Monday, November 18, 2013
We got off to a good start with our oldest daughter. Her eyes would light up at the sight of a frozen fruit smoothie. She eagerly lapped up her father’s homemade yogurt and my freshly pureed vegetable concoctions. I was energized by the idea of bringing her up in a world devoid of McDonald’s and Domino’s. She would be blessed with gorgeous, glowing skin and a healthy digestive system.
But something happened shortly after her 2nd birthday. She began violently protesting anything remotely healthy, somehow knowing that ice cream tastes way better than broccoli no matter how much cheese sauce you slather on top. Her preschool teacher would tell me that she was a pleasure to have in class, but that she was the only student who would refuse to eat the nutritious snack each day. Apparently, she doesn't consider Fig Newtons and orange slices a treat.
Reluctantly, I gave in, making chicken nuggets, peanut butter sandwiches or anything I thought she wouldn’t totally deny just to get some food in her. She loved getting her way, but the stress of preparing two dinners was making me irritable.
Fed up with feeling like a short-order cook, I decided to take a tougher approach. I adopted the old school “Eat What I Serve or Nothing at All” approach. It worked on me back in the day. My aunt, who often sat for me while my mother worked, was able to convince me that the “Clean Plate Club” was an exclusive group that I definitely wanted to be down with. Though I had a lot less work to do at dinnertime, Hana often went to bed with nothing but water. A mere 25-pounds soaking wet, I feared that she’d waste away to nothing if she didn’t eat anything.
I tried making healthier versions of her favorite things – broccoli pizza, squash muffins, whole-wheat pancakes, but she could not be fooled. She refused to ingest anything that even gave off the faintest scent of a vegetable, even if it was disguised as a yummy treat. Our daily food fights made me more determined than ever to make sure that her newborn brother would not end up with the same persnickety palette.
He started out with the same eagerness to try new things – at times, even more than his sister. His love of apple slices and eggplant was the perfect balance to his sister’s nonstop demands for macaroni and cheese.
But with five months until his 2nd birthday, I see the same shift happening. My little guy is now extremely vociferous with his likes and dislikes, and will flat out refuse anything that he doesn’t have a taste for - which sometimes happens to be carrots.
Admittedly, I have been a little lazy, letting the child with the bigger vocabulary decide that they will eat peanut butter for lunch for four straight days. I feel terrible watching their diets deteriorate just to avoid a fight. Not to mention, I feel totally inferior to all of their friends’ parents who brag about their kids’ love for quinoa and lentil soup.
So do I try to coax peas down their throats, or let them eat what they want until someone invents an awesome veggie ice cream?
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
When you’re feeling bad, it can be comforting to know that someone else is suffering just a little bit more. That’s probably why people think, “It could be worse,” is an acceptable pep talk. The truth is, no one ever wants to be the fat friend, the poor friend or the friend with the split ends and dark circles under her eyes (I digress).
For the past four years, I’ve been trying to convince my husband that being a stay-at-home mom makes me the fat friend in our relationship. Caring for our two children 24/7 has been grueling - leaving me a tired, flabby shell of my former self. And while I know that this is a completely unreasonable argument to have with your life partner, I stand by the fact that there are days when it definitely feels like I got the short end of the stick.
I’ll admit he does have a very demanding sales job. He leaves home, stuffed into a suit and tie, to face a long day of meetings and rejection. And at the end it all, he comes home to our chaotic zoo of a living room and often finds me crying in the middle of it all.
On the plus side, he has the luxury of showering alone, traveling to and from work alone, and engaging with other adults on a regular basis. When he walks through the door, our kids greet him with hugs and cheers. He can forget about any work stress when they challenge him to a tickle wresting match.
My husband would probably argue that I have it easy, strolling down to the kitchen each morning for a cup of coffee and an episode of Sesame Street. Let’s face it, it doesn’t take a genius to finger paint and make peanut butter sandwiches.
