I panicked when I saw this post on our Nanny’s Facebook page: “I just made a big decision and I’m so excited about it…Career change in the making.”
Ever the optimist, I was hopeful her “career change” was one of the following:
- A. PHD in child psychology (night classes)
- B. Marie Kondo certification (weekends)
- C. Diplome de Cuisene from Le Cordon Bleu (virtually)
Well, the two of us have since had a conversation about her next move, and she informed me that it is option D.
- D. Something that doesn’t advance elements of her skillset that serve our family and doesn’t fit within the time and location constraints of our current working arrangement.
The cold hard truth is this: She does not aspire to be our nanny until my children leave for college.
I knew this day would come, but the reality is that it’s coming sooner than I’d hoped. She is the reason I can do work I love, not feel like I am drowning at home, and have peace knowing that my children are in great hands. That infection of working mom guilt so many suffer from? I remain largely asymptomatic because she has things so lovingly locked down on the home front. So when I’m not working, I am able to enjoy my children and make it count.
She packs bookbags, lunches and sleepaway camp trunks. She does grocery trips, target runs, meal prep, and laundry. She does doctor’s appointments, trips to the vet, carpools, and gift wrapping. She reads, plays games, sings beautifully, tells stories and builds magna-tiles. She knows who wears what sizes and does the seasonal closet reorgs (the. worst.). She takes on the most ambitious, complex, messy art projects and leaves no trace. You see this tiny house? She patiently built one of those with each child. The instruction manual is the size of a college textbook and it has working electricity.
But best of all, she truly delights in my children. She sees them and knows them and appreciates the uniqueness of each of my girls. She adores them and we adore her. She has become a true friend.
After I saw that alarming post of Facebook, the two of us had a conversation wherein she laid out her vision for her career shift.
Honestly? My first instinct was to try to talk her out of it. I did my best to convince her that her current job is, in fact, her dream job.
The work I do at my day job, the job that necessitates the need for a nanny in the first place, is leadership development. It is my life’s work to help people find passion and purpose as they leverage their strengths to do work they love. After my darker angel selfishly spoke her peace, my more altruistic instincts kicked in. I can’t help myself but to champion her growth and do everything I can to help her find her dream job…the one that doesn’t involve cutting the crusts of PBJs and incentivizing a three-year-old to utilize indoor plumbing.
I ordered her this book and I’m going to coach her through the assessment results. I have connected her with people doing the work she wants to do in the future. We are talking through finances and the logistics so that she can plan accordingly. I will help her write a business plan.
I am also trying to get her to stick with me until January.
Ideally May.
Ideally May 2036. I’m only human.
She is truly irreplaceable.
But. When the time comes to hire her replacement, there will be NASA level scrutiny to ensure we don’t end up in this situation again. For the select few who make it to the final stage of the interview process, there’ll be a working interview with one very specific challenge:
You will be locked in a room with three hungry children, a cat, a hot glue gun, and this DIY dollhouse craft kit. You must emerge with a fully assembled and illuminated miniature room, everyone uninjured and on speaking terms.
After that, if you still want the job, it’s yours.
There’s an old saying in parenting that goes like this: the days are long, but the years are short.
And it’s true. As I look through old family photos, I can hardly remember my children as itty-bitty babies. My memories of even the most memorable of vacations is hazy, and of course the ebbs and flows of day-to-day life is a total blur. I look back at old photos and I hardly remember them being that…little. Babies don’t keep and the years go by so very fast.
But 2020 was different. In 2020, the days were long, and the year was long. Time slowed down. It was challenging, for sure, but the rearview mirror in my mind is already rounding off the rough edges. We pressed pause on the frenetic pace of our typical work, travel, sports, school and social schedules. Because of all the time together, my children at these exact ages (2, 5 and 8) will be deeply etched in my memory. These ages that typically go by in a blink and are filed away with all the other blurry recollections of their childhood days, will contain more color. In 2020, time slowed down which somehow slowed down the growing up. Silver lining, for sure.
It is clear something is going on up there. This parking deck is practically empty, yet this timeless anthem from R. Kelly’s album Chocolate Factory is booming from what has to be a professional sound system.
I’m about to get in my car to drive home, but I’m honestly torn.
WHAT SHOULD I DO?
Should I go straight home, as planned?
Or.
Should I follow that beat? Should I go up there and see what’s going on?
What if…
I follow that beat and it leads to the top deck of the parking garage where there’s a huge dance party going on. It must be hosted by some other company that shares our building. I don’t know anyone there, but AS YOU KNOW “Ignition” is just one of those songs, and I simply can’t help myself but to start dancing.
And what if…
I start dancing. Then the DJ calls me on stage of the parking lot party and suddenly everyone is copying my dance moves. We dance for hours like this and the crowd is totally feeling it. It’s like I’m Richard Simmons up there on stage and everyone else in the office parking deck is Sweatin’ to the Oldies.
And what if…
We dance all night like this, me and these corporate strangers. The DJ and I naturally strike up a friendship and he says he really REALLY likes my vibe and he needs me to bring my unique brand of funk to his next gig.
And what if…
It turns out his next DJ gig is in Ibiza. I can’t say no to that, and what I have going on this weekend isn’t anything that can’t be rescheduled. So, I say yes. Why not go with this friendly DJ on an all-expenses paid jaunt to Ibiza?
And what if…
We take a stretch Navigator to the airport to board the plane and Nancy Meyers and Rachel Zoe happen to be on the same chartered flight. Turns out they are dear old friends with the DJ and the three of them made a pact never to go to Ibiza without each other. The plane is FULL of gorgeous clothes. Rachel styles me from head to toe and I look AMAZING. “Keep ALL the clothes,” she tells me. Nancy Meyers and I get to chatting and she says she’s filming her next movie in Atlanta. She offers to renovate our kitchen in exchange for filming a few scenes at my house. I happily oblige.
And what if…
We all roll up to the gig in Ibiza and it’s clear that the DJ really downplayed how star-studded this event was going to be. The second I walk in the door, Ina Garten hands me a glass of Cristal and Jeffery and I cheers. There is food everywhere, this party is catered. Waiters are passing trays of sushi and lobster tails, and Christian Bale and I lock eyes when we reach for the same bacon-wrapped scallop. On my left, David Blaine is doing street magic on Lin-Manuel Miranda and the LA Lakers, and on the right, the entire casts of Little Women (1994 and 2019) are gathered by the chocolate fountain. When the DJ starts his set, we all make our way to the dancefloor.
And what if…
The DJ is playing all the hits and the dancefloor. is. hot. The crowd forms two dance lines, Soul Train style. When it’s my turn, Bruno Mars and I are paired up and we are completely in sync when we dance down the line. Then Bruno and I have a dance-off. I win. I’m doing dance moves even Beyoncé hadn’t considered, so she plugs her number in my phone and says that I HAVE to join her in Aspen for New Year’s Eve. She sees the background pic on my iPhone, the one of my three children, and that’s when we realize that our kids are the same age. “Bring the whole family” she says. “Blue Ivy and the twins would love to have some friends to play with après ski.”
And what if…
The DJ plays “I’ve Had the Time of My Life” and LeBron James lifts me up Swayze style. And from my vantage point up there, I see the members of the band formerly known as One Direction scattered about the room. We all know that there must have been some major falling out when they decided to each pursue their solo careers.
And what if…
I round up Harry, Zayn, Liam, Niall and the other guy who probably sells insurance now and I say, “come on boys, let’s go sort this out.” They reluctantly agree and we find a quiet corner away from the crowd to talk it out. Upon my urging, they are finally saying the things they’ve always wanted to say, but have never been able to. Now we are all hugging and crying and singing an acapella version of “Story of my Life.” My voice harmonizes perfectly with their sound. Then they start singing “What Makes You Beautiful” to ME. They know I’m happily married, but even married ladies appreciate being adored by handsome young pop stars. Now the whole band is back together. I immediately hop on a zoom call with Noel and Liam Gallagher and mend things up there as well.
And what if…
Oprah witnesses my dancing and though she is impressed, what really gets her attention is the restorative work I just facilitated between the members of Oasis and One Direction. What I know for sure is that Oprah truly loves redemption stories and is passionate about the power of forgiveness. She tells me that she wants to add ME to her list of favorite things this year. “You HAVE to come to the afterparty!” she insists. “Gayle will be there, and we have been looking for someone new to add to our friend group.” She can be very persistent so of course I say yes.
But.
What if…
The afterparty is on a yacht.
A yacht.
Now that just isn’t going to work for me. Unfortunately, I get REALLY seasick. Even on large fancy boats. Even in the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Ibiza.
…
So, I guess I shouldn’t go up there to see why, exactly “Ignition (Remix)” is playing so loudly in the parking deck today. I don’t think I should follow that beat after all.
It’s probably best if I just head straight home.
The first day of virtual school did not meet my very low expectations. Or at least I didn’t. I expected it would take at least two weeks for the virtual learning situation to bring me to tears, but no. By 11am on the very first day, I was crying, ready to call it quits, and researching if the Peace Corps accepted kindergarteners and/or cats.
After few weeks of days not much better than that one, I was ready to take action. I felt compelled to share our unpleasant experience with virtual school and assert the importance of in-person education to anyone who would listen. So, I did what generations of women have done before me—I sat at my kitchen table and launched a letter writing campaign. This I know for sure: People in power love to hear from women who have come unglued.
I opened my laptop, grabbed a cup of coffee and began ranting writing.
My first email was to our school’s principal. I heard a rumor that he thought things were going along just swimmingly, so I made it my personal mission to change his mind about that. I calmly and clearly articulated the challenges of virtual kindergarten. I attached this photo.
It felt good to do something. To connect with our principal. To share my experience. But does he even have a seat at the table when it comes to decision making? Does he have any say-so whatsoever regarding schools reopening? Two more cups of coffee, a few internet clicks and I found the contact info for the entire Atlanta Public School Board.
I decided to revise and repurpose the principal email to send it the decision makers.
