An annoying head cold and some uncharacteristic insomnia have me even more muddled than usual lately, but the first days of spring have Hank in rare form. He picked up a cute blonde at the library this afternoon. Kept following her around with a dinosaur book he’d picked out. “I was trying to show her what a meat eater looks like,” he told me later. Mama was right on as wingman--struck up a conversation with her mom and got her number. Future meet-up at the playground in the offing….
Yesterday, during a lull in the weekend’s blustery weather, he ran outside to take a leak in the grass and wound up with wet overalls.
“That’s just the way pee is,” he announced as he stomped back in, banging the screen door and leaving the overalls on the porch. “It’s okay. It’s the right weather for no pants…Can I let my bum get a little fresh air?” The glorious, freewheeling life of a country kid. Maybe I’ll give it a try.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
More Prattle from the Checkout Line
So, there I was waiting in line at our local (semi-upscale) Giant Food, minding my own business when I happened to look up at the woman in front of me at the register. She looked about my age (that would be mid to late 30s…) and had a kid with her—little girl, maybe 2.5. The mom had more of a hipster thing going on than most of the ladies one encounters in these parts: short hair, funky eyeglasses etc. Definitely somebody I’d strike up a conversation with at the playground…Then I caught a glimpse of the shit she was unloading onto the conveyor belt thing: cases of diet sodas and a stack of frozen “toddler meals”. I came this close to letting loose and giving her a good talking-to. Like I’ve said in the past, I’m no Nigella Lawson and certainly no stranger to fish sticks and frozen vegetables. But I’m sorry-- a mountain of TV dinners for my kid—I’ve got to draw the line. And don’t get me started on aspartame, splenda whatever. I’m a former diet cokehead who saw the light many years ago thanks to Gary Null and others. I really believe that stuff is poison. Most of the time, you don’t need a sweetener and when you do, a little sugar (or honey or whatever) is not going to hurt you. I certainly like a spoonful of good old-fashioned sugar in my tea every now and then. And as far as soft drinks go, the easiest thing is just to give them up all together. Of course, I didn’t say anything…I’m definitely not a holier than thou kind of gal (at least not openly). While I am happy to confirm that my grocery cart usually looks like a poster for the healthy food pyramid (lots of whole grains, leafy greens etc), I am, of course, so very far from perfect: as a mother, as a human being. I have no place to judge other people’s junk food. And yet….Absolutely must stop looking at other people’s groceries.
This brings to mind a former yoga teacher (one of my most admired people), who mentioned that whenever she’d run into students at the store, people tended to check out the contents her cart. I ran into her in the local Safeway once and had to really make an effort to keep from peeking into her basket. Because it’s me, I think I even told her, “I’m trying really hard not to look in your cart.” On a different occasion, years ago, I ran into a woman I knew at the same Safeway, shopping on her lunch break. She was buying a package of Little Debbie strawberry rolls and a carton of Kools, which I found somehow disturbing. A few years later, I found out, her husband cheated on her with a skinny coworker and they split up. Hadn’t seen that one coming, but I suppose I should have, given the corn syrup and menthol habit. As everyone knows, there are no secrets in a small town.
This brings to mind a former yoga teacher (one of my most admired people), who mentioned that whenever she’d run into students at the store, people tended to check out the contents her cart. I ran into her in the local Safeway once and had to really make an effort to keep from peeking into her basket. Because it’s me, I think I even told her, “I’m trying really hard not to look in your cart.” On a different occasion, years ago, I ran into a woman I knew at the same Safeway, shopping on her lunch break. She was buying a package of Little Debbie strawberry rolls and a carton of Kools, which I found somehow disturbing. A few years later, I found out, her husband cheated on her with a skinny coworker and they split up. Hadn’t seen that one coming, but I suppose I should have, given the corn syrup and menthol habit. As everyone knows, there are no secrets in a small town.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Supply & Demand
After avoiding it for months, I finally dragged myself to Costco the other day. My mother had offered to take Henry for the morning and I seized the opportunity to shop without my crazy bolter who likes to barrel through the aisles of the supermarket demanding matchbox cars and atrocious looking frosted cookies.
