Self-Made Mom

Edited to add: for the best list on the web of what sippy cups/ bottles are completely BPA-free go to Z Recommends.

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I finally did it. I caved in and got rid of my plastic sippy cups.  I’d been avoiding the inevitable for quite some time now, trying to believe that all the ruckus around leaching and B.P.A was just hype.  But when the New York Times published the story last week that Canada is likely to label the chemical B.P.A. toxic I finally took note.  (Sorry folks, I still need an old school press outlet to print something before I really kick into high-gear neuroses.)

That meant throwing away perfectly-good but potentially harmful Nuby sippy cups (information received from company representative was timely, but ultimately too confusing to figure out which parts of the cup actually still have B.P.A. in them for neurotic Jewish mother) and replacing them with overpriced, very heavy and oh-by-the-way-they-don’t-tell-you-but-you-have-to-wash-them-by-hand stainless steel versions. 

I went with versions from SIGG and Foogo because I didn’t have to crane my eyes to read which number plastic was listed on the bottom to see if it was okay (is it 2? 6?) and because I like cartoony-looking airplanes.  I’m just like Herve Villechaize.

Da plane! Da plane!

Yes, it was more expensive, but so far it’s been worth it because my son seems to be handling the transition just fine.  Apparently, “leak-proof” works just the same with stainless as it does plastic. He can still use the straw to flick milk all over unsuspecting satin pillows or interior of clean car.  (Praise to the genius who figures out how to not collect milk at the end of a sippy cup straw.) Also, it would appear that milk tastes better out of stainless steel because I’ve already gone through a gallon since I instituted the B.P.A. ban (that was Monday).  Maybe there is something to this story?

Which brings me to my most sanctimomious moment ever when me and my lead-weight (oh wait, lead is poisonous too) diaper bag went for a playdate at my friend’s house.  Little did she know that I’d turned into the B.P.A. police overnight.  She offered my son a sippy cup of water.  I inspected the bottom of the cup. A 4!  G-d love Playtex! The plastic cups she served us? No number, so I ceased drinking.  She fed her young daughter her bottle. I chimed in without any solicitation:

Uhm, are you sure you still want to use Dr. Brown’s bottles?

Who am I to comment on the bottle feeding habits of another smart mom?  She told me that she wasn’t informed and needed someone else to help tell her what to do, but I’m far from an expert.  Even though I’ve rid my house of the “plastic devil,” I still have been known every know and then to accidentally microwave those little Gerber plastic bowls full of macaroni and cheese or leave the plastic on the string cheese enough so my son has ingested more of the Frigo guy than the actual mozzarella. 

Frigo man says, “don’t eat me, please!”

My information on the topic is unproven, untested.  But everybody’s talking about it and the experts say if you don’t do it you might have a kid with three boobs who runs around in circles all the time. I mean, my cousin, the doctor, the researcher, threw out all the plastic bottles for his three-month-old too.  But he also knows words like polyethelene.  All I know is what I read in the paper.  Which was enough for me to ditch the neon for the metal.

And boy does my back hurt as a result.

Tags: BPA-free, bottles, SIGG, Froogo, BPA

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I know I said no blogging because it is spring out, but I got carried away and inspired because the article I fretted about is slated to run this June! Maybe the working once in awhile isn’t so bad after all…

… to help her put a down payment on a condo…

… and it got me thinking.

Hope you’ll read my thoughts on navigating the nanny-employer relationship on Moms On Issues!

And no, if you care to know, I didn’t give her the dough.  Certain things just aren’t Kosher for Passover.

… she can draw a mean naranja.

Like being a kick-ass singer on American Idol is a good excuse to quit a nanny job. I mean, please.

Brooke, there’s a job waiting for you should you want to go back to wiping butts instead of a big record deal.

Tags: American Idol, Brooke White, nanny, child care

When I enrolled my son in a gymnastics class last month, I got a few giggles and sidelong glances.  Don’t think I didn’t ask myself the same thing, “isn’t gymnastics just for girls?” But two of my SAHM acquaintances signed up for the class as well (with their daughters), and in the hopes of making some new real friends I decided to join them.

My friends and family were mixed on my decision.  Some thought the gym studio was better left to leotards and leggings.  Others scoffed at my question and said, “of course boys take gymnastics.” In my head I knew boys take gymnastics too, but part of me just couldn’t get past the thought of my son setting forth to do his floor routine in a singlet. Wouldn’t he freeze to death?

Please cover up during all the winter months.

It’s funny, my son and his peers seem to be entering a phase of their young lives where boys start to do “boy” stuff and girls start to do “girl” stuff.  I knew this moment would creep up on me eventually, but I made a conscious decision when my son was born to try to steer clear of activities that were biased towards one sex or the other.  And so far, it hasn’t been an issue - we all know classes at this age are based on how smart the mother thinks her child is the age of your child .