With fresh eyes and my new audience in mind, I re-read my initial email to the principal. Though I was aiming for concerned and competent, I came across as a tad…unhinged. So, I logged out of Gmail and switched to Outlook. Now the emails would come from my corporate email address, complete with my work signature, fancy title and company logo. I wanted them to see that I wasn’t your average crazy mom, I was a professional crazy mom.
Next, I emailed our district’s representative on the school board. I told him a little bit about the challenges of virtual kindergarten. It is best to have a specific ask in mind, so I suggested a reopening plan that prioritized making in-person learning available to students with special needs and to the youngest students (i.e. Kindergarteners. Like this one. She was supposed to be “learning” but instead she spent the morning creating this desk for her unicorn).
I continued to work my way down the contact list, each email serving as my template for the one after. With each subsequent email, I gained momentum in my conviction around the ineffectiveness of virtual school specifically for early learners and those with special needs. I also started outlining the disproportionate impact school closures have on students and communities most in need. I cited news articles about how virtual learning further widens the achievement gap between the haves and the have-nots.
By my last board email, I was officially an expert on the correlation between third grade reading levels, truancy, and the prison population. I was punctuating my points with relevant statistics as I built my case. Maybe I was just screaming into a canyon, but at least it had the placebo effect of feeling productive.
Then I went back to my Gmail and sent a thank you note to my daughter’s kindergarten teacher. I told her she was crushing it. I praised her efforts to adapt to providing instruction in this new medium. I told her she was a war hero who deserved a Purple Heart. I apologized that a unicorn crashed the kindergarten zoom.
The decision of whether to reopen schools for face-to-face learning is complex. Many teachers don’t want to risk getting sick if schools are open. Many parents can’t work if schools are closed. Many children can’t learn if they are at home. Many homes are unsafe places for children. Children with special needs are losing key skills, missing milestones and falling behind. Children of parents with financial means are getting ahead thanks to tutors, private school and enrichment programs—advantages unavailable to children at some public schools. Many public schools serve communities that may be at higher risk for contracting the virus. Many teachers may be high-risk themselves or caring for loved ones that are. Many children are at high risk without the structure, security and meals provided by the school system. And on. And on. And on. It’s messy and complicated and scary and sad all the way around. But as case numbers continue trending in the right direction, the pros of reopening outweigh the cons.
It’s been a week now since I gave my two cents to via email the Atlanta Board of Education. I know a lot of other parents who have done the same. Women far more savvy than me are launching Facebook groups to gather support and circulating petitions (please sign it). Enough crazy moms can certainly move the needle on this thing, right?
Just this morning, this email landed in my inbox:
Basically: The school board might be planning to plan to formulate a plan to make a plan to begin planning for reopening. Eventually. And that plan might incorporate a tiered approach that prioritizes children who are having the most challenges distance learning. Maybe they’re reading the influx of ranty emails from disgruntled homeschooling madwomen afterall? Only plus or minus 129,398,408,484 days of virtual learning to go.
7:40am: My daughters come downstairs, dressed and ready for their first day of virtual school. Look! Mom has left a thoughtful surprise at their breakfast spots: new books and handwritten letters of praise and encouragement. It’s going to be a great year! We got this!
7:45am: Students enjoy homemade healthy muffins. There was zucchini hidden in there and they had no idea. Compliments to the chef!
7:50am: I want to always remember this big day, so I take a video asking my children what grade they’re in and who their teachers are. The kindergartner gets both questions wrong.
7:52am: We walk outside to take classic first day of school photos on the front porch. The 3rd grader wants the cat to be in the photo. I insist on taking a few without the cat as well. At this point our pandemic pet feels more like a random girlfriend than a real member of the family. We walk back inside.
8am: 3rd grader logs into her Google Classroom. She chitchats with classmates who have also logged on early. They discuss Jojo Siwa and whether they like him…or her. I don’t know who this person is, but apparently my daughter does and is not a fan. I’m thinking that’s the right answer.
8:10am: School is in session!
8:11am: Not so fast. Tech glitches in kindergarten. Is it me? Is it this iPad? Is it our internet? Am I clicking the wrong link? I go find another iPad.
8:20am: Two-year-old wakes up. Technically, she has been awake for a while, but it’s probably time to get her out of the crib. Dad gets her up and puts her in the shower to buy some time and keep her out of the way. She loves showers.
8:25am: Two parents are now troubleshooting on multiple school, work and home devices attempting to get our kindergartner in her class. No luck.
8:35am: Husband leaves home and heads to the office. Wife is feeling a little jealous frazzled, but still high on the fact that she lovingly penned two thoughtful notes that her children will surely treasure forever. And how about those those fantastic muffins?!
8:55am: School is finally happening in kindergarten. I think. I panic-text other moms to make sure everyone’s audio is choppy—not just ours. The teacher is teaching the children and their parents how to turn their microphones off.
9:02am: Transition toddler from the shower to a two-inch-deep bathtub full of bath toys. Pinterest calls it sensory play, I call it the splash cage.
9:10am: I rejoin the virtual kindergarten to find that instead of sitting at her desk, my daughter is sitting under it. I put her in her chair and tell her to pay attention. To what? Not quite sure. Looks like the class has yet to master mute and unmute. And I’m pretty sure the teacher is still taking attendance.
9:15am: 3rd grader is in virtual PE and doing jumping jacks to party tunes in her bedroom. Her computer screen displays a countdown clock telling her when to get back in her chair. At least someone in this house is self-sufficient.
9:20am: Looks like the kindergartner has clicked out of the Google Classroom and is playing games on the iPad. Wondering if those games are perhaps a better use of her time? Are we missing something or is everyone doing this?
9:36am: Two-year-old is out of the bath and requesting breakfast. She was asleep when I delighted her sisters with those superfood magical muffins this morning.
9:39am: Two-year-old refuses to eat the muffins. I’m not gonna fight it today. How about an all-you-can-eat cereal buffet instead?
9:40am: Bowl one.
9:45am: Bowl two
9:50am: Bowl three.
9:52am: Racking my brain for a two-year-old activity that doesn’t involve eating, running up the water bill, or parental supervision. I put her outside in the driveway and close the gate. I put the cat outside too.
10:02am: 3rd grader calls me upstairs. She needs help with an All About Me presentation. I tell her she needs to do it by herself. I help her open PowerPoint and I realize that she actually does need my help and she probably can’t do it herself. I keep that a secret for now. But I expect to be called back in very soon.
10:10am: Two-year-old comes back inside. Independent driveway play didn’t last as long as I hoped it would. She has also decided that today is the day she wants to potty train! Potty training is not on my to-do list this calendar year. She BEGS me to take off her diaper, and when I finally take it off she refuses to let me help her get on the actual potty. She wants to get up there allbyherself. Once she is up there she seems afraid. Nothing happens. Diaper back on. Repeat.
10:20am: Back upstairs. Due to tech glitches in the Spanish immersion program, Kindergarten sounds like a remix at the discoteca. The kindergartner plays with dolls on the floor of her bedroom while the DLI EDM soundtrack blasts from the iPad.
10:25am Two-year-old has taken OFF her diaper and is walking upstairs to join us. I rush to secure it and realize that she has left a trail of poo balls in her wake. She has one in her hand.
10:29am: Back in the bath. This time with soap.
10:32am: Kindergartener needs help logging out of one zoom, into another and simultaneously into some other program. This maneuver requires both an access code and an advanced degree in information technology. I have neither. Once we’re finally in, it’s time for yet another round of the mute/unmute tutorial.
10:58am: I realize that the cat is in the 3rd grade with the door closed. That is absolutely against the rules because if the door is closed, she can’t get to the litter box. I open the door to take the cat out of the bedroom but in runs the two-year-old. Now the 3rd grader is visibly upset because she wants the toddler out but wants the cat to stay in. The kindergartner is no longer at her desk and somehow the iPad is missing. She walks downstairs and points to another tiny poo ball on the step that somehow I missed the first time. Or is this a new one? I hear the ding-ding-ding from my work computer reminding me of the to-dos that await. Everyone needs me rightthisveryminute.
11am: I cry real tears. I am frustrated and angry and overwhelmed. And somehow, I am also a cat owner. How are we going to do virtual school from 8:10am-1:30pm every single day? HOW IS IT ONLY 11AM? WHY AM I HOLDING POOP?
11:15am: Quit virtual kindergarten. We are logged out and I refuse to put forth the effort required to log back in. It has become clear that virtual kindergarten is an oxymoron and an impossibility. I tell the kindergartener to do a puzzle.
11:30am: Lunch Break! This I can do.
11:36am: Not so fast. I burn three grilled cheeses. Clearly off my game. I decide they are salvageable and scrape off the charred bits. Lunch is served.
11:45am: Still on lunch break, I play music to lift my spirits and I give myself a major mental pep talk. I search for silver linings. We dance in the kitchen.
12pm: Lunch break is over. Back to school!
12:02pm: 3rd grader is back at her desk learning. Like actually learning. The teacher and my daughter are talking to each other in Spanish. She is taking notes with a sharpened pencil as she sits in the desk that I built. (Ok. Built is strong. The desk that I assembled.)
12:05pm: I close the door to her bedroom feeling very proud of her but mostly proud of myself. I assembled that desk! And that chair! What a marvelous little learning nook I created. What a precious little learner.
12:10am Kindergartner is logged in and doing kindergarten-ish things. Maybe even learning? Yes. Learning is happening.
12:30am: So this is kindergarten. They are talking about letters and colors and feelings. Everyone is muted except for the teacher. The system seems to be working.
But wait. What is this? Oh no. I feel my tears coming.
12:35am: I excuse myself to cry. Again. The 11am cry was because I was frustrated by the technology and overwhelmed by it ALL. But this time I cry because I’m genuinely sad. Virtual school makes me sad. This is not at all how kindergarten should be. I am sad for my daughter who isn’t meeting her amazing teachers in person, being the line leader, the lunch captain, or the lucky one who gets to feed the class guinea pig. She doesn’t get to meet new friends and ride the bus with her big sister like she has dreamed about. Virtual 3rd grade is fine, but pales in comparison to the in school experience. I cry for the teachers who did not sign up for this either. I know they have broader learning objectives than just teaching the kids how to mute and unmute. Not being able to really connect with their new students must break their hearts. I wonder how many teachers cried today too.