I have a total love/hate with that place. I generally find the rapport qualite-prix to be pretty darn good. And I love the big bags of avocados (GMO?), tubs of dates, gigantic jars of sundried tomatoes. At the same time, I find the whole experience kind of nauseating/overwhelming. I remember the first time I was in Costco back in 1995 (I think it was still Price Club back then). I had just come back to Virginia from Paris and was staying with my mother and stepfather (not far from where I live now). It blew me away—I swear I almost had a panic attack. Those massive 20 foot shelves. The insane amount of over-consumption. I got separated from my mother and (at age 24) almost started crying, like a preschooler who had lost her mommy. Then I found her and bought a tiny television set and a case of Power Bars to launch my new life in America. Now I’m just another harried housewife loading up the cart with giant bags of string cheese. I still hate to eat in there though, at those sad little plastic tables. I find it too depressing, like something out of a Don DeLillo novel. Not that I haven’t stooped to getting my kid a $1.08 dog and calling it lunch.
And then there’s the whole process of unloading and putting away all the stuff. Such a drag. The truth is, I’m still somewhat shocked/mildly disgusted by the sight of a full refrigerator. It goes against my minimalist nature. I long for my days in Paris when I picked up fresh produce from the local market as I walked home to my tiny flat off rue Lepic. There was an amazing rotisserie just a little way up the hill on rue des Abesses, a cheese shop, everything you could ask for. Or even New York, where I’d stop at a health food store on my way home from work or walk over to the eclectic little independent grocery store off Bedford (what was that place called?) with my old lady wheelie shopping basket. I wasn’t the kind of New York glamour girl who prided myself on having a totally empty refrigerator and used the oven for magazines or shoes. I had a fairly spacious kitchen in Brooklyn and I actually did cook from time to time. But everything was done on such a small scale.
Of course my lifestyle has changed: I’m feeding four healthy eaters now instead of one urban chick on a diet. But it also has to do with the way things are set up here in the exurbs. It’s just not possible to shop day by day when the closest decent grocery store is 15 miles away. So, I load the kids into my SUV, head to Costco and leave with a full cart. I’ll be getting my roasted chickens from Kirkland instead of rue des Abesses for the foreseeable future. The other day I did get to run into a small store for a few things while Christian waited in the car with the kids. It was incredibly liberating, although I nearly had a heart attack at one point when I looked over and Coco wasn’t in the cart.
I have a total love/hate with that place. I generally find the rapport qualite-prix to be pretty darn good. And I love the big bags of avocados (GMO?), tubs of dates, gigantic jars of sundried tomatoes. At the same time, I find the whole experience kind of nauseating/overwhelming. I remember the first time I was in Costco back in 1995 (I think it was still Price Club back then). I had just come back to Virginia from Paris and was staying with my mother and stepfather (not far from where I live now). It blew me away—I swear I almost had a panic attack. Those massive 20 foot shelves. The insane amount of over-consumption. I got separated from my mother and (at age 24) almost started crying, like a preschooler who had lost her mommy. Then I found her and bought a tiny television set and a case of Power Bars to launch my new life in America. Now I’m just another harried housewife loading up the cart with giant bags of string cheese. I still hate to eat in there though, at those sad little plastic tables. I find it too depressing, like something out of a Don DeLillo novel. Not that I haven’t stooped to getting my kid a $1.08 dog and calling it lunch.
