Skipping Town

Here we are, with another issue of Parenting in its new, weird design. Something new from last issue is the new “Modern Parent Handbook,” a series of five or so small sidebars that appear throughout the magazine. Last issue, though a “Modern Parent Handbook” was promised on the cover, it referred only to a few articles on “useful” topics. This month, there were dedicated sidebars all on the subject of Etiquette. Note that there’s nothing about them in the table of contents. You have to read the issue with an eagle eye to find them—and even then you might not. I missed some, and I was reading thoroughly to find material for my Commentary. Come on, designers. Take a page from the overzealous copyeditor’s handbook and take your job too seriously. Needless to say, my Commentary will exclusively focus on “Modern Parent Handbook: Etiquette.” Because if you’re going to make me search for the tips, they had better be worth my while—and, of course, they were not. Here, a selection of my top tip...

Several months ago, buoyed by my successful weaning of Lucia and our return to NYC, Andrew and I decided we’d go to Paris for a long weekend and leave Lucia with our mothers, who expressed eagerness to spend a few days with the baby in Brooklyn. As we talked more about it, however, we both felt a bit uneasy about being so far away; so we revised our getaway plan and set our sights on Montreal. We bought a guidebook, found frequent flier tickets, and began planning our trip. Then Andrew’s dad had surgery and my dad broke his foot, which meant the grandmas were no longer available. We then decided to come to Connellsville for President’s Day weekend—and we planned to escape overnight to a nice hotel in Pittsburgh and at least have one night away. Then Lucia threw up on the flight from Laguardia to Pittsburgh (Andrew caught the vomit in his hands! He’s passed some sort of parenthood trial!), and the next day she had a fever of 103, and then her two hinted-at molars came through in force, ...

Dear Little One, Happy sixteen-month birthday, little toddler. Every day brings something new right now, and it’s almost hard to keep up with all the changes. Some things are easy to record: you love apples, you’re getting two molars, you love your noise-making toy phone, you walk with authority. Others are harder. Words, for example—you repeat like a little parrot, often very precisely, but what to count as new words? Only those you offer on your own, I think, in the right situation or in reference to the right object. Your new ones are socks , shoes , and more . You are still the cutest baby ever. But you are also becoming a bit of a wild card on some days, spurred—I hope—by teething. Some days nothing pleases you, or you become fixated on something forbidden—a wine cork, a pencil, Andrew’s computer—and cannot be distracted, becoming more and more angry. But you are also very often giggly and squealing—as we look at each other over and under the coffee table, which thrills you; as I ...

Friday was one of the toughest mothering days I’ve had yet. But let me back up. Tuesday night, Lucia threw up for the first time. Three times. Twice in her crib, once all over me. Poor baby. We had several hours of crib-sheet-changing and cleaning up and soothing, and then she went back to sleep and woke up none the worse for wear. We’re not sure what brought it on, but she has been completely fine since then. But whew. That was an experience. The first of many such experiences, I’m sure. Thursday night, I found myself up all night with a stomach thing. Not a wink of sleep. And in the morning, I felt like I might not be able to get out of bed; alas, Lucia chirped her I’m-awake signal, and my day began. I wasn’t sick anymore—but completely exhausted and weak and dehydrated from the night before, shaky and light-headed. Andrew had some fires to put out at work and couldn’t stay home. This was a tough day. All I wanted to do was lie down. Thankfully, Lucia had a good day—lots of happy pla...

Last week, I left the house without shoes. I had on my slippers, and I made it all the way to the front stoop—with three locked doors behind me—before I realized something was wrong. A friend today told me she once walked half a block without any shoes at all. She has two kids, and I have no doubt I will one day get to that point as well. Such is my mind these days. It’s hard to remember that I was once among the world’s most organized people. I’ve always made reminder notes, but more because it was just a way to stay organized; now, if I don’t write something down, it’s out of my head in two seconds. I’ve been late with our credit card payment three times in six months (fortunately, they’re forgiving—so far). I’ve lost an entire envelope of tax receipts from the first half of 2010 (surely put “somewhere safe” for the move, and also, surely, never to be seen again). I’ve lost 30,000 Dividend Miles from USAirways because I didn’t write a reminder to redeem some miles before their expira...