Our district has promised “at least” nine weeks of virtual school. In my sad cry, nine weeks feels like an absolute e-t-e-r-n-i-t-y.
12:45pm: I pull it together and read a few books to the two-year-old.
1:00pm: Kindergartner calls me in. Her iPad has 10% battery left. Interesting considering it literally charged the entire weekend.
1:02pm: Plug it in. It immediately runs out of batteries and won’t turn back on.
1:05pm: Quit virtual kindergarten. Again. Definitely for the day and maybe for the year.
1:06pm: Something must be done. Activate Problem Solving Mode! Do we join a pod? Do I hire a tutor? Maybe I will pull her out of public school and homeschool? Maybe I’ll just buy a kindergarten workbook and some flash cards? Should I read to her for three or four hours each day? Who needs kindergarten anyway? French children don’t learn to read until they are eight or nine, right? Maybe she repeats kindergarten and this year is just practice? How about a gap year? Maybe we should buy and RV and drive to Australia? Should we send her to a private school offering in-person class? To whom shall I write the check?
1:15pm: Break my no-TV-during-the-school-week policy and turn on PBS Kids. Then, it’s back to third grade to help with the All About Me PowerPoint.
1:30pm: Closing Bell! The first day of virtual school is finally over.
2pm: Nap time for the two-year-old. Exhale.
2:30pm: 3rd grader practices piano, kindergartner colors beside me, and I tackle my inbox.
3:30pm: My kindergartner tells me I’m her best friend.
4:30pm: Husband calls and says he is coming home early. This never happens. He must have gotten the Bat Signal. He offers to take the girls to the park. Clearly I made the right choice when I made him co-signer of those thoughtful first day of school letters.
5pm: Dad walks in the door. As usual, he receives a war hero’s welcome from his three daughters. His wife is also truly delighted to see him.
“How was the first day of school?” he asks the 3rd grader.
“SO awesome.” she says.
“How was school?” he asks the kindergartner.
“Perfect.” she says.
Here is what’s going on right now in my Cabin at Camp Coronavirus.
Allow me to paint the picture of my current responsibilities:
- Working. Usually my day job brings me a sense of joy, purpose, pride and accomplishment. But corporate America currently feels like this. I work in healthcare, and I feel compelled to step up at work now more than ever. We’re all are trying to put down the railroad tracks as the train comes rolling behind us.
- Homeschooling my second grader. She typically spends her days at a Spanish immersion elementary school. I do not speak Spanish, nor do I speak Common Core math. Fielding her questions in two languages while keeping her on academic quarantine during school hours so she can concentrate on her work is a challenge. So far, my teaching method of explaining the directions the exact same way only louder each time doesn’t seem to be helpful for her education or for our relationship. The “educational” games (games!) on her school-issued iPad seem too easy, while the stacks of worksheets seem too complex.
- Parenting a two-year-old. Our resident two-year-old, to complicate matters, has zero interest in watching TV. (Delivery room mix-up. DNA test pending.) I’d let her sit and watch The Godfather trilogy if it would give me a little break. She’s happiest when she is eating or emptying the contents of drawers.
- And I feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh yeah. The middle child. Has anyone seen her? Wait…Where is she? Oh. There she is. She’s in my bathroom playing with my makeup. And why won’t the toilet flush? Because it’s clogged with half a roll of toilet paper torn off one sheet at a time. I mean, read the headlines, kid.
Here is snapshot of a single moment in time: I’m answering work emails, resolver problemas matemáticos con mi niña, muting the conference call so I can discipline, console, referee, educate, and feed one of a thousand meals a day to three frat boys who don’t understand why I’m rationing the bread.
After too many long days of that losing game of wack-a-mole, I reached my breaking point. I could feel the tears rising to the surface. And you know what finally broke the floodgates? Bing. I accidentally downloaded a nasty virus wherein every time I Google something, the bunk search engine Bing opens instead, along with five pop-up ads. The Bing virus was my breaking point that made me feel ALL THE FEELINGS associated with Coronavirus. I started bawling. Cue the full-on ugly cry.
Bottom line: This new reality is disorienting and draining for me as a working, homeschool mother, quarantined…with a two-year-old. And oh, the open-endedness of it all! How long will this last? And the middle child. Has anyone seen her? Wait…Where is she? Oh. There she is. She’s in her bathroom putting Vaseline in her hair and smearing it all over the counter.
In my blissful previous life (three weeks ago) I could have written a book about work-life balance. My secret? Setting clear boundaries between the two. I try my best to be all in when I’m at the office and all in when I’m at home. In the word of social distancing, there is no separation and no boundaries between home and work. It all inevitably bleeds together. My work responsibilities seep into the nooks and crannies previously reserved for home life and hands-on parenting. And my parenting responsibilities have increased now that I am the head teacher (profesora) and the primary childcare provider. I feel exhausted and overwhelmed and like I’m failing at ALL OF IT.
In the good old days, I felt zero guilt going to work. I was at the office while my kids were at school, at preschool, at soccer and ballet. Or I was working from home — a child-free, clean, quiet home (ahhh, paradise). But now we are all home. All together, all day. I’m constantly having to make choices about who needs me most. I hate missing out on quality time with my little people when I’m working. But when I’m dealing with the screaming and complaining and arguing and snack demanding, I fantasize about my former life in my quiet office where I could concentrate and wear real clothes.
And I have a confession. I envy other mothers who seem to be living their best lives right now. I see their color-coded homeschool schedules, themed scavenger hunts, culinary creations and art projects. Some of my best friends are really loving the teaching and the togetherness. And so would I. I think. If that was the only thing I had on my plate and if the youngest student in my class was 8 (not 2). And oh yeah. The middle child. Has anyone seen her? Wait…Where is she? Oh, there she is. Using a green permanent marker to scribble on her white bedroom carpet.
This quarantine, social distance scenario amplifies the tension and guilt that working mothers feel even on the best, pandemic-free days.
I had a good solid cry followed by a long walk (still legal) to process my feelings and catch my breath. What I tried last week didn’t work. It was unsustainable and who knows how long this whole thing will last. Weeks? Months? I’m gonna make some changes. Here’s the plan:
I will be my own version of a homeschool teacher. Even at my best, I am no substitute for my daughters’ amazing teachers. I’m taking the pressure off and we will all just do our best to get it done. I can manage and maybe even enjoy it if I do it my own way. This will involve scrapping the common core and encouraging my students to focus on reading, reading, reading, letter writing, and learning new dance moves. Mrs. Fizzle will be the substitute Spanish teacher via El Autobus Magico on Netflix. My school will not operate during traditional school hours. And the lunch lady is hot.
I will get my job done and make a meaningful contribution to my team at work. I love my job. (Shout out to my man in the IT department who helped me remove the Bing virus). Sure, sending an email will take me longer with three children sitting in my lap, but such is life for a working mom. The workday may have stops and starts and the work week may be longer but that will be OK for now. I know this won’t last forever. Right? Right. I’m also rethinking our decision to social distance from our beloved nanny. Doing so made me social distance from my sanity and I just don’t know if it’s worth it.
I will use this time to soak in the amazingness of each of my children, at exactly the ages they are right now. Last week had me peering through the windows half envying families with older children. I felt like my kids were too young for me to relish this particular, albeit peculiar, moment in time. Many families are finding peace in the tranquility and stillness that this forced timeout offers. They are playing rounds of Scrabble, baking bread, and learning to play the piano. That peaceful picture of life during this pandemic feels quite different than the day-to-day in my quarantined cabin. We can’t do crosswords, thousand-piece jigsaw puzzles, or have a family game night without someone eating the pieces. Only three out of the five of us can actually read, so I don’t have endless hours to crank through my personal to-be-read pile of books. But there is joy to be found in the sequestered slow-down and an opportunity to soak up extra time with my children, ages 7, 4 and 2. I could write a mile-long list of silver linings.
I will treasure these long days and lazy weekends. Today, the girls and I made pancakes, did chalk art in the driveway, danced and decorated for Easter. Yes, there were meltdowns, minor burns, and a raisin in the ear incident, but it was a good day. A really good day. I took a stroll with my one-of-a-kind-seven-year-old and we played Sleeping Queens while the little ones napped. Even the two-year-old had moments of true greatness. I am convinced she will be a value-add to our family in the long run. And the middle child. There she is. She’s across the table from me, peacefully building a magna-tile mansion for her family of figurines. I love the imaginary worlds she creates.
This week out there in the world will not be a good one. We will witness the increasingly devastating impact this scary virus has on our nation’s health, our healthcare system, and our economy.
I will continue to be grateful that my struggles are nothing compared to what others are facing right now.
But I am committed to making this week inside my cabin at Camp Corona better than the last.
I will lower my expectations.
I will let some of it go.
I will prioritize the things that matter most.
I will stop comparing my experience to everyone else’s highlight reels.
I will take time to create special moments with each of my children.
I will offer myself and my fellow campers grace and patience as we figure this out together.
Required preread: We Thought We Found the Perfect Nanny
Whence last we spoke, I was in a puddle of tears due to the no-show-nanny on day one of my new job. The exhaustive nanny hunt followed by the nanny trauma drama had me shook, but as we women do, I put one high-heeled foot in front of the other and marched onward.
By day I was leaning in, learning the ropes at my new company and proving to them that I was the right man for the job. Each workday also offered the logistical challenge of onboarding a patchwork of pinch-sitters in efforts to keep things rolling along as smoothly as possible for my three little girls.
By night I was interviewing, reference checking, and mining the fields for a new crop of potentially permanent nannies.
But by late night, was conducting a Keith Morrison style investigation into who exactly this woman was that betrayed my trust and evaporated into thin air with our house key and our car seats. Hindsight, fact finding via the online Yellow Pages, and Monday morning quarterbacking have led me to these grim conclusions:
Red Flag #1: She gave me a printed copy of her “background check.” Even more concerning: she did not accept my request through Sittercity to conduct an official background check or driving record check of my own. What was she hiding?
Red Flag #2: Turns out she has three different names according to the internet. Anyone who has seen one episode of Dateline knows this is code for creepy.
