Self-Made Mom

After I succumbed to the purchase of an overpriced plastic funhouse for my two-year-old, I never thought I’d get roped into any other toddler money-making schemes for at least another two six months.  I’ve already spent an exorbitant amount of money on sippy cups, and purchased a bike trailer for my husband’s bike that has been used all of one time (more on that another time.)  I’ve babyproofed our patio, redone my pantry and am gearing up for the eventual move of my son into a big boy room.  What’s left to be spent on with the summer not even officially here?

Sesame Street Live, of course.

I am among the unitiated when it comes to kiddie events.  But when I saw that Elmo was rolling into town and tickets were being offered up free of charge, I could hardly deny the little prince a trip to everyone’s favorite neighborhood.  As much as I hate to admit it, I was quite excited for our first live children’s production.

The trip out to the theater was out of a bad sitcom plot.  Family plans for bad traffic on Chicago’s notoriously crowded highway.  Trip takes 15 minutes with 45 minutes to kill before the production.  Family parks in lot alongside what appears to be the remnants of a minivan dealership.  Cliche photo captions ensue.

Death to the minivan.

A shoulder ride into the theater lobby took up all of 5 minutes.  Luckilly I wasn’t alone in the thrills of kiddie shows.

Gratuitous father/ son bonding photo.  I’m sure the elder wishes he was at a baseball game instead.

But once inside, the sunny days swept the grey skies away.  I saw the lit up Sesame Street vending table money-suck and I was instantly hooked.  We were going to see Big Bird!

I didn’t ask the poor dude in the photo selling inflatable Elmos if I could take his photo. Whoops!

And once the show started, forget about it.  We were all hooked.  It was a well-thought-out, splashy, flashy but not trashy hour-and-a-half of sheer neon joy.  My husband liked it so much he even got our kid one of those inflatable Elmos that poor dude was selling.  For $10 a pop.   A rookie mistake, in my opinion. 

A sea of glowing rookie mistakes.

And even though my son bawled his eyes out at the popping balloons at the end of the show, he truly enjoyed himself.  And the Elmo balloon.  Funny thing is, that $10 balloon is still alive and kicking well after the show has ended.  Like three days later.  And it provides countless minutes of endless entertainment, which I am eternally grateful for.

The Elmo balloon - the gift that keeps on giving.

And giving.

I know Monday morning sounds so much better, but I didn’t have time to post some of my favorite links on the web until now.  Following is a list of some good Monday afternoon reads.  

• Take a bow, or kirtsy:  The site formerly known as sk*rt is back with a new name! Go check out kirtsy.  The site’s as cute and fun as it sounds.
• SWAT this:  I still am hesitant about becoming a SWAT, but the conversation continues. Check out the dialogue here on BabyCenter and from a SWAT participant herself, Mojomom.
• Some good news for the PR flacks: I’m so sick of PR getting such a bad rap on the blogosphere. Is a PR-blacklist wiki really necessary?  Do we bloggers really want to align ourselves with such McCarthy-like behavior? I think there are better ways to educate the PR field about blogger outreach, and so does Maria Bailey. Check out her new site, Mom Select, which helps companies and PR folks connect with moms and mom bloggers.  It’s opt-in so everyone wins.
• Public schools may not be for me: I have a new post up on Chicago Moms Blog today where I voice my opinion on the right to choose a private education over a public one for my son. 
• How many different feet you meet: If you’re in my hood, check out the new shoe store, a pied. Your shoes and wallet will thank you!

Tags: Mom Select, kirtsy, Maria Bailey, PR spammers , Chicago Moms Blog

Next time I decide to go to a luxurious spa by myself on Mother’s Day I need to remember that other moms don’t have the same brilliant idea as me, and as a result, they will drag their bratty little kids along with them.

The upside is that because my blissful experience was dented (only very minorly) by tweens on laptops in the locker room checking their e-mail (there are places that shouldn’t be “connected”) I could very well justify the purchase of fabulous new diaper bag.  Especially since the status of the return of my broken one has not yet been resolved. (Another note to self, get that resolved.)

Calling all tweens - you jealous of my new Juicy bag?

Hope all of you had as luxurious and indulgent day as I.  Happy Mother’s Day!