And then there’s the whole process of unloading and putting away all the stuff. Such a drag. The truth is, I’m still somewhat shocked/mildly disgusted by the sight of a full refrigerator. It goes against my minimalist nature. I long for my days in Paris when I picked up fresh produce from the local market as I walked home to my tiny flat off rue Lepic. There was an amazing rotisserie just a little way up the hill on rue des Abesses, a cheese shop, everything you could ask for. Or even New York, where I’d stop at a health food store on my way home from work or walk over to the eclectic little independent grocery store off Bedford (what was that place called?) with my old lady wheelie shopping basket. I wasn’t the kind of New York glamour girl who prided myself on having a totally empty refrigerator and used the oven for magazines or shoes. I had a fairly spacious kitchen in Brooklyn and I actually did cook from time to time. But everything was done on such a small scale.
Of course my lifestyle has changed: I’m feeding four healthy eaters now instead of one urban chick on a diet. But it also has to do with the way things are set up here in the exurbs. It’s just not possible to shop day by day when the closest decent grocery store is 15 miles away. So, I load the kids into my SUV, head to Costco and leave with a full cart. I’ll be getting my roasted chickens from Kirkland instead of rue des Abesses for the foreseeable future. The other day I did get to run into a small store for a few things while Christian waited in the car with the kids. It was incredibly liberating, although I nearly had a heart attack at one point when I looked over and Coco wasn’t in the cart.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Save Me a Seat on the Seesaw
Spring has arrived on the outskirts of Lovetown, greeted with a relieved exhale by stir-crazy housewives. A few green shoots have appeared on the willow tree at the end of our pond. And there was an entire flock of red-breasted robins behind our house this morning. (Was trying to get Hank to share in my enthusiasm, but he was more interested in his Legos.) My kids were still in hats and mittens today, but it’s coming. I can smell it, taste it. There’s a lot to hate about this exurban wasteland, but spring leaves nothing to complain about. In fact it’s often just about perfect in my little corner of the commonwealth. The weather is generally fine, and there’s enough active agriculture going on (amidst the mansion tracts) to provide an abundant supply of cute baby animals.
I’m an April baby (born in DC during the cherry blossom festival) and every year my state of mind starts to improve dramatically once I start hearing the birds in the morning and see a few sprigs of forsythia. We had a few balmy days last week, and the kids and I took a walk around Grandma’s village. We stopped to see Linda, the local shopkeeper who raises sheep in the fields behind her store. She has some gorgeous dappled lambs this year. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on who you ask) they’re rams, which means they are destined for Linda’s lamb sausage (delicious with Vidalia onion sauce).
The warming weather brings droves of preschoolers and their winter-weary mothers out to local playgrounds. I’m an absolute playground junkie—the random social interactions are refreshing, and it’s nice to be able to set up play dates without having to invite people into your chaos. Hallelujah for public spaces.
And the icing on the cake? Chocolate Mini-Eggs of course. My man came home and gave me a smooch with Cadbury on his breath and I knew spring had sprung. I’m not much for milk chocolate in general, but there’s something addictive about that crunchy little eggshell they have going on. I’ve noticed they’re always the first Easter candy they run out of at our crummy little Rite Aid, so my fellow hayseeds must dig em too. Speaking of digging… time to get the roto tiller out of the shed and plant some greens.
I’m an April baby (born in DC during the cherry blossom festival) and every year my state of mind starts to improve dramatically once I start hearing the birds in the morning and see a few sprigs of forsythia. We had a few balmy days last week, and the kids and I took a walk around Grandma’s village. We stopped to see Linda, the local shopkeeper who raises sheep in the fields behind her store. She has some gorgeous dappled lambs this year. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on who you ask) they’re rams, which means they are destined for Linda’s lamb sausage (delicious with Vidalia onion sauce).
The warming weather brings droves of preschoolers and their winter-weary mothers out to local playgrounds. I’m an absolute playground junkie—the random social interactions are refreshing, and it’s nice to be able to set up play dates without having to invite people into your chaos. Hallelujah for public spaces.