Red Flag #3: In the words of my four-year-old who spent time with her during her orientation, ”She was nice but her car smelled bad and I didn’t like her music.” Car smells are a BIG DEAL to kids. I can still recall the stench of a certain wood paneled station wagon from the carpool of my youth. I am convinced that my acute adult motion sickness originated while sitting in the backety-back of our neighbor’s smelly Buick as a kid while Kenny G blared from the tape deck. To this day, any time I hear this saxophone sonata, I am immediately nauseous. Simply put, Hallie did not care for that stanky stank or the soundtrack. These. Things. Matter.
I see some of you out in the wild and I always get asked “Did you ever get your car seats back?” That brings me to the next red flag.
Red Flag #4: After a STRONG dose of legalese from my husband via text and voicemail, the car seats finally appeared on our back porch in the dark of night a few weeks after it all went down. But. Instead of unclipping them like a normal human, she cut them out. That means she used some sort of industrial strength pruning shears to cut the seatbelt material attached to the latch clip that attaches the car seat to the car. Car seats are useless if they can’t be secured to the car. What conclusions can we draw from this seat snipping situation?
- A) This lady has ZERO childcare experience because anyone who has been around kids would know rudimentary car seat mechanics. This would therefore mean that she faked her references. Something that makes sense considering those phone calls were, well, odd.
- B) This was an act of malicious aggression.
- C) All of the above.
I am currently using my # 2 pencil to fill in “C” on my scantron. Keep your eyes on your own paper.
In conducting this postmortem, I can see it all so clearly now. We dodged a serious bullet by not having this duplicitous wackadoo take care our most precious precocious possessions. I really think Someone was looking out for us, and I am honesty relieved that this woman did not spend another moment in my home with my children.
Thankfully, this suburban legend has a happy ending. We found the perfect nanny who has now been with our family for over a year. I love her, my children love her, and she does all the things necessary to keep the all spinning plates in the air on the home front. I would literally give her my kidney if she needed it. She can certainly have my gallbladder and I would most likely give her one of my more vital organs if the need arises.
Her car even smells good.
I spent the week before her official start date writing a dissertation on the care and keeping of my children. The mental and emotional load that we mothers carry is a heavy one to share. I did two days of training with Carol in an attempt to download all of the minutia about rules, routines, and the preferences and particularities of each of my girls. We drove the carpool loops together and along the way I pointed out the local parks. I introduced Carol to our neighbors, installed new car seats in her car, and gave her our house key.
I went to bed the night before my triumphant return to the working world confident that the two most important decisions were behind me. I had found the perfect nanny and I had found the perfect outfit to wear on my first day. I was ready to walk the road ahead in my sensible pumps and power suit.
Carol was supposed to arrive at 8:15 on Tuesday morning. Around 7:45 I got this text:
No worries. Neither me or my husband had to be at the office early that day.
Atlanta traffic is the worst, and though she had been to our house several times, she had yet to do the drive during morning rush hour. She quickly texted back.
Meanwhile my husband and I were wondering who would ever want to drive that far for work. We had a hunch that the commute would be too much and asked her MANY times thought the hiring process if the drive would be too far. She repeatedly reassured us that it wouldn’t be a problem at all. “As long as I have my music,” she said sweetly, “the drive won’t bother me a bit.” Then around 8:30am I get this text …
Of course she won’t. It’s way too far to drive for work, no matter how smart, funny and adorable my children are. I grumbled that I wish she had realized this weeks ago. Ugh. I texted back:
No response.
And crickets. I called her twice. No answer, no response, straight to voicemail. 8:30. 8:40. 8:50. The pit in my stomach grew and grew as my husband took the hopeful stance that GPSs aren’t always accurate assuring me that surely she will be here any minute.
I stood on our front porch in my power pumps with my baby on my hip, willing her tiny black car to come down our street.
By 9am when it was crystal clear that Carol was not coming, we sprang to action making a backup plan. I frantically packed a bag of baby paraphernalia, did some car seat shuffling, and made plans for my amazing parents to take care of #3 all day and pick up #2 at school. My husband took the baby to my parents’ house and I jumped in the car for my first day of work. On my commute, I called the elementary school and a dear friend to coordinate after-school arrangements for #1. Adrenaline pumping after the chaotic morning, I walked in the office on my first day a cool ten minutes early.
For the next 8+ hours I completely compartmentalized. I dove headfirst into my new role and tried to make at least a decent first impression with my colleagues. I even made a new friend in the IT department which, as you know, is essential. I got in the car after a great first day, with the peace of mind that this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
On my commute home I interviewed yet another nanny. I held back tears as I explained to her what we were looking for and what went down earlier that morning. But when I walked in the door to find my mom holding the baby and my dad serving mac & cheese to the big girls, I started bawling. My oldest daughter started crying when she saw me crying. She LOVES drama and was on pins and needles as I tearfully recounted the morning’s events. My three-year-old gave me a big hug and kept telling me how sorry she was that my hair was turning brown. “I’m so so sorry your hair is turning brown, mommy” she kept saying. She understood the real trauma of the day. Roots.
I felt exhausted after putting so much time and emotional energy searching for the person to care my three most precious possessions– for nothing. I felt betrayed and lied to. Clearly Carol is a person of questionable character. Better that we know that now. She ghosted on me in my time of need. Screening my calls and not returning my texts to tell me she wasn’t coming was low. She had spent time in our house and babysat for my children the weekend before her official first day. I was sick to my stomach-and I still am as I revisit all of this. What did I miss? Were her references even real? Had she really been rear-ended the week before when we sympathetically rescheduled her training day? She sent me a PDF of her background check. Am I an idiot for not doing my own background check on her? My calls go straight to voicemail. And though I have sent polite texts requesting that she return the car seats, they are still at large. Was all this just an elaborate scam to steal a few Gracos from an innocent family? Oh yeah, and she still has our house key.
To be honest, I thought that the background check that she provided us with would have been adequate. However, looking back on it now, I definitely should have got a second opinion.
This weekend I’m back at the beginning. Calling references, interviewing nannies, making an appointment for highlights, and I’ll most definitely be contacting a locksmith about changing our locks. In this situation, it’s definitely better to be safe than sorry.
And to think, my #1 concern about Carol was that she seemed too nice.
*Name changed just in case that wakadoo googles herself.
For Christmas this year, I’m asking for the perfect Nanny for my three children. In January, I am starting a new job at a new company that I am super excited about. BUT! We have less than three weeks to find our very own Mary Poppins. Let me give you a breakdown of the nanny hunt thus far.
Step 1: Emailed all my friends asking if anyone knew anyone who knew someone who knew someone. A direct referral would be ideal. (net: one candidate)
Step 2: Put an ad on SitterCity, AKA Nanny Tinder. (I got dozens of responses. some scary. some qualified. pretty hard to tell what’s what. )
Step 3: Put a post up on the local moms’ Facebook groups. (two leads)
Steps 4-8: Conducted phone interviews, face-to-face interviews, working interviews, contacted references, stalked Instagrams, and
Step 9: Lost excessive amounts of sleep wondering which one is the RIGHT one. (Still not sure.)
Step 10: Drafted an annotated version of the letter written by Jane and Michael Banks that manifested into Mary Poppins. The bold words below are my personal requirements and wishes. I’m hopeful that by writing this down and putting it on the internet, our magical dream nanny will appear.
Before we begin, here is the video of the Banks children singing their nanny song to freshen your memory.
Wanted a nanny for
If you want this choice position—so far I have held this position unpaid so perhaps a paid gig is
Have a cheery disposition. Yes. I want my children to want to be with you. I want you to blend naturally with our happy family.
Rosy cheeks, no warts! Appearance isn’t everything but it does count for something. Being put together shows you care. One of many data points.
Play games, all sort. We love games. Play games with them but DO NOT let them win (or cheat). One day we will release them into the Real World and they need to know how to win fairly and lose gracefully.
You must be kind, you must be witty. Yes yes. A good sense of humor is key.
Very sweet and fairly pretty. Fairly is the right word. Pretty but not too pretty. I have been reading US Weekly way too long to know how that story ends. The hot nanny didn’t do great things for the marriages of Jude Law, Ben Affleck, and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Why play with fire? Amiright, ladies? A 7 out of 10 would be just fine.
Take us on outings, give us treats. Take them on lots of outings (particularly to the places I don’t want to go) like the Aquarium, the Planetarium, and the germ-ridden bouncy house place.
Sing
Never be cross or cruel. But don’t get walked over. They are crafty. Earn their love and their respect.
Never give us castor oil or gruel. But mandate that they eat all their vegetables if they want dessert. Make them brush their teeth.
Love us as a son and daughter. Yes. Please please please LOVE my children. Get to know each of them individually. Figure out the ways they feel loved, and celebrate and appreciate and adore them.
And never smell of barley water. Good hygiene is key. Smokers need not apply.
If you won’t scold and dominate us. They will need scolding from time to time. Let’s try to be on the same team as far as discipline. Because it will be needed.
We will never give you cause to hate us. Though they might test your patience and push the limits, they really are fantastic.
We won’t hide your spectacles So you can’t see (But they might throw minor tantrums when the Elsa dress needs to be forcibly removed.)
Put toads in your bed Or pepper in your tea. (But they will squabble over who gets which colored cup, who gets the map placemat, and cut one piece of paper into
Hurry, Nanny! LIKE SERIOUSLY. On a deadline.
Many thanks.
Sincerely,
Jane and Michael Banks Jennifer
Let’s go fly a kite.
- “I’m only going to drink wine on the weekends, not during the week.”
- “I’m going to let myself watch this season of the Bachelorette but I’m NOT going to watch Bachelor in Paradise.”
- “I’ll only eat at Chipotle on a day that included some sort of exercise.”
More flossing, less Bravo, fewer carbs, earlier bedtimes, and dessert limited to special occasions.
It’s a total drag.