To know me, is to know about my obsession with my pantry.  Remember when my old nanny reorganized it for me?  Since she left (I know it’s been awhile), my pantry hasn’t been quite the same.  It’s grown up over the last year adding to it more toddler sundries, canned food and cereal than I care to discuss.  Its wire racks are bogged down with too many bags of flour.  Its floor messy with chip crumbs.

The food and garbage repository formerly known as my pantry.

It was time to make a change.  So I called the people who make dreams come true: professional closet organizers.  I’ve had the sketches drawn for months now, but could not arrange the installation until early this week.  I waited patiently for my laminate shelves to arrive, for my pull-out drawers to work.  But first, I had to clean out the beast.

Cleaning out your pantry is like reliving the great ups and downs of your life.  Diets, babies, childless days, bad habits - the pantry knows all.

The photos tell all:

The cashew hold-overs from dinner two months ago.  We couldn’t be bothered to actually eat the remaining three in the bag.

And so begins the journey of really old packaged goods.  These hail from Summer 2006. Not bad.

That’s right. December 2004.

No dates listed.  I’m pretty sure these letters and numbers are code for: “Don’t open me unless you want a mean case of botulism.”

The one that takes the cake, er, brownie. July 2003.  This box could be considered old in my LAST place of residence.

But once I got over the mound of canned food that was still edible piled on my counter and hauled out the 3 large bags of trash filled with food gone bad, I realized I had the makings of fine food closet.  No expired food, no random bags of snacks.  Only the best junk food has to offer.  In an organized fashion.

I never knew smooth laminate shelves could smell so good. I will never go disorganized again.

Today we went to Toys”R”Us together as a family.  That includes my husband, who I goaded into going after a rousing trip to Home Depot.  We hemmed and hawed over outdoor play toys.  We decided on and procured a plastic playhouse. We shlepped it home.  We didn’t like it when we took it out of the box.  We (I) had to go back to return it. I got a new and improved one. My husband set it up. 

Because every two-year-old needs his own personal plastic playground.

My son played on it for about four minutes before he resumed his favorite game of “throw the rocks” and asked to go to the park.

Next weekend we’re going to see Sesame Street Live.

I’m officially the mom of a toddler.

If you tell me by next year I’ll be reciting all the words to “The Wiggles” greatest hits I may sock you.

The thing I miss most about working is that I used to have something else to think about.  Something I thought was more important than whether or not it was BS that the kiddie soccer program allowed there to be a “private” soccer lesson in lieu of the class they advertised. (The bitching got them to create a new class for my friends and me. Ah, my negotiation skills I learned on the job are paying off in the mommy world. Wait, is it the other way around?)

The thing I miss about working is that now I have to figure out how I’m supposed to fill a dreary, rainy cold spring afternoon. When I was at work, I could just schedule an afternoon meeting or something.  I never had to think about my “summer schedule” being opposite from all my friends.  Or that my son missed the cut off for drop-off summer camp (rue those April birthdays).  Or the BPA-hype. Oh! The BPA-hype. Never in my life did I picture myself watching my son swing on gymnastic rings chatting with a friend about the dangers of plastic. The last time I worried about plastic doing me any bodily harm was when I was still using these.  I’ve come a long way from ribbed, people.

I used to chat about the latest CEO scandal. Now, my afternoons are spent gossiping and quoting news sources about the Miley Cyrus incident.  Seriously, I had no clue who Miley Cyrus was 6 months ago. Now, I’m questioning whether or not her “handlers” were complicit. I even roped my husband into the conversation. It’s his fault.

I push shopping carts with little plastic cars on the front where the kids sit around the supermarket in my sweatpants with my hair in a greasy bun where people smirk at me. I am not used to being smirked at as “that poor mom.”  But I was so that poor mom today.

My calendar is now filled with people’s names and addresses for playdates rather than meetings and client calls.  However, instead of blowing off a client ringing my line, I anxiously await for my phone to ring hoping for a shred of gossip or future planmaking.  Then I gossip and remind myself that there have to be other things to talk about. Like Miley Cyrus.  Or that crazy mom from the gymnastics class who lets her son run around like a maniac.  Oh, wait. That counts as gossip.

