Ten Hats

2011-05-28T11:37:00.001-07:00

Test

Oh My God, I Am So Bored

2010-02-18T17:41:00.000-08:00

This is one of those times where writing like a second grader and repeating the title of my paper (entry) in the first sentence is appropriate: oh my God, I am so bored.

When I search online for "stay at home mom + bored," lots of things come up. Thanking God for the opportunity to be with my child(ren) is one. So, God, thank you. I am fortunate. Having just returned from a trip to faraway lands, my mojo is just a bit off. Also, my son has just decided to drop his second nap, so while I run around trying to entertain him with wooden spoons and Les Oeufs Verts au Jambon (Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham en francais), I'm still left wondering what else I can do productively without ignoring my motherly duties.

One jazzy lady suggests getting involved in "cyberspace."

"Oh, hi Jane! How ARE you? Oh, I'm good... good... Just been spending a lotta time in cyberspace lately. I can't BELIEVE technology! I can look inside the web and find people all over the world!! Did you know you can BUY things on the internet instead of going to the store?!" I do think online shopping could nearly solve the world's problems, but in light of our economic status (ok, mine), that's out of the question. I did take to writing a few restaurant reviews on Yelp. That backfired when I wrote one after my birthday dinner saying the restaurant had given me gluten (I'm allergic). Some disgruntled fellow had this to say:

If you had eaten there several times before and not had a reaction, why are you getting so bent out of shape over it not being gluten free? CLEARLY IT IS SAFE for you to eat regardless of any wheat that may or may not be in it. And what did you expect for your birthday? Balloons? fireworks?
You're an idiot!!

Then I posted an update following a conversation with the chef, and he wrote, again, with an even better commentary:

Why post the review AND call the owner to tell her about a "bad" experience. Don't you think she read your review and knew of the incident already? Stop complaining for the purpose of trying to get free stuff. I guess some people will do anything for a freebie "in this economy". You're now an even bigger idiot than I previously thought. Keep your hairy legs and stretch marks at home where they belong.
Didn't read your email back and won't read any future emails you might try to send. Having said that, I bet you're so stupid you try to send me one anyway.
Go ahead, waste your time IDIOT.

For the record, neither my original review nor my update said a word about my hairy legs and stretch marks. Only my husband and my friend Carrie know the extent of my ongoing battle with body hair. How did this guy know?*

One article warns against my love affair with Ellen. TV is unproductive. I know. But my husband won't take my calls after the first four or five. Who do I talk to? Other bored moms? There's only so much child-comparing I can do. Plus, your kid's the best in your mind anyway (even though I know mine is better).

It's also recommended that I develop a passion or hobby, like knitting (a poor way to burn off the binge-eating I do during bouts of boredom...) or gardening (it's 20 degrees outside; everything is dead).

I think I just need a few more weeks to settle back into the groove of home, my son's new schedule, and creative ways to make poverty fun. I will start collecting the popsicle sticks from my late-night snacking and build a beautiful artist's studio in the backyard. I will insulate it with old blue jeans and paint it with discarded canisters of White Out that I will collect from the Staples dumpster.

And we'll all look back at this silly entry and laugh a hearty laugh.

Hats Worn:
Biggest Loser candidate
Weight Watcher's next customer
Martha Stewart
This Old House intern
Madame Seuss
Failed Zagat writer

*That Yelp commentary is taken verbatim from the guy's reply. It's hard to believe it's not made up, I know. Either way, I'm not opposed to considering that I can, at times, an idiot. But I'd rather hear it from someone I love.

All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Dull Boy

2010-01-11T13:17:00.000-08:00

I doubt this is the case for all stay-at-homers, but I'd bet it's the case for some. I like to call it the Shining Syndrome. If you've seen the movie, you understand the reference, and if you haven't, you might be better off. Basically, it's about a family man who suffers from severe cabin fever. For me, a lack of exposure to the pressures and deadlines of the 9-5 world yields a lack of outlet for my overactive mind. Because I have descended from a long line of wackos and geniuses (equal parts each), I have a lot of mental energy that, when paired with mundane office tasks, purposed internet searches and objective writing opportunities, diffuses my insanity to a healthy degree. Never mind that I abhorred the workplace so much so that there was a time where, if I could have only one thing written on my tombstone, it would have been DB Gottesman: Hater of Cubicles.