However, now that my son and his friends are hitting the twos, I’m beginning to see the lines being drawn more clearly. The girls are signing up for dance, the boys are leaning towards activities like soccer.  Hell, in our soccer class alone the boy/ girl ratio is something like 152/ 2.

But what do you do when you have a boy who would rather sit on the sidelines of his gymnastics class and eat a bagel than walk on the balance beam? Or one you know would enjoy that dance class that all the girls are enrolling in? I’d like to say that I could let go of the stereotypes and let him rip in a session of ballet.  (I think he’d look darling in those black jazz shoes.)  But part of me knows that when it comes down to it I will probably err in the direction of what the “boys” are doing. At least until he can tell me he’d rather pirouette than run cross-courts.

I’ve got a killer head cold, and I can’t call in sick to my toddler. 

But let me tell you, Dora makes a great back-up sitter.

I quit my job to spend more time with my son, but I haven’t quite let go of the one life vest that helps me hold my head above the proverbial water: my nanny.

Yes, I’m one of those over-indulged SAHMs who has help a few hours a week.  Many weeks before I decided to quit my job, I implored my husband to let me keep my nanny on board part-time. I insisted that I couldn’t do it alone, no, not with the hours he works or with a child entering what some call Toddler PMS.  For all that my nanny and I have been through together, the thought of having the ability to go to the grocery store alone without someone yelling in my ear at every turn, “turkey! banana! ketchup!” was enough to make Messianic Music look like a sing-along with Elmo.

He obliged, I helped to find my nanny another part-time job and in such state I entered the world of SAHM heaven. 

But when my nanny showed up this morning I wasn’t filled with excitement.  I had a laundry list of things I wanted to achieve during my day, but really I had nowhere to go other than to the gym and back to Lululemon to pick me up a fine sweatshirt (note to self: I MUST stay away from that store for fear of turning into nylon).   And, in the fashion that I’m used to, I rushed out of my house to make it downtown by 9 am. Not for a meeting, but for a yoga class. I left my son screaming in my nannies arms as I left. It was deja vu all over again.  Except I was wearing technical fabric instead of wool gabardine.

As I puttered around town, by myself in my car, listening to adult radio (AM news station) all I could see were all the other mommies like me, in their SUVs running pointless errands, biding their alone time (and spending ridiculously more money than me at LLemon).  I felt like I deluded myself and my husband into thinking I actually needed some “me” time.  I thought, what is it that I was trying to get away from? I’ve already spent the last 182+ Wednesdays away from my son at work.  Why would I choose to spend yet another one on my own?

A lot of it has to do with the fact that I’m not quite ready to let the totally-reliable, yet odd-personality sitter go.  I know the drama my friends go through trying to find part-time help for their children.  The conversation I overheard at Whole Foods between two mothers lamenting to each other how they wished they could afford a sitter now and then certainly helped convince me of me-time worthiness as well.

But really, at the core, it’s the reason I worked for the last year and a half.  As much as I want to be a SAHM, or was a working mom, I know that I’m not cut out to do the all-out mom thing a 7 full days a week.  Because I know that I’m a better mom if I have a little space now and then. Because separation anxiety in a 9-month-old ‘aint got nothing on a 2-year-old.

Or maybe it’s because when I returned home after only 4 hours away, I walked into a house and heard giggles like I’ve never heard before, son and nanny playing games I would never have thought of, and got the running-into-my-arms-hug from my son that was usually saved for the nighttime. 

Because I know that even though I’m technically an SAHM now, it doesn’t necessarily mean everyone’s better off having me fulfill the stay-at-home part of the equation 100 percent of the time.

I sometimes wish I had a special super power that allowed me to zap a mom’s mouth shut before she said something stupid.

Like the eye doctor I saw today to figure out why the F I still have pink eye.

She was one of those perky, smiley, cute pregnant women who’s on her third kid, but looks like she just walked off the pages of a Pea in the Pod advertisement.  Not to mention that she works full-time. I thought her giddiness was from some sort of magic potion she drank for lunch, but as it turns out it’s from what she described as SUCH AN AMAZING NANNY. A snippet from our conversation:

Me: “So you’re on your third?”

Bubbly, Annoying Doctor: “Yeah! Our nanny is so fabulous it makes it seem like we could have 6 kids. She’s just like so calm and soothing. It’s great!”

Me: “Oh. I’m on my third nanny.”

BAD:  [a slight sneer]

Me: “And, I just quit my job!”

BAD: “Oh. It’s much easier to work with a great full-time nanny who you trust so much than to stay at home full time with no help. And, you don’t have pink eye, just lash dandruff.”

I felt defeated.  Just when I thought I could find common ground with another working mother, I was blasted with a rock of Kryptonite.  And some overly oily eyelids.

