At all. People who've been to "Sleep No More" have varying philosophies on how to do it best so that you see all the scenes and don't miss anything important, but honestly, even given the three hour window you have to wander around at will there is no humanly way to catch everything.

The Duke of Juban models the creepy "Sleep No More" mask.

So that's the situation I found myself in on Saturday night: Running silently around a dark, creepy hotel in a "Scream"-like mask, chasing actors covered in stage blood and getting grave dirt all over my feet. (Note to self: Don't wear open-toed shoes to "Sleep No More.")


Naturally there is a blood orgy. I mean, duh. How could there not be a blood orgy at something like this?


And part of the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. I won't say why, but if you've been to "Sleep No More" you know what I'm talking about and you know I'm not a pervert. Well, I probably am a pervert, but not because the blood orgy reminded me of my kids. In fact, I think I am the real victim here. Who wants to think about their precious little babies at a blood orgy?


Charles Manson might. But I am not Charles Manson. Not even a little bit.


Besides, my husband and I were paying a very nice young woman $12 an hour to think about our children for us. The last thing I wanted was to be reminded of them at all, but especially not during a blood orgy. Now, suddenly, I couldn't help but think of them.

The Juban Princeling in the popular "Sleep No More" mask/Darth Vader pajamas combo

One thought lead to another and before I knew it my maternal instinct told me the nice-seeming young woman watching our children was probably a Charles Manson-like pervert who was at this very moment kidnapping my babies and bringing them to a blood orgy. Which is how I wound up being one of the jerks at "Sleep No More" who hid in the stairwell to check my phone. 


As if a Charles Mason-like pervert is going to send me a text message saying, "Got your kids. Blood orgy. Be back by 11."


I tried to shake it off, but the baby carriages in the psych ward didn't exactly comfort me.


Anyone else get accidentally reminded of children, or other family members, during really inappropriate moments?

Real O'Clock: The Feminine Mystique

Every now and then here at the Grey Skies World Headquarters, we like to take it down a notch, from our usual wine-guzzling, Walking Dead-watching, geek con-going ways and get Real. If this were a rock concert, now would be the part where I sit atop a stool, mic in hand, spotlight on, and croon "Every Rose Has A Thorn" while swaying gently, like my depth and emotion are far too sincere to be contained by sitting still.

Get out your lighters (or cell phone screens), because it's about to get Real O'Clock all up in here.

Thanks to the magic of technology, I've actually spent the last three months reading books in addition to parenting two kids, one of whom requires my help for even the simplest of things like eating, moving from place to place, falling asleep, and holding his head up. We're working on all of that. I'm all about teaching my kids independence. For example, this year we let our 3 1/2-year old, the Juban Princeling, do his own taxes.


I read Tina Fey's hilarious and thoughtful autobiography, Bossy Pants, as well as a surprisingly excellent but completely depressing book called Soft Apocalypse by William McIntosh. (Don't read it if you have a weak stomach or are prone to nightmares or worry about the end of the world.)

My husband read The Feminine Mystique a few years ago because he's awesome, and thought that as a stay at home mom I would enjoy reading it myself. Because somehow in my 36-year old feminist life I haven't read it yet. I didn't take that many women's studies classes in college - maybe two. But I've never read that most famous of Second Wave manifestos, The Feminine Mystique.


And I don't think I will.


I started reading it a few weeks ago, but could not make it through chapter 2.


Here's why.


1. It's too relevant to my life.
Reading about mothers who share peanut butter sandwiches with their kids, or feel like they are on their feet running around all day yet accomplish very little, hit home for me in a hard way. On days that I don't write, or meet up with friends, or have a date night with my husband, it's easy to feel like I'm spinning my wheels, like my days are a carousel of dishes, bottles, diapers, dropping off, picking up, calming, soothing, and bathing. Thanks to our society's perpetual finger-wagging at mothers no matter what we do, I have days when I never stop beating myself up: if my kids are asleep, or away, I feel like I should be taking full advantage of that time to clean, or write, or run errands. When they are awake and home I feel like I should devote 100% of my attention to them. I want them to be independent, but I worry they get bored. I want them to be entertained and educated, but I worry they get overstimulated. I want to spend time playing with them, but I want them to learn how to keep themselves entertained. 