Previously, running served as a good outlet for my bad energy, but I've not been doing that lately because I've become a slave to my son's nap schedule (by choice, mind you), and somehow the StairClimber and its companion TV just don't compare (although I've become a huge fan of Wife Swap). I therefore find myself very frequently ruminating and marinating in the little things. Little things such as:

1. My Mother
Unstable narcissist who, despite her tendency to lie constantly and cry a lot when called on it, I still happen to love very much because she's my mom and deep down, I'm probably just a little girl looking for love... Awww...
2. My friends
Because my family's "culture," shall I say, is one where people talk CONSTANTLY behind other people's backs, I have the most enormous fear that I will be subject to being deconstructed and shamed by having said or done something I didn't realize. Similar to the unassuming victims of my family who do nothing other than accept Thanksgiving invitations or give their kid a bar mitzvah, I will be chastized with dialogue like, "Can you BELIEVE she SAID/DID/WORE/ATE THAT? HOW DARE SHE." Then, worst of all, they will smile brightly at me and give me warm hugs when they next see me, secretly smug because they're convinced they're the better person(s).
3. Restaurants
I have a gluten allergy (My upcoming trip to "the lands of milky bread and bready honey"--Egypt, Jordan, Israel--will now be referred to simply as The Two-Week Cashew Binge). I also spent many years as a server and have therefore proclaimed myself the expert on good service. The combination of these two plagues makes for sometimes hammy restaurant experiences. This weekend was my birthday, and after being served a meal where the appetizers I ordered came out as wheat bullions and the entree took over an hour to receive, I left the place fuming. I dreamt about it and spent my morning thinking about how to seek retribution.
4. Cancer
All these little things that I let bother me, I have dubbed cancer, because they feel black, deadly and full of nothing but rage and useless pursuit. And yet, I become engulfed with frustration each time I sense that someone has tried to do something immoral, unfair or unjust and all I want to do is march right up to the offender(s) and tell them that they are NOT going to get away with this. I become overpowered with an urge to do or say anything to make them understand they have wronged the wrong person. I used to act on the urge, but my husband has forbidden me to lie in public, and I've resolved to stop telling even white lies because of my tendency to get carried away. Once -- okay, more than once -- I told a manager at a restaurant that I was the food editor for Chicago Magazine after they'd made us wait an hour past our reservation. Of course, they seated us immediately and showered us with guacamole. At least that's what it felt like when I could barely lift my eyelids from all the margaritas they brought us.

That particular incident was years ago, but regardless, my lie was wrong. And more than that, it defeated the purpose of maintaining my cool amidst the shittiness. Still, after all this time, I find myself wondering how one just lets go of the bad stuff. How, when I'm alone with my thoughts for a massive chunk of the day, do I sift through the good and the bad, and make lemonade out of the lessons I'm learning? How do I convince myself to assume that my friends have no other feelings but pure like and love for me? Is that even a reality? How, when my mother can be so Jekyll and Hyde-esque, do I accept the kindness of others and trust that, unlike my dear mom, they're not telling people terrible things about me as a sport?

This is why I now only like rom-coms. I used to be a sucker for the tear-jerker and even a good horror flick, hence my nod to Jack, but no more. I already followed the "when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible" part (Harry to Sally) by marrying my Harry, but someone's gotta get Jack to a swing set.

Hats:
Only child
Free spirit
Paranoid schizophrenic
Hypochondriac
Hopeless romantic
Pessimist
Optimist

What, me? Resolutions?

