Self-Made Mom

After two days of slaving over a hot stove and oven, I made a nice Passover dinner that even my own Jewish mother was impressed by. (And conceded that my brisket tasted better than hers.)

Ah, my SAHM days are really paying off.  Cooking a meal like this that my family wolfed down in 15 minutes made missing that Disney thing kind of worth it.

If you care, my brisket is on the right.

Happy Passover!

Herein lies my latest dilemma: I finally get a writing assignment from a respectable local publication, I get knee deep into it, and realize that I still don’t like stress and deadlines.

It all sounds good the way the experts tell you to do it. “Stay in the mix!” “Keep your options open!” “Do a little something on the side when your kids nap!” But, the reality is, when my kid naps, I’d rather sit on the couch and watch the latest episode of “The Hills” instead.  My friend laughed when I told her this, but I told her I wasn’t kidding.

I’m torn. Just like that Natalie Imbruglia song but without the shitty boyfriend.

It’s hard to do the SAHM thing full-time when you’re Type A and know that deep down you’re not entirely satisfied making dinners and going to the park and playing with blocks until your hands get tired. It satisfies me 99 percent of the time, but when that one percent kicks in, I take on assignments.  But then I complain about spending my nights nose-dived into the computer.

I like having something to “do,” but I don’t like the act of doing it.  I absolutely don’t want to go back to work right now, but I also don’t want to leave tush imprints permanently indented into my couch.

I’m torn.

First, I hear that a 150 lb. cougar was shot dead no more than 3 blocks from my house. 

Then, I decided to go to the post office.  On tax day. With 4 large boxes, 20 thank you notes and a screaming toddler in a stroller.  And you ask, did anyone offer to hold open the door? Nope.  Chivalry is apparently dead at the post office AND the subway. However, a kind elderly lady behind me did oblige and help me kick my heavy load through 30 minutes of waiting in line. Thanks lady, I owe you a stamp or something.  Worse, though, was the realization after the fact that standing in front of me in line at the post office was one of my favorite authors. I knew it was her by her fabulous pearl necklace and Coach bag.  I almost said hello, but was stopped short by embarassment that my son had spent the last 10 minutes kicking her leg from his stroller. Hi, Jen.

To top it off, in 10 minutes I have to wake my son up from his nap so we can go to the doctor for his two-year-old check up, a.k.a. prick-your-finger-for-iron-test appointment from hell.

Hey, at least it’s sunny and 60 out.

Where has this week gone? Oh yeah, the weekend of the birthday party is upon me. Tactics to prepare for the onslaught of 22 two-year-olds and eight out-of-town family members include:

• The obligatory pre-birthday haircut. Kiddie salon inadequate for birthday hair styling.

Only a $25 haircut by mommy’s stylist will do for the birthday boy.

• The delivery of several mysterious pre-birthday packages from spoiling grandparents.

• The creation of hokey goodie bags. Parents of children attending the soiree: do not throw out valuable contents of bag for at least 48 hours to ensure you’ve experienced the beauty of Oriental Trading Company.

Even Do Do Dora thinks the goodie bags are low budget.

• The necessary running around for beverages, Goldfish, and random party accoutrement.

Because every child cannot live without a Hefty Zoo cup with lid. Score!

• The opening of VERY LOUD AND ANNOYING new toys in presence of spoiling grandparents.

Yes, it lights up and moves.

• The questioning of my sanity in creating this madness for a two-year-old.

Can somebody remind me about this post next year?

• Don’t look at me that way. In 5-10 years, you too, may find yourself dragging a screaming toddler up the escalator on the way to find velvet throw pillows to cover the puke stains on your couch.
• Trust me, a toddler throwing grapes on the floor is much better than smushing them in his hands.
• You most likely won’t ever hold your significant other’s hand while shopping for silverware again.
• I guarantee you’ll never unpack that Krups ice cream maker. It’s ok.  Four years later and I haven’t opened mine yet.

Still dusty after all these years.

• The love you have for each other will never equal the love you have for a brand-new set of non-stick Calphalon pans.