For me, one such rule has been to not look at my phone in bed at night. About a year ago, I realized I had a problem. It would start innocently, reading news articles that inevitably put me in a sour mood. From there I would turn to Instagram to lighten the vibe. I’d loose track of time in the abyss of friends, friends of friends, and flat-out strangers’ renovations, adoptions, breast augmentations, weddings, separations and vacations. Mindlessly immersing myself into the goings-on at a neighbor’s bachelorette party should be fun, but it left me feeling hollow and a little jealous of all those neat ladies who just spent the weekend in Palm Beach. The biggest problem was that all of this aimless scrolling was cutting into my pre-bed reading of actual books, something I truly love. But I confess that I had become somewhat addicted to ending my day with my phone in hand. So what is a gorgeous Xennial to do?
I’ll tell you what I did. I bought a Kindle Paperwhite. It is exactly like the classic Kindle e-reader but with a really pleasing mellow backlight that enables reading in all scenarios, from pitch black darkness to the sunny beach.
My Kindle Paperwhite fills that tragic millennial void of needing time in front of a screen before bedtime. Because of this awesome gadget, my reading life has been taken to new heights. I read more, read faster, and I have instant access to any book ever. My phone is far less appealing these days and it has all but been eliminated from my pre-bedtime ritual. I even got My Man a paperwhite for Christmas and he too is totally in love. And reading our e-books side-by-side in bed is far more romantic than reading on iPhones. Right? Right.
I am sharing this today because it’s Prime Day! I’m still a little confused about what exactly we are celebrating there, but let’s go with it. In honor of this sacred day honoring our addiction to Amazon and maybe Jeff Bezos’ birthday(?), I wanted to spread the good news that this darling little gizmo is on Super Sale.
Once you pull the trigger, here are two ways to make the most of your Kindle:
- Download the Libby or Overdrive apps and checkout e-books from the library’s online catalogue. Your local library has zillions of titles that you can get wirelessly delivered to your Kindle for FREE. FREEEEEEEE!
- Subscribe to the Modern Mrs. Darcy daily email wherein she shares which worth-reading e-books are on major sale each day. Snatch em up. (It was her podcast that inspired this awesome evening.)
An eReader will never replace actual paperbound books in my heart, but it sure does make it easier to read books like this in bed and/or in public without judgement.
For our family, typical beach days are full to the brim with the application and reapplication of sunscreen and extreme lifeguarding as we schlep between the beach and the pool. When it comes to swimming, our children’s confidence far outpaces their actual ability, so my stress and anxiety is on high alert when my little daredevils are near open water. And when we are on the beach, they want to be IN the ocean, not quietly building sandcastles. This means that we, their parents, are in the ocean too, playing man on man defense between them and the crashing waves. Why even bother bringing beach chairs because there is absolutely no sitting during daylight hours. One child demands to be carried across the “dirty” sand, the other complains that her sunscreen stings, and both battle with us over who has to wear a puddle jumper and a swim shirt and who doesn’t. . It’s a week full of memories and glimpses of family fun, but man, it is hard work.
There has to be a better way! My husband and I said to each other after a particularly expensive and exhausting family beach week a few years ago. Well, there is! We just got back from a family beach trip and it was fantastic. I feel rested and refreshed and even more in love with my man and my little ones. YES, it’s possible. Lean in and listen closely as I share the two words that will help you turn your family TRIP into a true VACATION:
Beach Camp.
We are on our second summer vacationing this way and it is just the best.
Last year we went to Hilton Head, South Carolina and I scoured the internet to find a local day camp for our then 2 and 5 year-old daughters to attend. I found a precious Montessori preschool with spots for both girls and signed up. Double bonus that the camp happened to be in biking distance from our beach house. Each morning, we took the tandem to camp drop-off and hugged our chickadees goodbye, then headed off to enjoy 4+ solid hours of actual vacation. My man and I went out for breakfast, took long bike rides, and actually (wait for it) sat in our beach chairs on the beach. It was blissful. Then around 1:00pm, we biked to pick up our campers and enjoyed the rest of the day as a family.
This year we intentionally set out to find a new beach destination that had the option to put the biggest sisters in camp. We found a lovely rental house at Kiawah Island, South Carolina. It was a five minute walk to be beach, a four minute walk to the pool, and a three minute walk to Kamp Kiawah. And as you know, when you spell camp with a “K” it has to be fun. So that is where we spent the first week of June this summer. It was bliss.
In the mornings, we dropped the big girls off at camp and then enjoyed relaxing breakfasts on our porch. What followed would be some combination of golf, tennis, walking, beach sitting, reading, or exploring grounds of this gorgeous hotel. I finished a handful of books and actually got to have meaningful conversations with my husband. Both of those things made possible by the fact that I wasn’t lifeguarding all day long.
Meanwhile, our girls were having big fun at beach camp-I mean Kamp. They LOVED it. We’d pick them up after lunch and have the rest of the day to live it up as a family. Because I had spent the first half of the day recharging the ol’ battery, I easily transitioned in to super-awesome-mom-mode. I raced my oldest daughter down waterslides head first, collected shells, swam in the ocean, and carried the 35 pounder across the “dirty” sand without so much as an eyeroll. At night we swam until the pool closed, explored different beaches on the island, found a radio station that played Delilah, drank margaritas with a view, and played rounds of (naked) Headbandz-still legal in South Carolina. It was an amazing week.
Now that we have seen the light and tasted true rest during a family trip, there is no going back-at least not for a while. One day in the future, when each child has passed the YMCA swim test, can read chapter books, be trusted to apply their own sunscreen, and wipe independently, we will embrace a week of full-on family beachness. Until then… Beach Kamp.
We knew this was the year to take our four-and-a-half year old daughter Harper for her first time. So early last fall I started looking into planning a trip. Well my friends, lesson one is that a lot has changed since the Disney trips of the days of yore. It is not as simple as it was in 1986. We started planning our February trip in October, which I found out was really late in the game—nearly too late to get a room with a park view and a meal with even a second-tier princess. So we enlisted the help of a Disney Vacation Planner (yes those exist). She helped us navigate the world of Fastpasses, character meals, MagicBands, hotel reservations, the Disney app, park hopper tickets, and all the other new-age logistics of our grand adventure. And her services are FREE–the only free thing in what is shaping up to be the most expensive trip we have taken since our honeymoon. To a private island. Basically my husband and I could go to Europe for a week or take our four-year-old to Disney for a few days. We chose Disney because…well because… childhood is but a blink. And magic!
The first decision we made was to leave one-and-a-half-year-old Hallie back at home while the rest of us fly to Florida. I am well aware that children under two fly for free and get into Disney World for free, but that is definitely a booby-trap. Free does not equal fun nor does it equal wise. Hallie is way too young to remember what would amount to a high-wire feat of A-level parenting required to keep her happy in a stroller for 14 hour days. She is also afraid of roller-coasters.
Once we had the trip logistics nailed down, we had to decide how and when to tell Harper the Big News that we were going to Disney World. We considered telling her the night before we planned to fly out. I think I saw that in a Disney commercial once and it was awesome. She would have gone BANANAS, but we would have missed out on the solid gold that would have come from her anticipating the trip. One of the things I love most about Harper is how genuinely excited she gets about pretty much everything. Birthday parties, elevators, desserts, a song on the radio, Tuesdays, school days, weekends, a new toothbrush, old goldfish she finds in her car seat—all of it. She just gets hyped up about whatever’s now and whatever’s next. On a recent Target trip, I bought her some basic white socks. She was absolutely beside herself with excitement when I pulled them out of the bag to show her. “Oh mommy, how did you know?! This is exactly what I wanted! I love them so much. Thank you thank you. And they fit perfectly!” My precious little orphan Annie. If she was that excited about new socks, I knew the Disney surprise would blow her little mind.
So for Christmas we made a plan for her last gift to tell her that we are taking her on a trip to Disney World.
Hidden in the tree was a red card with her name on it that said “open me last.” Inside was the first clue to the scavenger hunt, or “scabenger hunt” in her precious preschool pronunciation.
The first clue was in a bag that said “WHO?”
The clue inside said “You! And Mommy and Daddy” and told her where to find the next clue. It also told her that my parents (AKA Mimi and Buzzo) are joining us for part of our mystery adventure.
The next clue said “WHEN?” and the paper inside told her “The first week of February” and had a little countdown calendar with the day marked.
The next clue was in a bag marked “WHY?” Inside the paper said “Because we love you!” and told her where to find the next clue. She rushed from room to room with all of us following behind.
The next clue was in a bag that said “WHAT?” on the outside and inside said “A very special family vacation on an airplane!” At this point she started freaking out because that will be a first for her. And we should all freak out a little because flying through the air really is quite remarkable.
The last and final clue was in a big bag that remained hidden until she came back in the living room.
The bag said “WHERE?” and inside was the big reveal of exactly where we’re heading.
The video of her opening the final clue and figuring out that we are heading to Disney World is something I know I will treasure forever. (Click HERE to see it if it doesn’t load. worth it.)
That poor little orphan child who cried tears of joy when I bought her new socks has never been on an airplane before. She is beside herself with excitement about that component of our adventure. In fact, we could probably just take her to ride the big escalator at the airport and stop there to watch the planes and it would be the thrill of a lifetime for her—but we will press on to the Magic Kingdom. Hi Ho!
If I’m honest, John and I are just as excited as she is. Seeing your children experience new things with pure unfiltered joy of is one of the absolute best parts of being a parent. I’ll choose that over a trip to Europe any day.
Click HERE to see Harper talk through the details.
((And for those of you planning a trip to see Micky Mouse in his natural habitat, you absolutely must reach out to Tara Verdigets at WDW Getaways ([email protected]). Her services are free and she speaks fluent Disney.))
We started off dating long distance, swapping weekends between Atlanta and DC. I recall many tearful Monday mornings after parting ways at the airport, tears running down my cheeks that were sore from smiling so much. Our weekends together were a blast. We played tennis, took long walks, went to concerts, and danced at weddings. We talked for hours over dinner, drank wine on back porches, took road trips, and got to know each other’s friends and families. He taught me how to play guitar and talk intelligently about Braves baseball, and I taught him how to lose graciously at Gin Rummy and appreciate The Bachelor (Brad Womack round two). We publicly displayed boatloads of affection, wrote love letters and mailed each other mix CDs.