2010-01-06T08:04:00.000-08:00

In one of my previous incarnations as a techology consultant (souped up sales rep), I had a boss who made us write down our goals for the year and classify them into SMART categories: S = Specific; M = Measurable; A = Attainable; R = Relevant; T = Timely.

I hated doing this. My boss was always pleased with the content of my submissions, but it required a lot of thought for goals that hadn't yet made themselves clear to me and forced me to think about all I didn't have but might theoretically want. Why? Now, MILLIONS of people will tell you that you can't achieve a goal without setting one. Ok, perhaps. But I've always felt that if it's not achieved, you risk coming out feeling like a failure, when you have the opportunity to simply look around you and delight in what you do have. I realize this makes me sound like a pessimist, so before the end of this post, I'll make a SMART goal, and we can track it together. Maybe I'll change my mind. Maybe I'll change yours..

I do hate New Year's resolutions, and as I read all the January issues of women's magazines that manipulate us into asking how and if we can be better, I reject it all for the first time in my life, thinking, "I'm a mom. I have more important things to do than beat myself up and harvest doubt." I've got to be upbeat and positive, and focusing on the knee fat that hangs over my trouser socks that I now refuse to wear is really unproductive. General resolutions I can maybe go for, but I'd like to buck the trend of the whole January thing. I should probably just stop having multiple breakfasts and two dinners every night. As a Jewess, I have a primal fear of going hungry, but I know I can channel the beautiful white collar blonde gentile inside of me who subsists on gin and tonics and small hors d'oeuvres.

How about a nice little goal for the time capsule? It's not weight-related.

S = Specific

I will blog every day.

M = Measurable

I will post something every two days.

A = Attainable

I can do this.

R = Relevant

Yep.

T = Timely

By June 1, 2010, I will have 100 followers.

I know I probably should've expounded more on the how, but it's the most I'm willing to put in writing because I'm superstitious. The best I can say is stay tuned.

Hats:

Franklin Covey groupie AKA highly effective person

Motivational speaker (did I inspire anyone?)

Junior Leaguer

Witch doctor

This is What Has Happened

2010-01-04T13:48:00.000-08:00

I noticed today in one of the inconveniently placed gym mirrors that my butt has grown very long. Was it always this long? Is this what happens to moms? I know MY mom has longbutt, and my grandma was a heavy woman, so she had widebutt, but I wondered as I shuffled defeatedly to the shower: Is this my fate?

I had convinced myself that all the breastfeeding was negating the pounds of candy I've harvested from Walgreen's as well as the kettle chips I've been working hard on. But the glimpse at my reflection told no lies. Despair.

If I lived on a reservation, they would probably call me Longbuns.

Hats:

Butthead

Body dysmorphic disorder specialist

Native American

Mom Ham

2010-01-02T19:08:00.000-08:00

I'd like to tell you a little about ham. Ham is distress. Not just ordinary distress, but a combination of discomfort and distress that somehow you can’t outwardly express. As a rule of thumb, you and the ham-doer have too much history to allow for simple venting.

Ham results in bad breath, profuse armpit sweating, and a very forced smile. I'd like to share a recent ham tale to better illustrate the term.

My mom, formerly a liberal Midwestern Jewish girl turned Sarah Palin devotee, flew in from Texas a few weeks ago for my son's first birthday. A nice gesture, especially since her husband was also coming, which was big. Apart from our wedding, he had never actually come to visit us. And they’ve been married for 12 years.

Within hours of her arrival, we were chasing each other around town and I could swear I smelled the faint aroma of ham wafting from somewhere nearby. I had driven all over the city trying to find her where she said she’d be, but each time I'd arrive, she'd call to say she had already left ("..too cold, ...bored, ...lost, ...where is that toystore??"). By the fourth or fifth phone call, I'd kind of had enough. I had eight people coming for dinner and 40 people the following day for the birthday party. There was work to be done.