Unfortunately I didn’t bring my superhero cape with me to the opthamologist, so all I could do was swoop my fabulous non-maternity coat around myself and ask her,

“Well, does your nanny make messianic music CDs for your kids? Ha! I didn’t think so.”

No, actually I just got up and left.  Not really caring about the free “Stridex-like” swabs for my eyes.  This soon-to-be-SAHM mommy will make do with her regular cotton balls and imperfect nanny.

As we all know, even superheros have their flaws.

Actual Conversation:  

Nanny: “Hi Sara, I have a problem”

Me: “What?”

Nanny: “I just got my period and I bled everywhere so I’m washing my clothes. And wrapped myself in one of your towels. Do you have any tampons? Oh, and Junior’s in the crib so he doesn’t walk anywhere.  And, I washed my hands thoroughly.”

Me: “Ok.” [What the F**!!$$$???]

Nanny: “Anyway, so I’m calling because I won’t be able to take Junior to Gymboree this afternoon.”

Me: “Ok.” [This the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard to get out of going to a Mommy and Me class.]

Nanny: “Thanks for understanding, this is so personal, you know.”

Me: “Ok.” [Is this conversation OVER yet?]

Preferred Conversation:  

Nanny: “Something personal came up that I don’t need to give you the gory details about and I cannot take Junior to Gymboree today. Is it ok if I do a make-up class instead? I will call to find out what the alternative classes are.”

Me: “Yes, of course.” [Good! She’s so responsible!]

Junior: “Cheeeeeese”

At least now I know she’s not pregnant.  Uh, oh, did I just say that?

By now, you know that my nanny is quite religious and that on one occasion her beliefs have conflicted with a proposed activity for my son.  By now you know that I’m on nanny #3 and that our relationship has had its tenuous moments.  And by now, because I have not mentioned it in quite awhile, you must know (or at least think) that things are actually working out (this is usually when the phrase “jinx” could be used) and that things are relatively calm on the child care front.

Because, by now, my nanny and I are at the point in our relationship where we’re finally letting down our guard, pushing some comfort zones and letting our personalities and interests enter conversations where to-do lists and questions commonly prevailed.  Thing is, with nanny/ mommy relationships it’s always something.  Just when you’re on the precipice of thinking everything is perfect, something happens to throw off your mojo just a bit.

Like when I opened up the CD player in my basement yesterday and saw this:

Loosely translated: What the F is my son listening to?

Yes, my son is enrolled in a Jewish pre-pre school program.  Yes, I celebrate the Jewish holidays to the best of my abilities.  But this doesn’t mean that I necessarily promote religion outside of this context.  Or promote anything that has the word gospel in it.  Ok, I’m not gonna lie and say that the music wasn’t catchy or that I didn’t smile when “Hava Nagila” came on.  Or that it’s not touching that someone took the time to burn a CD (hope it’s not pirated) for my music-loving son.

But I can’t say I get that “tingly all good feeling” when I think of my son sitting in our basement all afternoon playing while a Spanish version of “Canto de Moises” drones on in the background.

Oy gevalt, the guilt.

Our family’s transition to our new nanny has not been easy.  But as of late, my son’s stopped crying every time I leave for work, and I no longer feel the need to text her 37 times a day to see if my boy has pooped, napped or is happy.

We’re making progress. Well, sort of.

Just yesterday I found out my nanny doesn’t believe in Halloween.  She doesn’t believe in it and she won’t celebrate it. She thinks Halloween is “celebrating evil” and doesn’t want to be a part of any celebrations, costumes, trick-or-treating or photo taking. (I guess I should hide that cauldron I bust out on really bad days.) 

Obviously I respect her decision and realize that not all of us are cut out for pumpkin carving, ghost storytelling or dressing up.  But how do I respect her choices when it affects my son?  She basically told me straight up yesterday that she won’t take my son to any parties, get his photograph taken or put him in his costume.  And since Halloween falls on a Wednesday this year, and I happen to work on Wednesdays, I’m worried my son is going to miss out on the first Halloween that may actually understand what is going on. (The consistent answer of “roar” when I ask him what he’s going to be for Halloween (a lion) is a suspect clue, but still.)

On one hand I understand she needs to stand her ground and not do anything that may make her uncomfortable.  On the other hand, her argument makes no sense to me considering she takes my son to a pre-pre school class at our Jewish synagogue.  I am pretty sure she doesn’t celebrate Purim.

So where do I draw the lines between ensuring that we are understanding employers and ensuring my son enjoys all aspects of his childhood? I know I can’t force her to believe in something she doesn’t, but couldn’t she just pretend one day for the sake of my child?

And doesn’t she realize she’s missing out on all of those great bite-sized candies?
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Cross-posted at Chicago Moms Blog