And the icing on the cake? Chocolate Mini-Eggs of course. My man came home and gave me a smooch with Cadbury on his breath and I knew spring had sprung. I’m not much for milk chocolate in general, but there’s something addictive about that crunchy little eggshell they have going on. I’ve noticed they’re always the first Easter candy they run out of at our crummy little Rite Aid, so my fellow hayseeds must dig em too. Speaking of digging… time to get the roto tiller out of the shed and plant some greens.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Boobs and Bibliophiles
On the subject of prima donnas, I’ve got to spend a few minutes on my own little principina. I’m completely biased of course, but this kid is unbelievably cute. She’s taking her first steps with this hi-larious wide-legged cowboy stance—with pauses to give herself a round of applause. She’s also turning into a raging book fiend. As a formerly avid reader, I was indescribably delighted that “book” was one of her first words a few months ago. Now she’s taking it to the next level and likes to sit on my chest while I’m trying to do a few crunches until I finally cry uncle and submit to reading Big Red Barn…again. She also insists on having reading material while nursing (thinks she’s at Starbucks or something).
I’ve been pondering the breastfeeding thing lately. Coco’s totally fine drinking from a cup, and we’re down to 2 or 3 times a day on the boob. Trying to determine the best window to give it up altogether. I’m certainly pro-lactation and am all about the bonding thing, but I don’t want to let it get out of hand. And from what I’ve observed, the longer one goes, the harder it is to stop.
I have a couple of diehard friends who nursed their kids until age 3 (God bless ‘em). I don’t see myself going down that road. Henry was pretty much over it by 10 months. At the time, I felt guilty for giving up so easily, but he's a kinetic kid and just didn’t want to have to hold still for 10 whole minutes. So, I suppose the magic number is somewhere between 10 months and 3 years. We’re about to hit 15 months as it is. So do I shoot for 18 months? 2 years? She’s still into it, and it’s a comforting part of our bedtime ritual etc. But I don’t know that if I shut off the tap she’d mind all that much. Coco’s almost certainly going to be my last offspring, and I have to wonder how much of this is about her and how much of it’s about my not wanting to let go of that aspect of her babyhood. I’m sure Rachida Dati doesn’t worry about stuff like this. The secret of her success, undoubtedly.
I’ve been pondering the breastfeeding thing lately. Coco’s totally fine drinking from a cup, and we’re down to 2 or 3 times a day on the boob. Trying to determine the best window to give it up altogether. I’m certainly pro-lactation and am all about the bonding thing, but I don’t want to let it get out of hand. And from what I’ve observed, the longer one goes, the harder it is to stop.
I have a couple of diehard friends who nursed their kids until age 3 (God bless ‘em). I don’t see myself going down that road. Henry was pretty much over it by 10 months. At the time, I felt guilty for giving up so easily, but he's a kinetic kid and just didn’t want to have to hold still for 10 whole minutes. So, I suppose the magic number is somewhere between 10 months and 3 years. We’re about to hit 15 months as it is. So do I shoot for 18 months? 2 years? She’s still into it, and it’s a comforting part of our bedtime ritual etc. But I don’t know that if I shut off the tap she’d mind all that much. Coco’s almost certainly going to be my last offspring, and I have to wonder how much of this is about her and how much of it’s about my not wanting to let go of that aspect of her babyhood. I’m sure Rachida Dati doesn’t worry about stuff like this. The secret of her success, undoubtedly.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Those Wacky Francaises
The Daily Mail informs me that Carla Bruni placed a not-so-respectable 8th in a recent listing of iconic Frenchwomen (based on a survey of a few thousand frenchies). Topping the list was another femme fatale type: outgoing justice minister and (former) Sarkozy protégée Rachida Dati. Some of what I’ve read has conveyed the existence of a kind of catfight situation between Carla and Rachida (who reportedly had a thing for the prez and was hoping to move in when his second wife dumped him). Carla, of course, put an end to any aspirations Rachida may have had along those lines and allegedly told her to stop calling her man every morning at the crack of dawn. Rachida (who’s single and 43) went on to have a baby at the beginning of this year and has refused to name the father. She went back to work 5 days after giving birth, but this didn’t stop Sarko from kicking her out of his cabinet. Not because of the unwed motherhood thing, which of course is not a big deal over there, but because he was just plain over her. Now Carla’s telling a women’s magazine that she wants a baby, too.