Mom was in her car with my great aunt Sandy from Chicago, who just lost her husband of 55 years. She had flown in for a pick-me-up in the form of our toddler’s birthday party. Over the phone, I tell my mom I've had enough of the fruitless chase, and I'm going home to cook. I hear Aunt Sandy ask, "Did she hang up on you?"
"Yes!" says Mom. "I think so."

I hear talking so I think maybe she's talking to me. I say, "Mom. MOM? I didn't hang up. I'm right here. MOM?? Helloooo.... "

Nope. She's talking to Aunt Sandy. I listen. "...see THIS is what I've been dealing with for the last twelve years. She is so ANGRY, and I have no idea why. I mean, Mike (stepfather) was absolutely DREADING coming. He can't stand her... He had a HORRIBLE stomachache this morning, and I KNEW it was because he didn't want to come. I said, 'You don't want to go, do you?' and he said, 'No. I really don't.'"

The exaggerations continued, peppered with embellished dialogue from our conversation that had just taken place. She gained momentum and fabricated details as Aunt Sandy's sympathy grew. Luckily, we got disconnected. I pulled into my driveway and my phone rang. Just when I thought this couldn’t get worse…it was my mom. "Yes, Mom."

"Look, we all came ALL this way to have a nice time, and I'm not going to be treated like this. I mean, you're so ANGRY!! Why are you so angreeee?" (Note the deliberate use of italics to convey a slight whine/whinny.)

The only thing I could bring myself to say was "Sorry." She went on, recounting our conversation to me, including the bits she had tested on Aunt Sandy. I let her go on for a few minutes before saying, "Mom, fine. I just really wish you hadn't talked about me to Aunt Sandy.”

"What??! I didn't talk to Aunt Sandy about you!!! I wouldn't DO that!!!!!"

"Mom. I heard your conversation."

A pause. "Well. I figured you were on the phone, because I saw it hadn't hung up, and... why are you so aaaangry?? We came all the way here, and…”

"Mom. This weekend isn't about you. It's about your grandson. We'll talk about the rest another time. You're welcome for dinner tonight. Love you."

"Well.. I love you.."

I stepped out into the cold air and focused on breathing, because ham can sometimes take your breath away. I opted for a solo round of Silent Night in the driveway and made my way into the house. The ham anti-venom was the sight of my husband and my tiny son crawling to greet me as I came in the door.

As planned, my Mom et al. came for dinner. I couldn't look at her all night. Ham. What my husband would call an entire hamsteak, with a nice, round pineapple slice on top.

It's amazing being a mom to my son. But it's surreal being a mom to my mom. It requires some imagination and a lot of patience.

As the holidays have just officially come to a close, I'm sure the many a table was graced with a smoked ham or two, and even if you ate some, I do recommend turkey as a primary source of sustenance. Ham's as much of a mainstay as fruitcake, so try to come to terms with re-gifting it.