Last night, Lucia woke up screaming bloody murder at 11:45pm. She hasn’t woken up at night for months. We rushed in—she was hysterical, screaming like a terrified banshee, tears streaming down her cheeks. A nightmare? I rocked her and sang to her; we gave her a little milk in a bottle. Still shuddering and whimpering, she kept pointing to the nursery door, so I carried her out to the living room, reassured her that everything was as it should be, and read Goodnight Moon . Calmed, she then squirmed out of my arms, hurried in her sleep sack over to her play area, and promptly began playing with blocks. Certain the night terror had passed, we put her back to bed…at which point she commenced to scream until 2:30am, pausing only when Andrew or I went in to sing and soothe. Last night marked the appearance of a new scream. High-pitched, shrill, curdling. Once it was no longer a sad, scared scream, it became a demanding, angry scream. One that I’m sure penetrated the walls, perhaps even the b...

We have been pummeled with snow. Rather, with “thundersnow” and “thundersleet,” according to the weatherman reporting last night. Indeed, last night we could barely see the street from our windows. And this morning, Park Slope was a mound of white. The tree branches were each covered with a delicate layer of lacey snow. For a moment, I was happy to be in New York, in the snow. Approximately three hours later, the snow in the streets and by every curb had turned to ankle-deep gray slush. Determined to get Lucia to work off some energy and have a good nap, I put her in the Ergo and snow-shoed my way to a café, all but ruining my non-water-proof boots. Lucia enjoyed exploring the café. She ate lunch. We trudged home. She was visibly tired in the Ergo. She slept for…forty minutes. This afternoon, feeling snowbound and knowing I’d need rainboots if I was going to get out at all tomorrow and, oh, in the next three months until spring, I bundled Lucia into the stroller and we headed to Target...

Winter is a cozy time. So cozy, in fact, that Lucia has taken to falling asleep in her stroller when we are out and about. Last week, we went to the Brooklyn Children’s Museum with a friend, and had a great time—Lucia walked around the museum and looked at everything, rapt. We’re planning to become members and go often. It was a ridiculously snowy, slushy, wintry day, and Lucia was bundled to the hilt. After walking for a few minutes toward the subway, I peeked in at her—fast asleep. Today I took her to a Babies & Books program at the Brooklyn Public Library and then let her walk around the stacks for a while, which she fully enjoyed. She did her cute little near-run and tried to pull all the books off the shelves (thankfully, they were wedged in tightly). To prevent a catnap, I gave her a Mum-Mum as soon as we went outside. Again, it was snowing like crazy, and Lucia was warm and bundled. We barely got to Union St. before she was conked out. Catnaps are bad, bad news for us. Lucia...

Another month, and an über-redesigned Parenting magazine. Gone are the { } in the section headings. Gone, in fact, are any clear headings altogether. In fact, when I first realized the magazine had undergone a mini-facelift, I sort of got the feeling it had gone to press without any of its proper design elements in place—the section headings look bland, like a draft copy, and who even knows what the sections are now. They seem to include “Right Now,” “Offspring,” and “Stylebook,” among others, but it’s hard to tell. More über-irritating is the fact that the headings are capitalized—except for one letter. So we have RIGHT NoW, OFFSPRiNG, FAMiLY, LET’S EaT, and so on. Why? Why is one letter not capitalized? Trying to figure out these heading mysteries this month threatened to keep me from finding content for my commentary. Fear not; I found some. Let’s dive in. I had a hard time with the über-haphazardly capitalized article “fun FOR ALL!”, which proposes several themed activities that ch...

This Saturday, Andrew and I did several remarkable things: we left the house after 7:30pm; we went into Manhattan together; and we had a fancy dinner, just the two of us. The occasion was a close-to-expiring DealOn purchase for a great Spanish restaurant in Soho called Mercat—and Barbra and Chris kindly agreed to babysit (well, at least sit in our apartment while Lucia slept). We were free! And dinner was amazing. We’d been to Mercat once before, several years ago, and this handily surpassed our good memories and high expectations. We ordered many things from the tapas section of the menu, including patatas bravas, croquetas (shrimp and chicken), bombas (large balls of potato and meat), and pan con tomate. We had jamon serrano and a cheese plate that included a cheese that is aged in underwater caves—perhaps the most delicious cheese I’ve ever had. We had clams with bits of chorizo in a briny broth. We ate it all with a bottle of wine in a candlelit room that, I’m certain, offered no h...