But the fact is, I never leave work. My office is our apartment. There are no weekends, holidays or evenings. In fact, my bosses often find their way into my bed in the middle of the night.
Shuttling two small kids around the city often feels like walking through quicksand with a boulder strapped to my back. The three flights of stairs to our front door are a lot more manageable when you’re not carrying a 25-pound toddler and an enormous double stroller. Not to mention the frequent stops to look at a bird or fetch a lost shoe make it almost impossible to get anywhere in a hurry.
There are aspects of both of our jobs that may seem glamorous to the other person (Hello, wine tasting playgroups!), but there is also plenty of grunt work on both sides. So the next time I’m knee deep in dirty diapers, I’ll keep in mind that some angry customer out there is probably giving my husband shit too.
Friday, September 13, 2013
I knew it would be an adjustment for my little girl, who has been practically glued to my side since birth. All things considered, she seems to be handling things exceptionally well. However, her little brother and I seem to be having a harder time dealing with this new chapter in our lives.
The night before Hana’s first day, I was juggling a host of emotions. I was excited that she would be learning new things and making new friends. But I was also a little anxious about her ability to fit in and deal with different situations without me. And when it finally hit me that this was just the first of many steps she would be taking away from me, I was downright sad. So like every other woman in my family, I busied myself with labeling her backpack and ironing her clothes to keep myself from fretting too much.
But alas, that only worked so long. Throughout the week, I’ve worried about her crying too much or not enough when I leave (Does she even care that she won’t see me for 3 whole hours?). I’ve picked her up each day, excited to hear all the new songs she’s learned. And still a tiny part of me is jealous of her new favorite teacher, who somehow knows the secret to getting her to clean up after herself.
Meanwhile, her 17-month-old brother (who has only recently settled into a consistent 12 hours of uninterrupted sleep each night) has been irritated about being cheated out of his last half-hour in order to be on time for drop-off. By Day 2, he had forgiven me, choosing instead to bask in his exclusive mommy-and-me time. But, I can also tell that he’s missing his wrestling partner in a big way, and is completely frustrated by his inability to tackle me.
Like strangers on a first date, the two of us have been awkwardly trying to figure out what to do without our fearless leader – Do we watch Angelina Ballerina, even though Hana isn’t around to make us? Are we allowed to go to her favorite playground without her? We race to pick her up at Noon in hopes of restoring order to our day.
Hopefully, the little guy and I will figure out our own rhythm and find special things to share the way I did with his sister when she was his age. I’m just glad she’s back home in time for lunch. Peanut butter sandwiches just aren’t the same without her!
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Don’t get me wrong; I love my little ones more than anything in the world. I am incredibly blessed to have been able to have a front row seat for all of their firsts. I love the fact that their little imaginations can transform our tiny Brooklyn apartment into a wooded campsite or a fairy princess castle whenever they want. But I’ve always held a bit of resentment at the idea that motherhood seemed to take away all of my creativity and freedom.
Honestly, I’ve never been able to completely accept myself as “just a mom.” So I’ve spent the last four years of my life trying to create a distraction that would keep me from thinking of myself as someone who wipes asses and noses for no pay.
I have scored many little personal victories along the way – a successful homebirth, potty training my toddler, completing my first children’s book manuscript and mastering the art of baking a damn good loaf of zucchini bread. Yet somehow, I manage to wallow in the disappointment of the handful of setbacks – the loss of my job, post-partum depression, publisher’s rejection letters and a dwindling bank account, just to name a few.
My sadness crippled me. Left me with a million half-finished blog posts and short stories stored on my computer. But it was a heart-to-heart chat with my 3-year-old this week about persistence that caused me to reflect on why I had given up in my own life.
So it is with this post that I officially re-launch the BKLYN Mom blog. This time around, I plan to use everything around me (good, bad and otherwise) as inspiration. I will write fearlessly and often (even if it means getting even less sleep!). I will shamelessly promote my work, and I will make significant progress on getting my book ready for publication this year. So get ready to laugh, cry with me because I’m going to need all the support I can get!