“Is she sleeping through the night yet?”
It takes about 6 minutes post-birth before someone asks you this. At first, I assumed it was concern for my well-being, for my babies’ development. “How sweet!” I thought. “This stranger at Target really wants to have a dialogue about infant night-time habits!”
New parents, I am sorry to tell you that is a load of crap. There are two reasons people ask you if your baby is sleeping. The first is fear. There is a very good possibility that their baby is also not sleeping and they are looking for someone else with whom to toss around under-eye concealer recommendations in a 3 am group text when you’re all up rocking your babies back to sleep. You’ll recognize these people by their extra-large lattes, look of genuine empathy, and possibly mismatched shoes.
My kid was at his two-and-a-half-year-old well-visit the first time he said, “Fuck”.
“How are we doing today?” asked the doctor in his Snoopy tie and smart wire rims, breezily entering the exam room where my naked-by-choice toddler squatted under the exam table looking for lost change.
“Good,” Toddler replied. “I don’t have to get a shot and I didn’t say ‘fuck’.'”
“Good, good, glad to hear it,” the doctor replied, as luckily, while his vocabulary has always been expansive, my kid’s diction was about as good as his set of manners.
“She’s ready for her own bed now.” That’s what I announced to my husband yesterday afternoon. I had thought it the week before last and the week before that and, honestly, two months ago. But yesterday I said it aloud to hold myself accountable. To make it real. Continue reading
I had planned on telling the tales of our summer journey in chronological order. Start with our, ahem, interesting international flight and end with some reflections on all we had learned and experienced and ate and ate. But there is one story that everyone keeps asking about. When someone loses a body part on vacation, I guess it piques interest. So to save the real suspense for future stories that don't involve feet (because ewww), this is how I lost one of my toenails in Italian paradise.
26 days, 25 plane-ridden hours, 8 boat rides, 3 long-distance drives, 9 hours of car games and mild motion sickness, 5 cities, 2 houses, 3 hotels, 2 strollers, 3 car seats, 6 boxes of band-aids, 3 bee stings, 2 epi-pen close calls, and 1 missing toenail later. But we are back and almost entirely in the same condition as when we left. (Who needs 10 toenails anyway?) Continue reading
Ok, outdoorsy parents.
You did it. You got in my head and inspired me with your perfect pictures of your perfect family on the gleaming mounds of perfect snow in your bad ass ski goggles and matching down-filled romper thingies. (That’s the technical term, right?) I saw you. I heard you. And in a surprising move even to myself, I motivated. I took my tiny beasts skiing. And I would just like to say to you fabulous sporty friends, my inspiring super-parent friends, I hate you. Continue reading
The stache that launched 1,000 words
Someday my kids will ask me how I knew their dad was the one. Maybe they’ll read a fairy tale and wonder about perfect love and Prince Charming; Maybe they’ll watch a movie and begin to visualize their own first kiss or first date or first crush; Or maybe they will be standing at the threshold of adulthood, standing side-by-side with a person of interest, questioning when and how and if they will make the commitment of a lifetime.
I will answer my kids honestly, as I do, and I will tailor my answer to their time of life and readiness for real talk, as I do, and I will hopefully inspire them to have faith in something that is really easy to doubt. This I will do in spite of the fact that doubt was a huge part of my early relationship with my husband, a function of my own less than stellar dating history moreso than his trustworthiness, of course. I recall in our first months as a couple when he handed me a gift with all of my favorite rom-coms, information piecemealed from many conversations we had, to appeal to the romantic in me, and in exchange I handed him a piece of my black and jaded heart, explaining to him that I did love him, but not unconditionally, and then went ahead and listed for him all of the conditions under which I would most likely cease to love him. At dinner. Over candlelight. On Valentine’s Day. Continue reading