And while I was picking on unsuspecting couples at Crate and Barrel, here’s what was happening on the web:

• The Secret Lives of Soccer Moms goes postal: I realized that after I talked to Tracey and watched the premiere episode, I forgot to Tivo the series.  Which means I missed out on following all the crazy backlash the show is getting on the web.  Holy crap, people. Get a life. It’s a TV show. Geez.
•  Mickey’s going to be eating matzah one day: The Disney “blunder” is no more. Go Devra! Hope they like your charoset.
• Just what I want to read before going to bed at night: I don’t see the point of reading a fictional book about the life I’m leading. Sounds to me like another helping of the Mommy Wars hype with a different title.
• I started a new pet project. Click here to see the beginning of genius.
• ** Edited to add: Have you all seen this new site Alltop? I’ve read about it like 4 times today, so I had to write about it. It collects all the top blogs on the web according to different categories. It’s a great way to see all of your favorite sites’ top 5 posts in a few scrolls of the mouse. There is even a category for mom blogs, but you won’t see me there (yet?) so don’t forget to come back and visit here after you scroll away!

Tags: The Secret Life of Soccer Moms, The Ten-Year Nap, Meg Wolitzer, mommy wars, Disney, Alltop

If you’ve ever felt like being on Facebook is like being in junior high again, read this recent article by Mary Schmich of the Chicago Tribune. I hadn’t over-analyzed my own Facebook middle school experiences until I got to this part of her article, which said:

As a Facebook neophyte, instinct told me, you don’t want to add too many friends too fast; that would make you look promiscuous and insecure. On Facebook, as in life, you never, ever want to look needy.

Hmmm, that didn’t bode well for me. The night before I extended friend invites to at least 10 randoms who I hadn’t heard from or talked to in at least 10 years. I really want to get to that elusive “200″ friends number. I’m almost there, so who cares if I don’t know why I accepted someone’s friendship and have no idea who she is.  I have more friends that way.

According to Schmich, this is the ultimate Facebook-loser move:

I quickly deduced that there’s a fine line on Facebook between being the person who has 1,021 friends because she’s genuinely popular and the one who has 1,021 friends because she’s terrified you’ll think she’s not.

I always thought there was something creepy about the woman who found me randomly and kept e-mailing me to be her friend.  She didn’t even have a real photo in her profile.  Who needs an avatar when you can use your Facebook profile photo to show off how damn cute your kids are? Don’t lie, you do that too.

I’m full of Facebook follies. Seriously, people. The main reason I even signed up for the site is to show off how great my life is now to my old high school nemesis. Yeah, I was that big of a loser then and yeah, I’m that insecure. Un-friend me, okay?  No, but really, the only and I mean only reason I even click on one of my “friend’s” profiles is to see how they look now. Surprisingly, everyone I know actually looks damn good.  It is kinda hard to tell in a 100 x 50 pixel photo, but I’ll give ‘em a pass.

Some “friends” of mine actually use Facebook to communicate and catch up.  People: isn’t this what e-mail is for? After unsuccessfully trying to make a playdate with an actual real-life friend who I hadn’t seen in 6 months I started to wonder, “did she blow me off?” No, no.  She just decided to use Facebook to set up our plans.  Oh, how intuitive.  Yes, I know you get those e-mail updates from the site, but it’s really too much effort to log onto the site and read them in a timely manner.  Getting the gist? I am not sure I’ll ever use Facebook to make (or keep) friends.

For one, I just don’t get all those applications. It was enough that the site knew that I ordered those sneakers from Zappos. (Yes, I know they apologized for that, but it wasn’t enough to keep my husband from making me return them.) Groups? Yeah, they’re fun to be a part of, but other than putting it as a badge, what will I do with being a fan of the best Coney Island restaurant in Detroit other than sulk that I can’t go eat their chili fries on a daily basis?