Dating the person you are going to marry is the very very best.
Then we got married. And that sentence should definitely end with an exclamation point because our marriage has been pretty dreamy. I have to say that I absolutely picked the right one. We just fit. Of course we are two imperfect humans, sharing a life with bills and babies and a mortgage and car maintenance, and one of us can never find her credit cards and the other of us gets irrationally aggravated with a losing baseball team and being on hold with the cable provider-so naturally we have occasional squabbles and attitudes, but things on the marriage front are good. Like really really good. Lo these many years later, I still have a huge crush on him. Our marriage is not full of tension or endless compromises and negotiations. We are great friends who love spending time together, more alike than different, and so secure in each other’s love.
But because things in our marriage are “easy,” it makes it easy to get a little lazy. Many days I go straight from workout clothes to frumpy PJs with white dabs of zit cream dotted on my face. I confess that I sometimes save my most charming and engaging side for other people, my most serving and selfless side for my children, and he ends up getting whatever is left.
When I reflect back on our dating life, which seems like ages ago, I think what I miss most is the dating version of me. It was me who was different-well not different, but definitely letting my sparkliest sides shine. And falling in love brings those sparkles out, doesn’t it? I recall one specific instance that pretty much encapsulates the whole thing. It was the time I woke up at 5am on Thanksgiving morning to join him for the last few miles of a half marathon he was running. Together we ran 5 miles uphill in the dark cold pouring rain. Everything in that last sentence is just plain wrong. But this was love and we were dating and that is the kind of thing you do without even a complaint or second thought when you are dating. It wasn’t that I was selling him a bill of goods or baiting the hook-I was just all in. I had that insatiable desire to be with him and make him happy and if that meant being cold and physically exerting myself before sunrise on a holiday intended for sloth and gluttony, then damnit, let’s do it.
So today, on the eight-year anniversary of when we got engaged, I want to commit to dating my husband. Not necessarily planning romantic rendezvous and epic dates per se, though that would be nice too, but more so being the version of myself that I was when we were dating.
Sure, I got this thing on lock, but I want to try harder…
I want to put a little more effort into my after-hours appearance. I want to try to sparkle a little more. More talking, more togetherness, a touch of flirting, occasional eyeliner. I want to continue to get to know him-to ask him questions and to understand him and care more about the things he cares about. I want to compliment him and cuddle with him and go out of my way to do kind things for him. I want to (metaphorically) say yes to running together, uphill in the rain.
Let’s see if he notices.
Off to make My Man a mix CD.
A wise friend encouraged me to be gentle with myself during this time while I heal emotionally and physically. Be gentle with yourself… what wonderful advice. I loved that and it really has been such a healthy mindset-and not a bad way to live period. Here is how I have been being gentle with myself and what I have been doing lately to help the fog lift:
- Doing the things that make me happy. Long walks, takeout, crosswords, music, magazines, Netflix, and spending time with friends.
- Doing things that make my children happy. I have been especially grateful for my little chickadees these past few weeks, and as a result I’ve been more indulgent (and more patient) than usual. Extra ice cream, park time, play dates and movies for everyone.
- Feeling the feelings, talking, writing and sharing. I was nervous to press publish on that last post. But it turns out that it was quite cathartic to put it all out there. So many of you have experienced the same sort of loss, and it has been so helpful to share my story and to hear yours.
- Getting back into the flow. After a few days of weepy wallowing, it was time to rejoin society. Returning to regularly scheduled programming and a routine that includes showers, under-eye concealer, real clothes and leaving the sofa is a good thing.
- Saying yes. So often in life we say no when someone offers to do something nice for us because we don’t want to be a burden or an imposition. But when I was recovering from the surgery and the physical portion of all of this, I just said yes. Can I pick up dinner on the way home? Yes. Need anything from Costco? Yes. Can Harper come play? Yes. Another brownie? Another episode? Another glass? Yes. Yes. Yes.
- Saying no. Sometimes no is the best answer. Spin class? No. Conference call? No. That thing you invited me to that I don’t feel like going to? No.
- Buying things. Contrary to what a professional therapist may lead you to believe, retail therapy may actually be helping. I bought a couple dresses to spice up my spring wardrobe, among other things. Since there has been a sudden spike in spending, I was not at all surprised when SunTrust called to see if my credit card was stolen. But it turns out that my card number actually was compromised. Some crook Ubered all over Miami, went on a shopping spree at Zara and made a series of charges to an online dating site for single parents. The jig is up, my friend. SunTrust is coming for you.
- Reading my reads. Currently reading and thoroughly enjoying this book and this book.
- Watching my watches. A friend who knows me well and loves me well recently gave me her HBO Go login information. She knew just what I needed in my time of need. I have been catching up on Girls, Togetherness, Veep and Olive Kitteridge.
- Going to church. We took the family to church the Sunday after everything. We’ve been trying to lean in and worship even though it aches a bit. It really helped us. I found it particularly healing, even though I was skeptical about going first. I can’t begin to tell you how good it was to be surrounded by friends and a community of people who are all trying to believe. It was like every song we sang that day was chosen especially for us and our situation. This song and this song really got me. I ugly cried pretty much the entire service. It was humbling but quite healing.
- Not going to church. We made the obvious choice not to go to church on daylight savings Sunday. That day, being gentle with myself meant sleeping late and not rushing out the door. Instead we had a leisurely family breakfast and went for a stroll together on a nearby trail. The sun was out and my heart felt full of joy and peace and gratitude for the first time in recent days.
The fog is indeed lifting. I knew it would. There are still sad moments but the sting is gone. Time and distance from all of this is healing. And I think I will continue to put things through the being gentle with myself filter. You should try it.
*Aren’t I funny on four hours of sleep?
Off we go…
My contractions started on Saturday night, while attempting to do some semblance of dancing at a wedding. At 40 weeks and 4 days pregnant, I was beyond ready to get the show on the road so I was delighted when they began. Weeks before, I had a few little moments where I asked myself, “was that a contraction?” I was reminded that night the answer was no. You KNOW when you are having a contraction, if you have to ask it doesn’t count. I spent the night tossing and turning in between painful contractions, excited and anxious knowing this could be it. I finally gave into not sleeping and got out of bed at 4am. I went downstairs and laid on the sofa, timing contractions and excavating treasures on the DVR as the sun came up and the rest of my family slept upstairs.
It is a crazy thing to be at the precipice of such a huge life change, to know and hope and pray that what you have waited for and wanted for so long is soooo close to happening you can taste it…but to not yet know the outcome, if all will be well and the baby will be healthy. My anxiety and excitement increased the closer I got to my due date, but that morning I felt a sense of peace.
I took those hours before the house woke up to write a letter to each of my daughters. I wrote one to Harper telling her all sorts of things about what I loved about her, prayed for her and hoped for her and what she meant to me. I also wrote one to baby #2– a letter telling her about how badly we wanted her and telling her how loved she already is. It was something I had wanted to do for a while, and that Mother’s Day morning, the morning after Harper’s third birthday and the day my youngest daughter would be born seemed like the right time.
I was happy to hear Harper call me in the morning when her light turned green, knowing it might be her last day of being my only one. I went into her room and told her today was the day she would become a big sister. She was SO excited, and bounced in her bed saying “today? Really? Today!?”
Harper ran down the hall and into our bedroom to wake up her daddy to tell him the news. When I told him my contractions continued all night, he slightly panicked and said we should go to the hospital. I said we should go out for breakfast. Priorities.
The three of us carb loaded for the day ahead, using a contraction app between courses to see if my contractions were getting closer. They were. Yowza! Pancakes helped with the pain.
After breakfast we hurried home to pack our bags. My parents came to pick up Harper and take her back to their house and My Man and I headed to the hospital.
Once we were at the hospital, we settled in and it was confirmed that yes, I was in actual labor. This I knew, but the doctor had to check and see for herself. The pain was getting intense.
((As I lay there trying to get a camel to go through the eye of the needle, My Man complained of a recent golf injury and buzzed the nurse for an icepack and some Advil. Yeeeep. ))
Meanwhile, I outlined the intricate and extensive details of my birth plan to the nurse who recorded it on the whiteboard in our hospital room.
It took what felt like fooorrreeevvveeerrr for the epidural to get administered and activate, but once it did, we could all breathe a little easier. Before the wondrous meds worked their magic, I felt like I had been flying cross country, bouncing around with the cargo. Getting the epidural upgraded my flight to coach, perhaps even business class. I was still very much a part of the flight and I arrived at the same destination, but I was able to enjoy the view and have polite conversation with my travel companion.
My travel companion (AKA my birthcoach AKA the baby’s father AKA the one with the”golf injury”) got off WAY easier once I was medicated than he would have if he had to talk me through each contraction—getting his circulation cut off by hand squeezes and perhaps being the scapegoat for pain-induced verbal assault. Instead, we actually enjoyed the time together in that hospital room as we waited for things to progress. We listened to some great music, rested, read, prayed, and discussed some possible names for baby girl. It was actually pretty special.
It wasn’t long before I started feeling some moderate pressure and called the nurse to see where things stood. After a quick check the nurse immediately said, “freeze! Don’t laugh, don’t cough! Let me get the doctor.” Six minutes later, she was here!!
Experiencing the LITERAL MIRACLE of life and holding our healthy warm baby on my chest is a feeling I will never forget. There were tears.
Big Sister came to visit me in the hospital and meet her baby sister the next day. I had picked out a dress for her to wear and envisioned a magical moment when the two would meet for the first time. Things didn’t quite go as planned. Harper was like a bull in a china shop that day. She busted in, thrilled to meet her baby sister, but got really frustrated when we wouldn’t let her hold the baby allbyherself, or carry the baby allbyherself, or poke the baby’s eyes or take the baby’s clothes off. Her love, in those first moments, was slightly aggressive but entirely sincere. A good foundation for a best friendship, I think. This is the best we could do for a photo of the magic moment.