Meanwhile, they’re questioning a guy suspected of sending death threats (with bullets) to Sarkozy, Rachida and some other members of his cabinet. For a minute, I was worried one of my Sarko-hating Parisian friends might be involved. But he’s way to cool for those kinds of dorky antics. Have not ruled him out as the father of Rachida’s baby, though.
Meanwhile, they’re questioning a guy suspected of sending death threats (with bullets) to Sarkozy, Rachida and some other members of his cabinet. For a minute, I was worried one of my Sarko-hating Parisian friends might be involved. But he’s way to cool for those kinds of dorky antics. Have not ruled him out as the father of Rachida’s baby, though.
Wait, I Take That Back...
Scratch that last headline. Actually, some Jehovah's Witness ladies came by this afternoon while Hank and I were playing with Tinker Toys and left me a pamphlet called "What Does the Bible Really Teach". Thanks gals.
Since Nothing Remotely Interesting Is Going On Around Here
I’ll take this opportunity to indulge in a little vicarious blogging and report on the adventures of a few old friends. Lets see…Kathy and Neal are off to Buenos Aires for a wedding. This is my oldest friend and her husband, a couple of Baltimore-based artists/musicians and owners of a gorgeous rowhouse in Charm City. Every time I check out their photos on Flickr, they are traveling, showing off some of their fabulous work, or hosting/attending a fabulous dinner party with their extensive network of hipster friends. They always look like they’re having so much fun. How do they do it, I ask myself. Oh that’s right: no kids. They are in their mid/late 30s, child free by choice and, apparently, loving it. Let’s face it—having kids can be a big old drag. I mean, the joys are indescribable, but it’s certainly not for everyone. Have a glass of malbec for me, guys and bring me back some leather.
And…it’s official (it’s on facebook so it must be): my inadvertent matchmaking is going to produce yet another human being. Sara and John in Seattle are expecting baby #2 this summer. John is a childhood pal (Kathy’s big brother), and Sara briefly went to college with me before she blew off New Orleans and decamped to the west coast. She also let me rock her couch for several months when I first moved to New York. They met at my wedding in 03 (Christian busted ‘em smooching during the reception). After a few months of long distance romance, brave Johnny took a chance and up and moved across the country to the Emerald City. They got married in 05 and had little cutie pie Ginger in 07. I’m predicting a male Leo, just to keep them on their toes.
And finally, my best NYC girlfriend Manon is gearing up for blushing bridehood…at 50. After 30+ years of ups and downs, lots of losers and a few good ones who just got away, she finally met a hot (I’ve seen pictures) 60 year old guy who popped the question over Valentine’s weekend. She’s definitely the foxiest boomer I know…hope he deserves her.
And…it’s official (it’s on facebook so it must be): my inadvertent matchmaking is going to produce yet another human being. Sara and John in Seattle are expecting baby #2 this summer. John is a childhood pal (Kathy’s big brother), and Sara briefly went to college with me before she blew off New Orleans and decamped to the west coast. She also let me rock her couch for several months when I first moved to New York. They met at my wedding in 03 (Christian busted ‘em smooching during the reception). After a few months of long distance romance, brave Johnny took a chance and up and moved across the country to the Emerald City. They got married in 05 and had little cutie pie Ginger in 07. I’m predicting a male Leo, just to keep them on their toes.
And finally, my best NYC girlfriend Manon is gearing up for blushing bridehood…at 50. After 30+ years of ups and downs, lots of losers and a few good ones who just got away, she finally met a hot (I’ve seen pictures) 60 year old guy who popped the question over Valentine’s weekend. She’s definitely the foxiest boomer I know…hope he deserves her.
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