Lucia has been asserting her independence lately, becoming more stubborn and insistent about things she wants. But yesterday, she had her first bona fide meltdown—crying, screaming, rolling dramatically on the floor. The cause: after her nap, we said goodbye to the pacifier as we always do (it stays in the nursery), but on this particular day she decided she didn’t want to say goodbye, and she quickly melted down when I wouldn’t let her retrieve it. I tried to pick her up; she was boneless, oozing from my arms back onto the floor. She swatted away my conciliatory offers of snacks, books, toys, milk. I had to just leave her alone. Only after several hysterical minutes did she let me pick her up, put on a favorite song, and dance a little bit with her as she shuddered, red-faced. Then she began smiling and clapping to the song, and she was back to her cheerful, cheek-kissing self for the rest of the day. These pictures show her being particularly peaceful, tantrums a distant thought.

Dear Little One, You’re fifteen months old now, and changing fast. You are becoming your own person. This is hilarious and wonderful to watch, and also, at times, frustrating and exhausting to deal with. You are no longer a baby who can be distracted from what you want, who can’t understand what we’re saying, who forgets about things when they’re out of sight. No—if you see something you want, there is a great deal of pointing and inquiring “Ma? Ma?” sounds. If I don’t know exactly what you’re pointing to (which is often), you swat away what I offer you with a forceful “No no no no no.” If I try to hide something (say, a canister of puffs I foolishly left in your line of vision on the counter), you know where it is. Indeed, you know where things are in general—like your pacifier, which I try to restrict to the nursery but which you know is always on the table by the glider and which you sometimes sneak off to retrieve. Sometimes you’ll disappear for a moment and return proudly with the...

Clearly, by not putting “blog regularly” on my list of new year’s resolutions, I’ve dropped the ball. Consider this humdrum entry added to the list. There’s actually not much to say right now, other than that our weathering of the winter has begun. It’s tough to go outside when it’s this cold; even when Lucia is fully bundled, when the icy wind hits her face, she cries pitiably. When it’s not windy, she’s fine—that is, she’s fine once we’re on our walk. Getting her into her shoes, coat, and bunting is another story, eliciting a dependable tantrum. And I’ve made some rookie mistakes with the bunting thing. I was excited about finding a great JJ Cole Bundle Me at a local consignment store—only to realize, too late, that Lucia is much too tall for it. Sometimes I forget I no longer have an infant. A new toddler-sized bunting from LL Bean will be here by the end of the week, and the too-small bunting will be tucked away for an eventual next baby. But on to a cuteness report. We’re rearrang...

I went to Target tonight—walking through a freezing cold night to get there. (The things I do for cheap essentials…and an un-baby-accompanied stop at DSW, which is in the same building.) The girl in front of me in line had a pile of clothes, a soft-looking robe, some makeup items. One of the sweaters she’d chosen wasn’t on sale; she debated whether to buy it and decided she would. “It was a really bad day,” she confided to me. “Target is always good for little pick-me-ups,” I said. I remembered many a Target trip undertaken when I lived alone in Brooklyn, lo those many years ago—a new lipstick, a new shirt, something fun to make me happy. Then I looked at my own things on the conveyor: baby wipes, a 3-pack of baby forks, baby shoes, a flour sifter, toothpaste, dishwasher detergent. It was 9:00pm on Friday night. I walked over salt-crunchy streets home with my unexciting purchases and my new boots from DSW. Andrew had from-scratch chicken soup and a bottle of wine waiting. Target hasn’t...