Hats worn:
Psychologist
Butcher
Pacifist
Pharmacist
Lobotomy patient

YOU Cry it Out

2009-12-14T18:21:00.000-08:00

My son is going to be 12 months old this week. I can't believe it. Where did the time go? Two months ago, he "learned" to sleep through the night. And I "learned" what achieving that meant.
Now, suffice it to say that deciding to teach your kid what life on the side of Cry-it-Out means is one matter in and of itself. Many parents are okay with this method from the get-go. I, having had minimal experience with babies prior to having one of my own, had never heard of this approach (or anything baby related, actually), until we spent the weekend with two other couples in New Hampshire, one of whom was in the middle of sleep training their four-month-old son.
As the night progressed, and we all settled cozily in, glasses of wine in hand, this couple nonchalantly kicked back as their baby screamed and cried with all his might, seemingly begging for someone to come to him. Mom and Dad said, "Ah, ah... He's gonna have to learn that we're not going to give in..." I was mortified. This, in contrast to me, 3-month-old baby snoozing against me in my sling until we ourselves went up to bed. I vowed that no matter what, I'd NEVER, EVER do that to my kid. EVER.
Fast forward seven months. My son is 10 months old. We put him to sleep every night in his crib, and he wakes up around 2:30am to nurse. At that point, he comes in our room and gets put in the co-sleeper, because I'm so tired that if he wakes up again, I don't want to have to go all the way in his room. Works ok, until around 9 months, when he starts waking up at 11 or 12 to nurse. Then he won't go back down in his crib, nor will he go back in the co-sleeper. When I try to release him, he whimpers then nuzzles into me. It's really cute. But I'm tired. I try the release again. No-go. He wants my warmth. I give in. He stays in my bed.
I should stop here and tell you that before he was born, my husband and I were in staunch agreement that the bed is for grown-ups, and the kid has a room for a reason. But I was so tired. And I saw that I could get an extra hour or so out of him in the morning simply by letting him stay close. My husband leaves really early for work, so I figured that since it was just the two of us, it did minimal harm. I was surprised at myself. Co-sleeping?? (My pediatrician, who I actually really like, believes this is "just CRAZY.") Nursing while laying down now? What was next?
Someone around that time gave me a copy of Mothering Magazine, and out of boredom, while nursing, I thumbed through it. I don't think she had any idea it was an attachment parenting publication, because it came in a Border's bag with a copy of Pat the Bunny, but these folks are REALLY attached. One of the opening photos in the reader's comments section had a woman with a kid on each boob. One was a newborn. The other was six. Good Lord.
So, here we were at ten months. Things weren't really getting better, because my son would toss and turn all night, and to avoid interrupting my husband's sleep, I kept him on my side of the bed, so I was vigilant all night about him falling off the bed (he did once), which impeded his ability to twist and turn as babies do in their sleep. He'd wake up whimpering, which I mistook for real crying, so I'd offer him the boob, and well, soon, we had a bedfull of crummy sleepers.
I read anything I could get my hands on. Dr. Sears was my friend (I tend towards underdogs in most aspects of life). I hated Weissbluth because he condoned letting babies cry so hard they'd vomit (even typing that makes me ill), and I was so-so on Ferber, depending on how long you (I) had to wait till you could go to the baby. But, Dr. Sears' approach wasn't helping anyone get more than three hours of sleep in a row, and I thought that at 10 months, I must be missing something. What I was beginning to hate more than any of it though, was all the people--strangers and family alike--that asked within seconds of meeting/seeing him if he was "sleeping through the night." As though it was an indication of how good he is. And let me tell you, this kid is the easiest, sweetest, happiest kid I've ever seen. He has smiled constantly since he was born and RARELY cries.
Now, I fully subscribe to the idea that parenting is a 24-hour job. And I was happy to nurse my son in the middle of the night. I just became concerned that HE wasn't getting good sleep-- he was up ALL the time! Plus, I began refusing to go out, in the event that he woke up at 10 or 11 and wanted to nurse, which happened at least every few nights.
I started Googling, reading online discussion boards, looking for anything that might reveal a clue to helping my son get the most out of his evenings. I came across Moms on Call. I couldn't tell by their web site what method they used, but the loads of testimonials had me believing they were the end-all-be-all. Whatever it was, I needed to shell out the 30 bucks they required for access to their online seminar. I convinced my husband to sit in on the course with me. It's a lovely PowerPoint, hosted by two friendly southern ladies, and together, they told us that babies need sleep, and that we are not bad people to help them get it. Waiting for the punchline...
They told us that babies CAN make it through the night. Ok... Had my son not been 10 months, I'd have argued otherwise. It was more important to me to feed him when he was hungry, whenever that may be, than to get multiple consecutive hours of sleep. But at this age, I was still open to what they were saying.
And so, they said, kiss him goodnight at 7:30. Tell him you know he can do it. And do not open the door again until the morning. Like, 7:30am in the morning. Uh oh. Many people with whom I spoke who were against the cry it out method said that if and when we DID finally do it, it'd be because we were just at that point. And while we were sort of there, I still sat at dinner that night (in a public place, mind you) sobbing to my husband that this seemed inhumane and that I didn't want to do it. He said we must give it a shot.
I said alright. I felt horrible. My compromise is that at no point would we allow him to cry longer than 20 minutes. Period. Let me stop here to tell you that there is a reason the term MOTHER'S INTUITION has been coined. It means that if your gut tells you not to do something, DON'T DO IT.