I don’t need to go to bed so early anymore because I don’t have to get dressed until 10 am if I don’t want to. I forget that my working mom friends still go to bed at 9 pm, though, and call them too late.  Heading to Starbucks for my chai tea is my morning meeting.  I even started talking to the baristas out of boredom.  And I don’t even have the petty cash to waste at Starbucks anymore.

The thing I don’t miss about working is that even if I got to think about conference calls and writing plans, I wasn’t doing it happily.  I’m happy most of the time staying in my workout clothes all day.  Hey, at least I got to workout.  Sometimes I feel like a walking cliche, but at least I do it with a smile on my face 99% of the time. Sometimes I think I need a life, but then I look at all I’ve done today as a mom and I’m pretty satisfied with the one I have. Greasy hair, bad gossip and all.

Dear Emily bag,

It’s been a long year since I first received you as a present for Mother’s Day.  I coveted you, as I saw you on many a friend and celebrity’s arm.  When I used you I was giddy. You looked like a purse, yet you were waterproof, well-insulated and had many a pocket that I happily filled.

It was unfortunate when things started to go wrong early on in our relationship.  I don’t know why, but all of a sudden your strap started to rip and fray. I tried to mend and glue you back together, but it didn’t work.  So I had to take you back.  I waited a month for your replacement, ready to start anew.  However, your cousin of same size, shape and color treated me the same.  Her strap broke and her inside pocket leaked. Disappointed, I perservered. For $150, I figured I could make our relationship last. I stuck by you through wet wallets and soggy diapers.

But two months ago, things got worse and I returned you once more.  The storekeeper at my favorite store gave me crazy eyes for bringing you in again, but she couldn’t dismiss my arguments of shoddy craftsmanship.  By a stroke of luck, and maniacal comparison tests, there was yet another new version of you available for me at the store to take home.  You had been revamped.  Different stitching on the strap! Better buckles and latches! The storekeeper and I hugged and parted ways. I hoped not to have to traipse through her glass doors again.

Now, though, I have to reject you once and for all.  Your third cousin, once-removed, in pewter is now in tatters. Your strap, like your relatives’ is ripping, and your beautiful, once shiny and pristine body is now covered with flaky scars. 

Some things don’t look good “broken in.”

I saw this happen to my friends’ pewter Emily bags, but I never thought that it would afflict me as well.  But it has, and now it is the final straw. I must reject you, Storksak Emily bag, for good.  As much as it pains my fashion-savvy self, I must turn to other brands. Perhaps they can help me find a new bag in time for Mother’s Day because Emily, we’re through.

Sincerely,

Self-Made Mom

Passover has been broken. In record time. With record carbohydrate overload bloating.

What did you all break with?

I typically only eat matzah once a year during Passover. Now that I’m keeping it for once, I know why. Following is a list of my matzah conundrums.  

1. You can’t eat Egg and Onion matzah on Passover, but no one (no one I’m friends with) cares if you slather the matzah with butter, salt and onion powder.  Hell, I could even crack an egg on it.
2. Manischewitz only makes Kosher for Passover apricots so that you won’t curse them for the havoc that their matzah wrecks on your stomach.
3. The whole wheat variety may help on the stomach issue, but it doesn’t solve the big taste challenge.
4. No matter how hard you scrub or how fancy your brush is, there is no end to cleaning a pan of matzah kugel.



When matzah was in my Pyrex pan,
Let my cookware go,

5. Surprisingly, a box of matzah left out all week opened on the counter (with one rainstorm!) does not go stale.
6. Surprisingly, I would eat fried matzah outside of Passover. Only with good-tasting matzah, of course.
7. It is not possible for me to eat matzah pizza 4 nights in a row.
8. It is possible for my husband to eat matzah pizza 4 nights in a row.
9. There are still people out there who treat matzah like a novelty. A two-year-old.
10.  There are things made of matzah meal that people eat, but that don’t sound remotely appealing: matzah granola, matzah bagels, matzah farfel, matzah hash.

And with that, only two more days of matzah eating before the big pizza and beer gorge-fest ensues.

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

—————————————————————————————-
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

————————————————————————–
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…