In other words, sometimes "mom" isn't enough for me. Clearly our Second Wave Feminist foremothers knew that.


2. It's too irrelevant to my life.
All that said, I do write, and I do have friends, and I do have date nights with my husband. I have a rich, full life outside my children. I am lucky enough to live in a privileged position where the choice to stay home is exactly that - my choice. Far too many mothers I know of either have to work to make ends meet, or have to stay home because of the high cost of child care - not all of us live near parents or siblings or friends who are able to watch our kids all day.


Unlike the women in The Feminine Mystique, I never felt forced to marry and have children. I never felt the strain of having to choose between having a career versus having a family. I went into stay at home motherhood with my eyes wide open, knowing exactly what I walked into, and knowing that it was 100% my choice. For every moment that I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, there are ten more where I cannot imagine life without my children and experience a depth of joy I didn't know was possible.


And had my husband been the type of man who clings to traditional gender roles and expected me to stay home to raise our children, or forced me to go back to work for the money, or did not do his share of the chores and child care when he's home, or did not respect my opinions and value conversations with me on issues both large and small, this would not be possible. 

The husband - then still just my boyfriend - and I,
Washington, DC, April 2004

3. I can appreciate the book and its impact without reading it.
I'm a writer and a reader, but I've never read Moby Dick and I probably never will. I've also never read many other books considered classics. I do not think this makes me either a bad reader or a bad writer. 


I'm a geek who doesn't play video games or read comic books.


I'm a Yankees fan who does not watch every single game. (Anymore.)


My husband is a good father without ever having babysat.


And I'm a feminist who never read The Feminine Mystique. I just don't think the reading of it, or not, should define my commitment to the cause of women's rights. 


I am not an unthinking woman who feels some nebulous oppression in her life but can't articulate why. My eyes are open. My mind is curious. My life is my own, made up of careful choices and a lot of luck, and I would not have things any other way.


Every day, whether consciously or like chatter in the background of my mind, I know I owe my plethora of choices to the fearless pioneers that came before me and dared to stand up and speak up for women's equality. I'm never not aware of this. And I'm never not grateful.


4. It feels too much like work, and I have other things to read.
I've never been much into non-fiction anyway. The little bit I read has to be entertaining and has to make me nod vigorously in agreement while I read it. Does This Pregnancy Make Me Look Fat? by my friend Claire Mysko was one of those books; so was Pema Chodron's The Wisdom of No Escape, and Reading Women by Stephanie Staal. When I tried to read The Feminine Mystique, I just couldn't relate enough, even trying to read it in the context of the middle class housewives of the 1950s and 1960s. 

Feminist from birth. (That's not my mom holding me.)

My self-esteem is healthy enough that I refuse to allow myself to be pigeon-holed, either as a mother or as a wife or as any of my other many identities. 


I'm glad my husband read the book, because I think it helped him understand how stay at home motherhood by itself would never be fulfilling for me. But he already knew that. He's always encouraged me to go back to work, or not, or go back to school, or not, or write, or not, as I wish. Before our children were even conceived he told me, "Your happiness is not a luxury." He's never taken me - or my happiness, or quest for fulfillment - for granted, or diminished or disrespected my desire for something more from life. 


He's kind of really wonderful that way.


I love being a mother. I love my children. I also love many other things that make me happy. And the fact that I acknowledge these things, actively pursue non-motherly forms of happiness, and my children see it? That's pretty damn feminist right there.


What books do you know you should read, but probably never will?

An Open Letter: Re: Baths

Attn:
American Civil Liberties Union
Amnesty International
President Obama
The United Nations Children's Fund
New York City Police Commissioner Ray Kelly
Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz


My name is the Duke of Juban. I live in Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York, and I am twelve weeks old. I write to you today to bring to your attention a most grave injustice: my baths.