I silenced my gut.
Our son cried that night. I made my husband go to him. He did. This went on. It was the most horrible thing ever. And no one tells you how engorged you'll be. It felt so wrong being in another room, full of milk, while my son was thirsty for it just 20 feet away in the next room. When I went to him in the morning, he was confused. He didn't understand why I hadn't been there for him. I know that now; I knew it then. I cried all day that day. Friends [who had done CIO] consoled and reassured me that I had not broken his spirit. I felt I had. He was weird all day. And probably exhausted.

The next night was better, but he still cried. I hated it. I stood on my head in our bed, crying. My husband went to him. I wanted to die. I declared to him as he re-entered our room after putting the little man back to sleep that this was, by far, the stupidest thing I had ever done. That day, I did what no one should ever do if they've decided to proceed with CIO: I looked online. Even worse, I Googled "cry it out inhumane." I came across things like this:

No one is saying a good parent will never allow his baby to cry. They cry a lot. Again, it is their only means of communication. However, a parent should never give up trying to solve whatever is wrong with their baby. It is a modern, western notion that babies should be placed in a large crib in their own room by themselves at night. It is also a western notion that babies should be somehow “trained” to put themselves to sleep and stay that way 8-10 hours. When a doctor asks if your baby is sleeping through the night, he doesn’t mean for 8 hours straight! Babies have different sleep patterns than adults. Trying to push a baby into some kind of deep sleep, or "independence” is not in the best interest of the baby, it is in the best interest of a sleep-deprived parent who wants to catch some shut-eye. (Child rearing has no short cuts, folks.)

-Dinah Laurel

"Parents should recognize that having their babies cry unnecessarily harms
the baby permanently. It changes the nervous system so they're sensitive to
future trauma."
- Dr. Michael Commons, Dept of Psychiatry, Harvard

Among my results, I read something that will stick with me forever (I'm paraphrasing): I'm an adult, and even at my age, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night thirsty, too warm, too cold, uncomfortable... And somehow it's ok for me, but not a little baby?
The third night he slept through the night. It was over. He was a quick learner. Overall, the longest he had cried was 10, maybe 15 minutes. But you know what? I don't care. It's been two months of sleeping through the night, and great. It's fine. He's fine and seems to have forgotten the very obvious trauma that we introduced him to. Sure, he's a baby, everyone says-- he'll be fiiiiiiine! Here's what I say to that: so what.
I'm sure he'd have learned to sleep through the night eventually, and while our approach wasn't particularly mean, as in we went to him each time he cried for more than a few minutes and gently lulled him back to sleep, I think the fact that there's such a massive market out there to which parents flock by the millions just to get their babies to learn that there's no needing allowed if it falls between 11 and 6 is asinine. I was disgusted with myself for having participated in it, and I'm still ashamed.

We work so hard to teach our children that they have a voice--that they are heard. But it's wrong to tell them they don't have one when it comes to night time, and then spend the rest of their lives telling them they can be whatever they want to be, and do whatever they want to do if we're the ones that told them otherwise in the first place.
We've got to make happy people here, folks. We have a huge responsibility to populate the world with humane munchkins, because those munchkins grow up to be humane grown-ups. The world is full of challenges, tough moments, hard times, difficult situations. Later on in life, and more times than we'd like to say, we are all forced to just cry it out.
So how soon is too soon? I'd like to say that if you're too small to use a Crayon, enjoy an ice cream or pet a puppy, it's too soon. Leave the crying to the grown-ups, and cheer yourself up by snuggling with a happy baby.

Hats worn:
Hippie
Liberal nay-sayer
Woeful mom
PowerPoint user