Here are the nesting dolls I made this year for Mom, Dad, Molly, and Ian, for anyone who might be curious (and really, who wouldn't be). The bottoms are a bit unfinished--I took these pictures before I sanded them down. Lego Star Wars video game characters for Ian: Julia Child, Alice Waters, and Irma Rambauer for Mom: Eustace Tilley for Dad: Cariactures of Toscanini, Stravinsky, and Rachmaninoff for Molly:

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year. I’ve been lax in my blogging, mostly because I was just enjoying the freedom of being away from a computer, with other people around to hold the baby. With two weeks of no freelancing and a bit of a lightened baby load, I did things I rarely get to do—I read books; I shopped and tried on a million things; I got a manicure. It was nice, very nice, and it strikes me that people who live near their parents have a radically different parenting experience than the one Andrew and I have. Just completely different. An experience where one can perhaps get a manicure more often than, oh, once every fourteen months. Anyway. First stop on our trip was Connellsville, where we whisked Lucia through the door and pretty much had no baby for a week. She ate hearty meals prepared and served by Grandma. She rocked in a hand-upholstered mini-rocking chair procured from the attic by Grandpa. She learned to say “Papa” (for Grandpa). She consented to be held by me only when ...

Oh, bliss. All our mail has been forwarded for the past two months to Connellsville, but finally, finally I’ve perused the new Parenting and am ready for this month’s commentary. Maybe it’s because I’m still just so very tired, but the abundance of you-go-girl-with-your-fab-mama-self tone and the excessive exclamation points annoyed me more than usual this time. Let’s get right down to it. In “Picky-eater Pleasers,” we’re advised on how to handle taking a picky kid out to a holiday party. One piece of advice was to feed the kid before leaving the house and then not freak out if the kid eats only carbs or cookies at the party. But what would she eat, if she’s already eaten a meal? Another meal? Nonsense. But I’ll reserve my commentary for the final tip: “Bring a food ‘present’ to the shindig to share. If your kid is super picky or if he has food allergies, bring a gift of his favorite dish. (Be sure to get him to wrap it up with a bow.) Give it to your host, then mention that your chil...

Since Lucia seems, today, to be much like her usual self, with the exception of some screaming when dressed in her winter coat and some nap-refusing, and, of course, some morning crankiness and spitting out of nicely offered food at a play date—oh. Scratch that. Since we’re heading to Connellsville tonight and my exhausted, weary body and soul sees a glimmer of sleeping-in, baby-free-outings, grandparent-backup days in the very near future, I will interrupt the regularly scheduled programming of fatigued posts to provide a brief cuteness report. A new favorite book is Duck & Goose: A Book of Opposites . One spread shows Duck being happy, while Goose is sad, with a tear on his cheek. Whenever we get to this page and I say in a mournful voice that Goose is sad, Lucia does her cuddle-cuddle-cuddle motion. I am very taken with this: not only does she understand what sad means, she also understands that cuddling Goose is what will make him feel better. I did not prompt her to do this. G...

Little One, As you can see, I am several days late with this month’s letter. This is your fault, though not in an intentional spirit. You’ve followed old habits and acquired a cold after our long flight, and you also seem to be teething—you’ve been gnawing and drooling and screaming and crying and not napping well and not falling asleep well and basically not given me even one millisecond’s rest for one entire week. I am falling over with exhaustion and frustration. Only late this afternoon did the regular Lucia seem to reappear, with dancing and snapping and giggling. Perhaps the worst is over. (And surely it is, since I have to get through just Monday now and then we’re on our way to two weeks of grandparent backup. I am literally counting the minutes.) But, a quick recap of the month nonetheless. Walking, of course—more consistently now, especially yesterday and today, when you’ve often opted to walk instead of crawl to your objective. And more words—besides “bump,” you’re saying “b...

Rolling around on the floor giggling! Feeding her stuffed animals! Dancing to the music of her push toy! Lucia was very calculating in her explosion of cuteness over the past few weeks. Let me ingratiate myself , she thought, before turning into an absolute monster. Upon our arrival in New York, which followed the Worst Flight Ever—well, let me spend a moment on the flight. Five hours of screaming, crying, and writhing, with intermittent bouts of more screaming, crying, and writhing. No nap, though it was naptime. We were the parents about whom people whisper disgustedly, Can’t they control their child? We were trying, believe me. But even with her very own seat, even with an entire grocery store’s worth of snacks, even with an arsenal of toys, Lucia would neither nap, nor snack, nor play. She just wanted to scream. Now, back home, she has turned into a baby Godzilla, descending on the city with roars and stomps, gobbling skyscrapers and sending terrified pedestrians fleeing as she wre...