The woman who proposes to be my mother gives me baths. I am not sure if you are aware or not, but baths involve my ancient mortal foe, water. Water on my skin! In my hair! This woman tricks me into trusting her with my love and devotion and well-being by feeding me, playing with me, holding me, and putting me to sleep, and just as I start to trust her she thrusts me into a vat of warm water and cleans me. 


I know. I know!!!


The water hitting my skin may as well be boiling tar. My bath chair may as well be lined with needles. The soap she uses may as well be broken glass. The washcloth may as well have teeth. And the towel she dries me off with may as well be made of the most abrasive of sandpaper - you know, the kind they use to sand off old paint. 

"Torture of St. John the Evangelist" photo from
http://www.occesussex.co.uk/apps/blog/entries/show/935880-st-john-before-the-latin-gate

After twelve long weeks on this godforsaken earth, my so-called "loving mother" has not taken the hint. Baths are a wretched, heinous form of child abuse. Had the good lord wanted me to smell good, she would not have crusted my ears with spit-up, or peppered my scalp with cradle cap, or put that stinky lint between my fingers and toes, or made my butt go poop.


Never, in the history of babykind, has any child suffered as greatly as I do. Never before has any infant been forced to endure the kind of sadism I encounter on a weekly, sometimes twice or thrice weekly, basis! I fear for my future. I fear for my very soul.


Baths are unnatural, inhuman, and a disgrace to humankind. As a helpless minor I demand you do something to stop this evil woman and her baths!


Humbly yours,
The Duke of Juban, Baby, American Citizen, Future Voter, Brooklyn Borough Resident, Bath Victim

Introducing the Duke of Juban

No, he's not throwing gang signs. NOT YET.

Please welcome the second in line to my royal throne (...yes, shut up), the Duke of Juban. Born Wednesday, March 7, 11:02am here in Brooklyn, NY and clocking in at a hefty 9 pounds, 8 ounces, 21 inches long.

Yes, that's NINE AND A HALF POUNDS.

All that complaining and whining I did about how big my belly was, how much it hurt, and how uncomfortable I was all the time was, you know, kind of justified because I gave birth to a second grader. I'd like to think of myself as a sort of hero, but I've been told that heroes whine less.

Anyway, he's super cute and no, you cannot eat those chubby cheeks because as his mother I called dibs and already ate them all up.

The Juban Princeling has taken to big brotherhood like a pro. I'm so proud of my little guys. 

What's that inside my brother's nose? Lemme just check and see...

 

My Favorite Year(s)

:::NOTE: I'll be taking a sort of "writing maternity leave" starting after this post. While I have this baby removed and recover from that, a handful of my super awesome friends are taking over. I promise they are each and every one way cooler than I am. :::

*******

When I was a teenager I spent my summers working at the local JCC, first as a "CIT" (counselor-in-training, aka an unpaid babysitter) and then as a junior counselor. 

Every spring we were given the choice of any age group to work with, and while most of my peers fought for the older kids, I happily signed up for Chaverim, the 3-5 year olds.

These kids were my absolute favorite. They were still little and cute, and I could fit three of them on my lap at a time during Friday Shabbos singing. They thought I lived in the classroom. Most of them still needed help getting dressed for swimming class. They colored themselves with crayons and called going to the bathroom "making," as in, "Meri, I have to make."


Once, I heard giggling - from several voices - coming from our bathroom. There was no lock on the door to keep the kids from locking themselves in, so I peeked inside. There sat about four or five of my campers, perched around the rim of the toilet, little naked toushies in a row. I asked them what they were doing.

They were having a making party, of course. DUH.

How could you not love that, and I don't mean in a weird way?

Most of the kids I babysat, too, were 3-5 years old. I got 3-5 years old. I am expert at 3-5 years old. 

Kids that age still take everything at face value. They are absolutely unself-conscious. Their imaginations have kicked in, hard, and the crazier thoughts they have the more it all makes sense to them. If it enters their minds, it comes out their mouths. 

The 3-5 year old age range is just fine by me. I know it. I love it. Everything before, and everything after...I just try not to let them accidentally die, and maybe don't grow up to hate my guts. When they're teenagers I'm pretty sure, based on my own parents, all I have to do is pick from ignoring them, laughing at them, and telling embarrassing stories to their friends.