The baby didn’t have a name till day three. This drove My Man and I both crazy and was not the least bit amusing to our family and the friends who kept asking. We weren’t trying to be dramatic, but naming a person is HARD. We had it down to four names going into the hospital, then down to two after she was born. Seeing that sweet angel face did not help make the decision for us. Brand-spankin-new babies, on the whole, look more like aliens / velociraptors / old men, and not quite like Julias and Mollys and Kates. In the eleventh hour, we finally we signed the official papers and named our little girl Hallie. We think it is precious and will serve her equally as well as the CEO of a fortune 500 company and as an Olympic athlete as it will as America’s Next Top Model.
And just like that, our family of three is now a family of four. Bringing home our second daughter and placing her all healthy and bundled in her crib made our joy complete.
Wearing: Snoozies. These slippers are like putting your feet in butter (or…uh…so I’m told). And in my current condition, comfort is king. I am most comfortable whilst wearing my loosely fitting cuddle duds and my generously proportioned loungeabouts and these cozy slippers complete the look when one has no intentions of leaving the house.
Doing: Some SERIOUS Nesting. Something about compulsively cleaning carpets and washing things in hypoallergenic unscented detergent makes me feel more ready for baby girl. I suppose these little things are the only things that I really have control over in this whole baby making, baby baking project – so I am clinging onto them for dear life. No closet or junk drawer has escaped my magic manic touch and you could seriously eat a meal off the floor in our garage. The before & afters would blow your mind. Now I know people (Hi Mom! Hi Sis!) who live their lives constantly decluttered, sorted, stacked, sanitized and color coded, but I am not one of them. There’s certainly something to it–it feels good. Let’s see how long it lasts…
Endorsing: Folex Instant Carpet Stain Remover. Yep. I’m at an age and stage of life where I want to tell the world about a carpet spot cleaner. College Jennifer is rolling her eyes. Anyway, the nursery rug was in a bad way and making it less scary looking was top of my nesting to-do list. I did a quick poll of some trusted friends and the internets and the resounding responses far as carpet cleaner was concerned was Folex. Y’all, this stuff works. Stains gone. Instant gratification.
Eating: Cereal. Crispex has snuck his way back in the rotation and I have a feeling it’s here to stay. And somehow a box of Golden Grahams ended up in my grocery cart. It’s a real whodunit. Um, delicious.
Reading: The Girl on the Train (Suspenseful. Page turner. If you liked Gone Girl, read this.) The Opposite of Spoiled (Important.) Praying Through Your Pregnancy (One week left then onto the baby books). The Rosie Project (Just finished it. A true delight.).
Watching: Madmen, Meet the Press*, House of Cards, NewsHour**, Better Call Saul, and Face the Nation***
*actually BRAVO hits like Real Housewives of New York City and Southern Charm
**translation: Newlyweds: The First Year
***more like the TLC classics 19 Kids and Counting and Brides by Design
Loving: Harper. That child cracks me up on the daily. A few recent exchanges:
Me: “Harper, will you help me make this bed?”
Harper: “Mommy, you are a big girl and I think you can do it alllllll by yourself.” Then she clapped for me when I finished and said, “See, I told you that you could do it.”(It seems that the student has become the teacher).
—-
Me: “Your daddy couldn’t meet us for lunch today because he had a meeting with clients.”
Harper (a few minutes later, after some deep thinking): “Mommy? Do you think the lions daddy is meeting with are nice lions?”
—-
Harper (said very matter-of-factly): “Boys need a little more booty.”
Me: Silent. Completely silent.
What a relief to know that she is learning these key life lessons from top-40 radio songs.
Wondering: When will this baby come? Will I go a week past my due date like I did with Harper? What will it be like to juggle two children? Will she look like Harper? Will I remember how to do it? Will my heart really expand to fit all the love?
Not really, but it has been eons since I updated ye old weblog.
Since last we spoke, we have traveled to Hilton Head to visit family, the North Carolina mountains with friends, Lake Rabun for a surprise engagement celebration, and to Nashville to see my sister and her man. We also took day trip to the Pumpkin Patch and Harper started preschool. Man oh man do I wish I had taken the time to chronicle each of these events, but life moves way too fast. (And truth be told we started watching Breaking Bad which is pretty time consuming. Late to the game, I know, but daaamn.)
Our October began with a week at the beach in Watercolor Florida. This time it was just the three of us: My Man, That Baby and me. My Man and I take vacation very seriously and aim to squeeze all the resting, reading and relaxation from our time away. Our serious vacationing before the baby meant hours sitting on the beach while reading and listening to music, long bike rides, late breakfasts, and leisurely dinners. With baby, our beach vacation looked a little different. There were zero point zero minutes where My Man and I sat side by side poolside.
That Baby is fearless and never stops moving and therefore needs a fully-attentive chaperone at all times, especially when surrounded by open water. We worked in shifts and alternated who was on bunny patrol (suicide watch) with who got to sit in a lounge chair and sip sweet tea. Whilst on vacation, Harper even developed a taste for sweet tea.
The weather was perfect and the beach was empty. We took long walks, bike rides and afternoon naps, ate seafood dinners, built sandcastles and played boardgames. Vacation is the very best–even, and perhaps especially, with The Bunny in tow.
Now for an update on Harper, the hairless wonder:
Harper’s little personality is becoming more pronounced every day. She is an independent little extrovert who knows what she wants and is officially able to tell us. Don’t ask her a question unless you want the hard truth. She tells it like it is. Me: “Harper, can I give you a big hug?” Her: “No tank you.” Me: “Harper! Did you just stick your hands in the toilet?” Her: “Yeah. Uh-oh.” She says new words every day and our conversations have expanded well beyond me quizzing her on the animal sounds and the location of her body parts. And she has recently started to string together sentences like a little foreign exchange student. “Go see MiMi, yeah?” “Me go park, yeah?” She can even sing a version of The Wheels on the Bus that would make anyone opt for public transit.
Our little lady also makes persistent song requests from the back seat as we drive around town. Like My Man, she likes to hear her latest favorite tune on repeat over and over again until it’s worn out. Her current favorite is Hello Everybody, the mildly annoying, sing-songy first cut from the Music Together CD. She loudly and frantically shouts “Hello plees, hello plees plees plees” from her car seat until I finally acquiesce and cue up the track. Then she relaxes into it, smiles, and exhales like a junky who finally got her fix.
They say boys are all over the place and into everything, but I can’t see a little boy being any more hands-on than Harper. She is fast and fearless and unfortunately quite injury prone. I have a collection of signed incident reports from the gym childcare, preschool and the church nursery describing Harper’s accidents– noting the location of the bump, the presence of blood, and whether or not ice was applied. I have to sign them because I think they are worried that we will file a lawsuit. Just yesterday she ran full speed ahead into a wooden column. She is a human pinball. Good thing she has extra padding and bounces back fast.
And what kind of parent would I be if I neglected to post Halloween pictures of my costumed child on the internet? I’m pretty sure that is the reason for the season.
Harper was a strawberry for Halloween.
Aaaaaand she was also a chicken.
Certified free range organic.
For the second year in a row, I pulled a pageant mom and had multiple costumes for my child. It is not that off the wall to have options considering she attended no fewer than five (5!) costume parties in the week leading up to Halloween. Boom. Justified.
And I can think of no better way to end this long overdue blog post than with a picture of That Baby in a backpack.
Happy fall, y’all.
The first month of motherhood was particularly hard. I knew my life would change but I didn’t know how much. Finally she was here, and no books or baby shower or Bradley class could prepare me for what to expect when the one I was expecting arrived. In those first few weeks I felt immense joy and gratitude for the blessing of a healthy, beautiful baby girl. I also felt…tired. And emotional. Totally par for the postpartum course. I loved Harper like crazy from day one, but figuring out the complex Sudoku puzzle of a newborn baby is serious business, especially for first-timers. The haze of hormones and exhaustion had me convinced that that the rest of my life would be lived in three hour cycles and at best, my nights would consist of a string of two-hour naps. And I know I’m going to get fined for saying this, but I sort of most definitely missed my old life. I had it really good.
My outlook improved once the hormones left my system around week two or three, but I still wouldn’t have used the word “fun” to describe my day-to-day scenario. I was eager to reclaim some sense of order to our days and sleep to our nights. Sorry hippies, but I was not okay with breastfeeding on-demand a zillion times a day and throughout the night. Though I have always thought of myself as a go-with-the-flow kind of gal, having my baby on an eating and sleeping schedule became the Holy Grail. I heard rumors of 8-week-old babies who slept 12 hours at night and I was desperate to have my baby be one of them. I envied those babies’ mothers with the same awe and wonder I’d previously directed towards gorgeous houses with fine furnishings, my sister’s perennial tan, and Italians with 42 days of paid vacation.
Harper’s consistent daytime and nighttime sleep was a priority to me – for her sake and for mine. But mostly for mine. I asked my mom friends a zillion questions, read books and blogs on the subject, and trusted my instincts. I got down to business when she was just a few weeks old, and soon enough that baby got her AMs and PMs sorted out. The first time she slept till 7am we threw a parade in her honor. The first time she till 8am we decided to keep her. Soon her naps became consistent and I was actually able to know when to plan things based on her eating and sleeping schedule. What a luxury it was to be able to tell a friend a time to come over for a visit when my shirt would be on!
That’s a perfect segue to the next topic. Before we dive in, I encourage the two men who read my blog to kindly reroute to ESPN dot com. It is about to get national geographic graphic up in here.
Ladies, circle up and let’s talk about it. Breastfeeding. These days the pressure is on to do it and love every minute. Otherwise, there’s a hundred percent chance that your child will be an obese biting asthmatic bed wetter forever in the slow reading group. I went to the classes and read the books and was delighted when things clicked and Harper was a good eater from the beginning. But breastfeeding is hard, even when it’s working well. Nursing is, at the very least, incredibly time consuming. In the early days that baby was eating at least 8 times a day, 30 minutes a feeding. That adds up to a whole lot of time spent topless. For some mothers breastfeeding can also be painful and frustrating if the logistics aren’t panning out and there are latch and flow issues. To be physically needed by your baby is both beautiful and incredibly intense. I was the only one who could meet her needs. Sure I could have someone else give her a bottle, but I would still have to pump it. And pumping is a whole other level of awkwardness and pain that can be filed under “the things we do for our children” and “the things that repulse and confuse our husbands.” Breastfeeding can also be pretty isolating for those of us who don’t feel totally comfortable baring it all in front of friends, fathers-in-law, dinner guests, and mall patrons.