I may be young in age, but I’m old at heart on the internet.  I know I write a blog, but I rarely post photos of myself and none of my family. (At least where you can see their faces).  I like engaging, but I also like to keep my distance.  Perhaps I’m missing the point of all this social networking and re-connecting, but I’m just not cut out for Twittering, microblogging, Flickring, whatevering.  In my online life, I like being in the know and having others know me, but I haven’t yet gotten to that point of bridging the two seamlessly. 

And until I can get over making playdates via something called “A Wall,” I probably never will. I guess I won’t be getting to that 200 number that quickly after all. 

What are you guys using Facebook for?

My husband goes to bed earlier than my friend’s almost-three-year-old.  He’s got a good excuse for it. He likes to start his day early so he can get home by dinner and spend what precious time he has in his busy schedule with my son and me.

Trouble is, the evenings are my awake time.  My time to read, write, chat, shop online, and relax. Without these precious evening hours, I would have no knowledge of who won Project Runway what happened in the news and no time to read my favorite blogs. Oh yeah, as you probably are aware, I have no time for that anyway.  

So when he climbs the stairs at 8:45 and I’m just digging into my e-mail, I feel that pang of guilt. I don’t want to go back to the days of our abusive blogging relationship, but I can’t bear to turn it in at 9 pm just when I’m Tivo’ing Lipstick Jungle for the first time.  I have so much to do so late at night.

Of course, there are benefits to going to bed at the same time most eight-year-olds do.  I sit in bed for an hour and read the juicy gossip in Vanity Fair, or finish a crossword puzzle.  Hell, sometimes I even fall right asleep. But most of the time, I sit at the edge of my bed checking to see if that little red light on the BlackBerry is flashing me with a new message.  It seems to taunt me, “why, oh why are you under the covers already when there is a new Google Alerts in bold on my screen?”

Inevitably, under that red light hypnosis, I emerge from my warm bed and plod down the hall to go on the computer. One hour and some very red and tired eyes later, I crawl back into bed where my husband’s been snoring for an hour. I’ve accomplished little and the quality time we’ve spent together amounts to a few grunts good night, a couple page turns of a boring book and a crash of the head to our new and fancy Tempurpedic pillows. (Side note: do NOT waste your time on down pillows people! Hmm… maybe that’s why he’s getting into bed so early.)

In my ideal world, our night would involve two hours of TV watching/ computer checking (of course I’d get to pick what’s on the tube) and then at the reasonable getting ready time of 9:30 we’d go upstairs, TOGETHER, and hit the hay when the double digits appear on the clock.

Then again, I don’t actually have to get up and go to work the next day. 
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On that note, I’ll be MIA for the next few days visiting a non-blog friend’s new baby! Wish me luck on a 3 hour drive with toddler in tow. By myself.

… 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

As you know, we’re nearing the two year birthday mark, which can only mean two things: only a handful of my friends have RSVP’d yet (where ARE you guys?) and people are starting to talk about preschool.  Admittedly, the preschool application process in Chicago isn’t as daunting as it is in New York as described by the very lucky mommy blogger Mom-101, but I’m finding it still has its own level of hyper-competitiveness. Midwest-style.

Because my son is just turning two, I can cling to the “I’m not going to start worrying about that now” phase of the preschool application process.  I can hold my ground that my son is fine (at least for the next year) to continue to follow me around on my errands and to sit on my lap at Mommy-and-me classes. I don’t really care right now if he can’t recite the ABC’s backwards or write his name in script.  No one is really watching, yet. (See, the Midwest is laid back! People only start talking about your kid’s speech skills when they’re 3.)

But I feel a wave of the “what are you going to do for preschool?” thing coming on.  From my friends with older kids who are kind enough to send me their elaborate evaluation questionnaires and pretty looking spreadsheets that look more professional than anything I ever did at any of my jobs.  From my acquaintances who talk about their “connections” and “preferences.”  I see the sidelong glances of pity when I tell people that both my husband and I hail from out of state (read: NO legacies) and that I’m currently not doing any volunteering (read: I just quit my job so don’t bug me about working yet).  As my dear friend put it, “none of them have ’secret information’ despite what they want you to think and they are all overwhelmed too.” BRILLIANT! (Ok, she’s a legacy so she has nothing to worry about and can say those things, but at least she’s being a good friend.)