As I sit here waiting to go through the chaos, roller coaster, and exercise in sleep deprivation torture that is infanthood again, I keep reminding myself that before I blink, the Duke of Juban will be 3. My older son, the Juban Princeling, is 3, and although at times it felt like several decades passed during those first agonizing six months, here we are - he's 3 years old. He sits on the couch in his shiny blue scooter helmet, and Darth Vader costume, holding his blankie in one hand and his sippy cup in the other, with his dress-up knight doll resting happily by his side. His fingernails are painted blue because that's his favorite color, and what else would you do when you have a favorite color but paint it on your nails? (Liberal disclosure: blue is not his favorite color because we pushed it on him in some attempt at obeying gender rules. Blue is his favorite color because that's the color of my mother's car, and he is obsessed with her car.) His favorite word is "poop," and sometimes out of nowhere he'll stick out his butt and make a fake farting noise and then crack up. He insists his toys be friends with each other, and doesn't understand why Darth Vader has to be a bad guy. He comes into our room, sometimes, during the night and wants our attention but knows he's supposed to be quiet when people are sleeping, which is how I woke up last weekend to a fully extended, lit up light saber inches from my face.

Sometimes I am so overwhelmed with love and adoration I want to squeeze him and kiss him and hug him and never let him get older.

If this isn't the cutest, sweetest thing
you've seen all day, you are DEAD INSIDE.

And it's this, when I see him doing his "foot dance" (hopping around the living room on one foot) or when he tells me that the unborn baby's favorite color is purple, that I know will get me through those first months I'm so dreading, the months when we do nothing but give, give, give to this little sack of neediness and dependence. But some day the Duke of Juban will turn 3 and do things like call me his best friend, and run into my arms when he gets scared, and have entire conversations with me about the importance of proper vitamin color selection.


Eventually the Princeling, and, later, the Duke, will each turn 6 and I'll once again be utterly clueless as to how to deal with them. I assume I just throw food in their direction, hose them down once in a while, and hope they don't kill me in my sleep.

An Open Letter To: Holiday Travel

Dear Holiday Travel:

It's "that time of year" again, when trillions of people around the world, even in countries that are not dominated by Judeo-Christian dogma, will take to the roads and skies (and rails, probably) to visit "loved ones" in other cities and towns.

And we all get cranky about it.

Because, let's face it, traveling at a time of year when every other human being is also traveling is a pain in the ass. It's the kind of thing that can kill the Holiday spirit and make those of us who otherwise are all about stuff like peace on earth or whatever into giant Crankypantses.

My family's journey to Miami last week was fine, in which "fine" = "nothing bad happened." Unless you count my 3-year old son's tantrum just as we were boarding the plane, which I do not. Look, he had a toy airplane, and the little girl his age nearby at the gate also had a toy airplane, and 3-year olds generally don't understand the concept of "Now boarding all passengers in Group 2," so much. They just want to play, and if you try to take that away from them it is possible they will scream bloody murder like you are hacking off one of their limbs, throw themselves on the floor in front of other passengers, and cry like the little babies they are.

Thankfully the tantrum ended before we got on the plane. 

For the record, my son is an excellent flier. He has never once had a tantrum in the air. Not to brag, Holiday Travel, but my kid is the one other parents wish they had when they fly.

But I digress.

Our flight back to New York was...I think the correct term is "a shit show."

Here are some things I can live without during future Holiday Travels, in no particular order of importance:

• TSA employees who don't let a pregnant woman with a 3-year old into the "family line" at security because we don't have a stroller, and then proceed to allow another stroller-less family into that very same "family line"
• TSA employees who steal little girls' shoes. The family ahead of us mysteriously "lost" their daughter's purple sneakers, which the TSA agents swore up and down must have been stolen by a fellow passenger. Later, I overheard the father tell another passenger that the little girl herself found her shoes - behind the TSA counter, while the agents insisted they were "lost." For shame, Holiday Travel.
• TSA employees who think it is OK to snark to my son that he is "too old" for a pacifier or blankie. I'm sorry, did I ask for your opinion on my son's creature comforts while traveling?
• The entire TSA in general.
• Fellow passengers who see a child and automatically pass judgement on me, my parenting, and my kid. Hey, my kid is an awesome flier, probably better than many adults, so just shut your face. And to the lady behind us in the security line who snarked, "Look at all these kids. They shouldn't be allowed to fly," - be thankful that you weren't on our flight because I myself would have kicked your seat the whole time, asshole.
• Incompetent flight attendants who are so slow with the beverage and snack cart that they are still serving "refreshments" during the descent.
• Miami International Airport

Here's the thing, Holiday Travel. The Holidays happen at the same time every year, and yet airline and airport employees act like they are completely taken by surprise. "What? Thanksgiving? When did this happen and why did no one warn me? IS THERE NO GOD???"


If that retail store I hate but can't stop shopping at - the big red discount one that rhymes with "Margaret" - can pull Halloween decorations off the shelves to make room for Christmas lights on October 20 (no joke), then surely your people can get their act together? It's not like air travel is new. It's not like Thanksgiving or Christmas are new. I made a calendar full of photos of my son, the Juban Princeling, for my husband to take to work. If I get you a copy, Holiday Travel, will you please use it to mark sometime before Thanksgiving when you need to start anticipating a giant tsunami of travelers, many of whom have small children (who necessarily need their pacis, and shoes)? Because there really is no reason for the extra-surly employees (who snark and steal) and the crazy long lines to check bags and go through security.


If it seems like I am being particularly harsh on you Holiday Travel, it's because I hate you. Get it together and maybe one day years from now I'll venture outside the five boroughs for some major holiday travel again.


Sincerely,
Meredith L.

...don't say anything at all

This being my second go-round on the Pregnancy Carousel of Suck, I am well aware of the fact that my baby bump tends to make other people stupid. 

Oh, it makes me forgetful. Lately I've taken to a sort of Tara Gregson approach to what is commonly called "Pregnancy Brain." Like this:

Husband: "What's that actor's name?"
Me: "Oh, man. Non-Pregnant Meredith knows this off the top of her head. I'm going to have to look it up."

or

Form at the doctor's office: "Name:"
Me: *pulling out my driver's license*

The other day at the supermarket I meant to grab two containers of orange juice, and the next thing I knew I was standing by our shopping cart, checking to see if I had put one of them in there yet. Turns out I had only grabbed one, but the point is half a second after I would have put an oj into my cart I forgot whether or not I had done so.

While that's not nearly as bad as "How I Met Your Mother" would have us believe when earlier this season Lily gave a stapler and a bottle of wine to some trick-or-treaters, it's still not fun, especially when you usually have a mind like a steel trap. Steel! Trap! WHAT???

But, you know, at least I have the excuse of being pregnant to explain away my forgetfulness. Hormones, building a person from scratch, not being able to get comfortable when I sleep, waking several times a night to pee - none of that is good for the ol' noggin. 

Know who does not have an excuse for being stupid? Other people. Especially other (non-adoptive) mothers. You'd think that, of anyone on the entire planet, other women who have gone through the whole pregnancy rigormorale would be a little more careful about what comes out of their mouths, but they aren't. They're pretty dumb.

First, there were the several women who told me how much better sons are than daughters during my first pregnancy. Around that same time I wore a pink t-shirt one day to work and a cashier at the drugstore commented, "Oh, are you having a girl?" Because I guess failure to create another uterus inside your own bans you from the color pink forever.


Then there was my former building super, who told me over and over how his wife walked for miles every day during her pregnancies and both her labors were, like, minutes long, because as we all know, walking is the one and only key to a quick and painless labor.

A pregnant friend of mine today informed me that she told a co-worker how she now goes to bed at 9pm, to which the co-worker responded with, "You need to get a hobby!" Because if there's one thing pregnant women are, it's bored, especially when you work and already have a 2 1/2-year old.