On the plus side, I had breasts Real Housewives pay big money for. Double D’s y’all. But on the minus side, they were achy and purely utilitarian. You know your relationship has turned a corner when your man comes home from work to see his woman is sitting topless on the sofa and he doesn’t even bat an eye or do a double-take. In the old days that would have been an invitation to get frisky, but not this time. Carrying on regular how was your day, traffic was terrible, what’s for dinner, do we need anything from the store conversation while one of us was half nude takes it all to another level.
Despite my occasional gripes and constant questions, (is she getting enough? Does she have reflux? Should I cut out dairy? Will I pop a button if I wear this shirt?) there were certainly moments of sepia-toned wonder where I felt like a winged radiant earth mother. It is amazing to be able to provide all the nourishment your baby needs. And holding a drowsy milked-up baby is pure pleasure.
I (mostly) happily nursed Harper for a grand total of seven months. In conclusion: Glad I did it. Glad I’m not doing it anymore. I’d definitely do it again. I think.
Fortunately, those memories of the hard and less glamorous parts our first few weeks and months together are all but forgotten, tucked away with memories of the physical pain of the whole event, and upstaged by sweet thoughts of holding that tiny baby in my arms and becoming a family. Nonetheless, aspects of motherhood can be (and will likely continue to be) confusing and isolating and disorienting and exhausting. But those feelings have been in short-supply compared to the deep feelings of joy and pride and purpose and grace that I have felt this year. Life is different now, but I can say with complete certainty that it is even better than it was before. So much better. I love being a mother and not a day goes by that I take the gift of my little girl for granted. Watching Harper grow and change and learn every day has been incredible. And watching My Man take to fatherhood so naturally has made me have an even bigger crush on him. No one in the world loves Harper as much as we do and we are obsessed. Sharing her and loving her together is the very best. We freaked out (and continue to do so) with every new development. She grabbed a toy! She rolled over! She babbled! She climbed up the stairs! She walked! It’s all gravy. I am caught somewhere between wanting to freeze time so she stays this little and chubby and adorable forever and anticipating the excitement of the next stage. Talking! Hair!
Before I go to sleep, I sometimes quietly open the door to Harper’s nursery to sneak a peek at my sleeping baby. There is nothing in the world sweeter. In that short 15 seconds of my day, I feel a deeper sense of pure resounding joy than I have ever felt in my life. There are no words for that kind of love.
So to you new mothers of newborn babies, perhaps reading this post by the light of your iPhone during a 3am feeding: I am here to assure you that it not only gets better, it gets fun. Right now you are in the trenches. Running on adrenaline—surviving and making sure your little Giga Pet is fed, watered, swaddled and rested. You may have seen glimpses of the good stuff, but it is headed your way in buckets. One day oh so soon you will catch yourself laughing at and loving your little bitty human and wonder how on earth you got so lucky.
Watching…
HBO. We recently switched our cable service from Comcast to AT&T. (Side note: Take that Comcast! That’s what you get for refusing to lower our rates. We are with AT&T now. Those were not empty threats!) To sweeten the deal AT&T threw in three months of free HBO. Commercial-free movies? Yes please. Girls and Game of Thrones on-demand? Don’t mind if I do.
Wondering…
why we didn’t join the public library sooner? I confess that until recently neither me nor My Man had been in a library since college or shortly thereafter. Joining has been a total revelation. You guys. At the library you can borrow books and movies and audiobooks. For free! It’s all there for the taking and you can even place holds for your desired goods online with the click of a button. Instead of going to Amazon to buy the next book on my list, I go to the Atlanta Public Library website and reserve it and check it out. Just like that. Totally free. I know some of you are thinking “no duh” but if we have been missing out on the wonder that is the Public Library, I believe at least one of your loyal readers may be missing out too. Go there. Whisper. The librarians are still as loopy and meticulous as you remember. And the place smells exactly the same.
Reading…
- To stay current: New York Magazine
- To stay in touch with the past: The Old Testament
- To prepare for the future: On Becoming Pretoddlerwise: From Babyhood to Toddlerhood
- For kicks: The Family Fang: A Novel
Driving…
an electric car. You heard me right. Electric as in needs no gas to go. No gas at all. This, my friends, is the future. We got rid of My Man’s decrepit gas guzzler and added this one to our fleet. And the government gave us free money in the form of a tax credit for being so environmental. It was a steal and My Man is a tad obsessed with his new ride. I call him George Jetson.
Listening to…
NPR programming stream on my computer. I try not to have the TV on much when Harper is awake so that means that I don’t watch the morning news like I did pre-baby – that is if you consider The Today Show news which is highly debatable. So now I listen to it in the morning while Harper eats and plays and tries to put fireplace ashes into her mouth and attempts to stick her hands in the toilet to splash the water around. It’s like a delightful morning commute without the traffic. Once I have my fill of current events, I turn on the All Songs Considered 24/7music channel. It is a great way to discover well-curated new music.
Eating…
my very favorite scores from a recent trip to Costco: Angie’s Sweet & Salty Kettle Corn, Sheila G’s Brownie Brittle, and Homestyle Sweet Picked Beets.
Ya heard me. Beets! Don’t knock, ’em ’till you try ’em. If you like beets, which you should because they are colorful and delicious and do magical things for your health, then you’ve got to try these! The best way to enjoy them is in a salad with all the fixings. Recipe as follows: Greens (kale and/or spring mix lettuce) + Beets +apple + celery + green onion +avocado +dried cranberries + pecans + cheese (Gorgonzola or Goat or Feta) +dressing (Balsamic or Trader Joe’s Champagne Pear Vinaigrette)
Beets not your thing? Gurl you crazy. The good news is that this salad will still be delicious without them. Add some chicken or salmon and you’ve got dinner. Brownie Brittle for dessert.
Looking forward to…
a visit from my friend Marie and her baby Henry this weekend! My Man will be out-of-town whooping it up with his college friends so Marie and I will be housebound with our wee ones. Last time we saw each other we were both pregnant. You better believe we plan to take dozens of those adorably clich’d naked babies in the bathtub photos.
I’m also looking forward to a baby-free trip to New York next weekend to visit my friend Emily. Shopping! Shows! Wining! Dining! Good times ahead.
Loving…
my little one. Obviously.
God gives parents an amazing gift in that everyone thinks their own baby is awesome and wonderful and adorable and hilarious. It helps us get through the early days of round-the-clock feedings and the loss of personal freedom resulting from being housebound for naptimes and early bedtimes. That love helps diaper changes not smell as revolting as they ought to and helps us cope with the fact that no baby gate, play mat, or exersaucer will ever match our interior decor.
These days I just want to nibble those chubby cheeks and thighs and hug her tight. That girl is my heart. She cracks me up as I see her little personality emerge more and more every day. She laughs a lot and gets a total kick out of being chased around the house and crawling up the stairs the second I put her down. Harper is constantly on the move and finds pleasure in the simple things: plastic cups, spoons, blocks, books—and unfortunately can’t resist the lure of computer cables, outlets, open toilets, and the entry table I constantly tell her not to touch.
The sweet ladies in the nursery always comment on how happy and easy she is, but recently the report has been something along the lines of, “Harper sure knows how to take care of herself. You won’t have to worry about her.” This was a euphemistic way to tell me, her mother, that my sweet round daughter is something of a bully with the other babies. Apparently my little bald brute is a hair puller. I guess it is human nature to want what we don’t have. We’ll work on it.
Reality: Trees at Costco are 27.99 plus tax. That’s half the price of a tree from Big Johns or Home Depot and half the hassle of cutting down our own. Sold.
But here’s the catch. It’s a bare bones operation. You don’t get to walk acres or isles of trees to choose the most full and perfect. In fact, you don’t really get to see your tree at all before you buy it and get it home. You simply present your receipt to the man standing by the large truck in the Costco parking lot and he takes out up to three wrapped trees from the hundreds he has in the truck. You have to pick one of the three. It’s kinda like a gameshow. The trees are bundled tight in their mesh wrapping, so we used our best judgment to *hopefully* pick the best in the bunch. No unwrapping allowed.
This is the second year we have gotten our tree from Costco, so I guess you could say this is our family tradition…? Only last year, they tied the tree to the top of the car. There must have been some lawsuits or something because this year we had to do it ourselves. The tree truck man said he wasn’t even allowed to help supervise or offer tying tips. Eeeks. So I nominated myself for the job of tying the tree securely to the top of the car because I’d recently watched an episode of the Barefoot Contessa wherein she ties a stuffed pork tenderloin with butcher’s twine. Honestly how different could it really be?
Apparently very different. We were barely a mile away from the Costco parking lot when the tree started moving. So we opted to take the slower scenic route home and took turns reaching out of the sunroof to hold the trunk.
Fortunately, we made it home without losing any branches or causing any collisions. Once we got home, it was time to give the tree a fresh cut to even out the catawampus stump (they don’t help you out on that one either). It’s harder than it looks but my woodsman took care of it on the front porch while I put the wreath on the front door.
Then, as they say on HGTV, it was time for the big reveal. My Man cut the mesh while I waited nervously whispering, “move that bus. Move that bus.”
A solid 8 out of 10. Points deducted because she is a little thin and narrow. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed by lights, a few ornaments and the magic of Christmas. Behold the magnificence.
In other December happenings, we took Harper to see Santa. I couldn’t resist dressing her in a dress that I wore when I was little bitty. It was hand-smocked by my grandmother who lovingly made a matching dress for me and each of my girl cousins. That Baby looked absolutely precious and was all smiles until we handed her off to Santa. She looked at him with a mixture of confusion and who the hell are you, took a tug of his beard, and then lost it.
Maybe next year she might understand more of Santa’s connection to gift giving and their time together will be tear-free. 
She likely won’t remember her first Christmas tree, the tumble she took of the sofa while we were decorating it, or her first visit with Santa, but we will. And the best is yet to come. It’s only Christmas Eve Eve Eve. 
What joy. What memories.