I have friends who swear they won’t get bogged down by this process, who will seek out the public schools (we at least have this option in the Second City), and I’m happy that they’ve come to peace with how they are going to get by for the next few years before kindergarten. 

I’ve come to some peace of mind as well. I’m going to just sit back and blog about how I’m totally not going to be the neurotic-basketcase-running-around-with-a-binder-crazy person.  Yet.

I see my immediate family regularly. Like every three weeks regularly.  However, I see our extended family way less often.  Like once a year often.  What brings us together are those typical family events like weddings, showers, funerals (the worst kind of events), you know, those events where your saving grace is having a full glass of wine in hand so that you can knock a few swigs back before your aunt-in-law quizzes you on your breastfeeding skills.

Trust me, I love our family. I do. But sometimes when we get together I feel like I’m enduring the Spanish Inquisition of motherhood.

Take last night, for instance when the whole family came to town for the second cousin’s bat mitzvah.  It was a lovely affair which took place in a Unitarian Church (no, I had never been to a bat mitzvah in a church either) with a guitar-playing rabbi.  I didn’t realize how much better Hebrew songs sound with a little C-chord thrown in.  Really.  Even though the church didn’t have the heat on, my feet were freezing in my fabulous Tory Burch high-heeled boots, and I was starving (I didn’t mean to eat the candy at the end of the service that was meant to be thrown at the bat mitzvah girl), I felt warm and fuzzy after the bat mitzvah’s wonderful performance. Post-candy gorging, I was looking forward to celebrating a young girls’ rite of passage into womanhood after the service.

Until I got to the dinner wherein the inquisition from my working mom cousins-in-law began.

“So, how is it not working? Is it horrible? Are you miserable? Do you feel like pulling your hair out?”

I hadn’t even had half a glass of wine yet.

“Uh, well I actually am really enjoying it.”

“Really? I couldn’t do it. I have the greatest job, I work from home, my son’s in a day care and I work for myself - it’s great. I love my work.”

How do you respond to that?

I immediately got defensive.

“Well, I’m doing some freelance writing, and it’s not like I’m going to be an SAHM forever. I’ll probably go back to work one day.  Sounds like you have a great situation that works. My situation stopped working for me and I wasn’t happy.”

Of course most part of that was true.  But what if I had tweaked my response just a little bit to say, “I just wanted to stay home to be with my son.”

It should be that simple. I should be able to confidently say to my family, “I just don’t want to work. Right now and maybe forever.” Instead, I started to sweat and cringe and talk up my meager writing gigs just to fit in with my cousins who are more career-oriented than I probably will ever be.

On the way home from the dinner, I discussed this issue with my famous psychoanalyst stepfather-in-law. Dr. Dale understands what makes people tick an why they say the things they do.  And we came to, what I think is an interesting perspective on the topic of why women judge each other and get highly opinionated on the issue of working or staying at home. 

As a mom, you do what you do because it makes sense for you and your family. Not because your neighbor thinks it’s cool that you met Oprah one day on the job.  You do it because it works for you and nobody else.  And you can’t generalize those feelings to others. So of course if you like your job, you have a flexible schedule and your son is happy in day care, you can’t even remotely imagine what it would be like to stay at home every day and attend gymnastics classes with your two-year-old. Or maybe that’s just my cousin-in-law.  Or maybe our theory is whack.  But believing in that sure beats the alternative, which would include for me a sleepless night ruminating over why I threw away a successful career to play with Lego steam shovels.

What’s interesting now, is that now, six weeks removed from the job, I can’t get away from the conversation.  I’m slowly realizing that this conversation will probably be a part of who I am and will be for a very long time. I also realize that 1) perhaps the inquisition approach to asking how I’m doing staying at home now isn’t the best approach  since it’s so new and fresh still and 2) a second glass of wine may have helped me craft a wittier response. 

I’ll have to remember to ask the waiter for an extra glass of Pinot the next time I sit down for a family dinner.