Today I treated myself to a pre-Holiday haircut and eyebrow shaping because even feminists sometimes like to look like pretty ladies, and the woman waxing my brows - who has four grown sons of her own - said to me, "Wow, you're only about a month away, aren't you?" 

Now, my reply: "Actually, I have another four months to go," would normally embarrass and silence most people. Most people would blush and apologize, but not my brow waxer! She continued, "Wow, you're really big!"

I had no witty retort to that, so I just sort of shrugged and said, "Yeah, I'm carrying really high."

Which I am. I'm carrying so high that the baby may well come out of my rib cage ala John Hurt in "Alien," unlike my last son, whom I carried so low that by the end I had to hold him in with my knees locked together, afraid that a hard sneeze or laugh would send him shooting across the room.

So, I'm carrying high this time, but I still don't think I'm carrying particularly BIG, you know? And it certainly isn't the job of anyone else to comment on my size.


Which...bothered me, at first. As a feminist, I make a conscious effort not to fat-shame myself, which is why I can happily report that I am writing this while eating an entire pack of Twizzlers. But if I'm not feeling fat-shamed for that woman's comment, then why did it bother me so? And the answer came to me a while later: because pregnancy, like so much else concerning women's bodies, is considered public domain. Total strangers feel the need to comment upon mine, like the bartender at the Japanese restaurant my husband and I went to (DON'T WORRY, PREGNANCY POLICE, I DID NOT EAT SUSHI!), who asked me, "You're going to breastfeed, right?" while going through the motions of honking his non-existent breast. 


Because ultimately, strangers commenting on whether I look big or small is really their way of commenting on whether they think my unborn child is healthy or not, on whether I'm taking care of myself - and, more importantly, my fetus - or not. I would like to think that it's heartwarming to see such an outpouring of community concern for the well-being of the unborn next generation, but I doubt these strangers are coming from an "It Takes a Village" place. More likely they are coming from a place of judgment, something almost every mother is familiar with. Mothers are a favorite whipping-girl of our society, starting with the nanosecond our baby bumps become obvious.


For those of you who need a take-away from all of this, here is a list of perfectly nice, acceptable, non-judgey things you can say to a pregnant woman:

"You look beautiful!"


"Here's a bottle of Macallan 18-year old Scotch* for when you pop that kid out!"


"Would you like a free foot massage at the expensive day spa nearby?"


"I hope labor and delivery go according to your birth plan!"


"That child is already so lucky to have you as a mother!"


"May your baby never get colic!"


"You're already doing an awesome job!"

"I've heard that chocolate in the womb helps babies develop higher IQs and love their mothers more!"

"May your child be the first gay Jewish-Cuban President of the United States!"

And, of course, there is what my husband tells me on a nearly daily basis: "You are one sexy pregger pants." He's a smart one, is that guy.






*I did not receive any compensation or requests to endorse Macallan Scotch Whisky for this statement, but if they read this and want to send me a free bottle anyway, for when I pop this kid out, I will not protest.

Real O'Clock: Boys and Body Image

Every now and then here at the Grey Skies World Headquarters, we like to take it down a notch, from our usual wine-guzzling, DWTS-watching, geek con-going ways and get Real. If this were a rock concert, now would be the part where I sit atop a stool, mic in hand, spotlight on, and croon "Every Rose Has A Thorn" while swaying gently, like my depth and emotion are far too sincere to be contained by sitting still.

Get out your lighters (or cell phone screens), because it's about to get Real O'Clock all up in here. I might throw some numbers or statistics at you that I pull off the internets, but that doesn't mean I don't love you.

A couple of years ago I was asked to be the "real mom" on a panel discussing a really excellent book called "Does This Pregnancy Make Me Look Fat?" There, I had the honor of meeting one of the book's authors, the amazing Claire Mysko, who has become a friend and personal hero of mine in the past two years. 

The talk shed light on something women, especially mothers, don't discuss much: body image issues after childbirth. 


I don't want to go into an entire synopsis of the book because that would be doing it a grave injustice. Claire and her co-author, Magali, are quite articulate enough without my ruining their message with a semi-coherent summation. 


Instead, I'd like to talk about a point I was inspired to make after reading the book: a point about boys and body image.


Most of the talk about body image and healthy self-esteem centers around girls, and rightfully so: according to the National Eating Disorder Association, anorexia and bulimia affect females 10 times more than they affect men. Our entire culture is set up to make women and girls feel like they can never "win" some mythical battle with their bodies: either they are too fat or "scary skinny." The media treats female bodies like public property, there to be critiqued, criticized, and publicly consumed. 


Far better writers have discussed that problem, and at great length. I'm not inventing anything new here.


What I want to discuss right now, though, are how boys are also affected by media images of male bodies and a masculine ideal. This is also not new, but I am now the mother of two boys, and this is my blog, and I need to get this out.


There are four main reasons why I think it is necessary to include men and boys in the discussions about body image issues:


1. Societal expectations, cultural norms, and media reflections of manhood and masculinity are as much a part of feminism as those things are for women and girls. 
When my son(s) watch TV and movies and play with toys, they are absorbing what it means to be a man just as much as a little girl absorbs what it means to be a woman. And so as a parent I have a vested interest in making sure the messages surrounding my son are positive ones: that you don't need enormous muscles to be strong, being scrawny is not automatically comical, and physical prowess does not equal being a decent human being. My first son, the Juban Princeling, already seems to take after the boys on my side of the family: tall and skinny. While some of them are athletic, too, none of them have what you'd typically call rippling muscles. They are tall guys, not necessarily big guys. And I want my sons to know that that's fine. Skinny guys do not have to be relegated to the role of nerdy sidekick, or bumbling comic relief; in too many movies and TV shows, the skinny guy is the equivalent of the fat girl - a wise and/or wisecracking best friend, while the more stereotypically attractive girl or boy is the star. 


What does this have to do with feminism? 


When our men feel better about themselves, when boys are not preoccupied with outdated and false ideas of being macho, or being manly, they are more prone to treat women with respect, as equals. A man who does not feel the need to prove his masculinity is a man who does not need to put down women in order to feel better about himself. A man who has healthy self-esteem does not need to stand on top of others in order to feel big.


It's pretty simple, really.


2. Boys and men are not immune from eating disorders.
I found this out while I prepped for the panel discussion: anorexia and bulimia affect about 1 million men and boys in America, or about 10% of the eating disordered population. That's not nothing.

One million! And that's a statistic from the 1990s!


If we treat eating disorders like they are women's problems, or girl diseases, we are doing our sons a grave disservice. While I certainly hope that neither of my sons ever develops an eating disorder, I also believe it is my job as a parent to create a loving, trusting home environment where if they do think they have a problem, or if I do notice something wrong, we can talk about it together. 


Part of raising emotionally healthy boys is setting a good example. Not just their father, but me, too, which brings me to...


3. Having sons is not a free pass to fat-shame myself. 
There's been a lot of talk lately - at least, in my circles there has been - about monitoring what we say, as adults and parents, about our bodies in front of our children. Mostly this is done for the benefit of girls, so they don't grow up listening to Mom complain that she's fat. But I think our boys can benefit from this as well.


As the primary woman in my sons' lives, I have an obligation to model a type of womanhood that I want them to be comfortable with. I want my boys to grow up thinking that strong, outspoken women are what's normal. Part of being strong is being confident in myself, and that means liking and accepting my physical body for what it is. I don't ever want my sons thinking that it's normal or healthy for women to put themselves down regularly, or to diet constantly, or to hate themselves because of a number on a scale or on a clothing tag. I want them to understand that salad is not a meal and ordering dessert is not a crime. I want them to grow up surrounding themselves with women who are comfortable in their own skin, women who are not so wrapped up in losing a few pounds or counting every calorie that they forget how to enjoy life.


And that brings me to my final, and probably most important, point:


4. Teaching our children healthy lifestyles begins with we the parents.
The most important take away I want my sons to absorb from my parenting is that being healthy does not have to be a killjoy. Moderation does not equal deprivation. Enjoyment of food does not equal gluttony. Exercise can be fun. And especially, healthy does not equal skinny. 


When my son sees me do yoga, he sees his mother doing something she loves that makes her feel good. When he runs around with his father he learns that being active is super awesome fun. 


When I get dressed he does not hear me complain about my body - he hears me complain about the clothes. "This doesn't look right on me," vs "This makes me look fat."


My husband and I do not diet. That word is not part of our home. In 2007 when we wanted to lose weight - because we were both overweight and worried about health problems as we got older - we used portion control, healthy substitutions, and exercise to do it. We never once deprived ourselves of sweets, carbs, or anything else we wanted. We just got smarter about them.


And that is the message we want for our sons: that maintaining a healthy lifestyle doesn't have to be hard, and doesn't have to deprive them of happiness or joy. So that as they grow up and go out there into the world they will do so feeling good about themselves on the inside, no matter what they look like on the outside.






*All stats taken from the National Eating Disorder Association: http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/index.php

Dude!

The next little member of our family will be born with a penis. Which means I will be the mother of two boys. 

(Liberal disclaimer: should either or both of my children-born-with-penises feel more comfortable as girls, I will fully support them, and depending on how our financial investments go, we might even help pay for any operations they wish to have.)


While we did sort of want a daughter - and the ladies in my husband's family are practically donning widow's weeds for lack of a princess to dote upon - I have to admit to a few reasons why I'm happy we get to have two boys: 

(Liberal disclaimer: a lot of these are non-politically correct on purpose for the sake of humor.)
  

• I will never have to defend letting her play with Disney Princesses
• No crying tantrums when she wakes up with her hair in a knotted, tangled mess
• My husband doesn't have to reverse his stance on gun ownership for her dating years
• I get to retain my title as Queen of the Household
• No one in this house will ever steal my tampons
• Three words we can all happily live without: Teenage Girl PMS
• The uppance for my 14-year old obsession with New Kids on the Block will now never come
• I never have to take anyone shopping for a training bra
• I've just DOUBLED my chances of having a child of mine play for the Yankees
• My husband now has TWO strapping young men to pass on the near-extinct family name Lopez
• Boys love their mommies

The biggest downside right now? My husband and I can only agree on one boy's name, and we already used it for our first son. 


The second biggest downside? Now I won't get the Skywalker Family costume I've always wanted to do. Maybe that's the biggest downside, actually. 

"Oh, woe is me!"

During my last pregnancy, when people asked if I was having a boy or a girl and I'd tell them, I got the dumbest reactions. 

Pregnancy is generally a time when everyone but the pregnant woman says asinine things. I think that preggos should be allowed to punch people. Or taser them. Whether strangers in elevators told me I looked like I was "about to give birth" (at 7 months along) or co-workers shouted, "Waddle waddle waddle!" as I waddled by, what on earth makes people think it's OK to say these things to a pregnant lady? 


But the worst reactions of all came in response to my declaration that we were having a boy. OTHER MOTHERS would tell me, "Oh, good. I mean, I love my daughters, but boys are better."


Yes, someone actually said that to me.

Possibly my own mother may have confirmed this statement, though I was high on post-natal hormones, sleep deprivation, and Percocet, and she now denies it.


Forget for a second that I am someone's daughter, and let's talk about how insensitive that remark is. What if we were having a girl? Would these women then gasp, clutch their pearls, and scream, "Oh dear god in heaven, someone help me get this poor girl-bearing woman to the nearest back alley abortionist!" I get that they were trying to be nice, but a simple, "Oh, how wonderful, boys are such a joy!" would have been fine. Really.

Do we really still live in a time when people prefer boys to girls? What is this, China? Do people really still believe that all girls all the time are always manipulative, evil, back-stabbing, overly dramatic creatures? Just because I was that way? 


As a feminist I did look forward to raising a strong-willed, outspoken, kick-ass young womym who would some day grow up to be the first Jewish-Cuban female President of the United States. 


Instead, I get to raise two strong-willed, outspoken, kick-ass young men who will become part of the solution and not part of the problem, will respect women as human beings, will follow their father's example and self-identify as feminist and LGBTQ allies, and will never ever ever leave me.


So let it be written. So let it be done.