Motherhood - call for submissions

I watched this terrible movie the other night - "Motherhood," with Uma Thurman and Minnie Driver. Uma Thurman is a harried mom trying to plan her 6-year-old daughter's birthday party while taking care of her 2-year-old son. She lives in the West Village, about a mile south of Chelsea, where we lived with Roan until he was nine months old. And let me tell you, New Yorkers are nowhere near as rude and hostile to moms as they were to Uma. The stuff that happened to her was just over-the-top unbelievable, the dialog ridiculously malicious. And the worst inconsistency: Billy's Bakery is NOT open until midnight. They close at 10PM. BELIEVE ME PEOPLE, I WOULD KNOW.

During all this, Uma (an aspiring writer) is entering a contest where she has to write 500 words on what Motherhood means to her. The most horrible thing about the movie? After despising every minute of it I actually cried at the end, when she reads her entry. Because despite the fact that she's a loathsome character, that last little snippet rang true to me. There is nothing more shameful than being brought to tears by a movie that is so easy to make fun of. When did I become such a softie?

What's even worse is that I am actually inspired by this atrocious movie to enter the pretend contest and write 500 words on what Motherhood means to me. Unlike Uma, I'm not giving myself a deadline. And, I think it would be really fun to hear from the moms who read this blog. Here is my plea: Moms, I know you are busy and have about 8 million other things to do that are a lot more important, but, will you take some time out of your day and send me 500 words on Motherhood? To the moms who have grown children who no longer live at home: I can't imagine that you are all that busy, so really, you have no excuse not to enter.

To put it in perspective, 500 words is really short. By the end of this sentence, this post will already be 375 words long, and didn't it just fly by? I'll post any entries on the blog, or link out if you've got your own blog (or you want to post elsewhere). There will be a prize! If you enter, I will buy you a Billy's cupcake. Though, if you live far away, I might just have to eat it for you too. Hell, you don't even have to be a mom to enter. I would love to hear back from you, all of you, wherever you are!

The quality of my entry will be dependent on the length of Roan's nap... to be posted soon!

New Camera!

Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3,...

Fake smile

Pancake Sunday

Chivalry: not dead for the under 2 set

Last Days of Summer

Lavallette from Cameron McClure on Vimeo.

Last weekend we went to the Jersey Shore. We stayed in a town called Lavallette, in a house just one house away from the boardwalk, where you could hear the ocean from our bedroom. The house belongs to Rachel, who is Michael's mother. Michael was Jay's best friend, and is who Roan Michael is named for.

It was a quiet weekend, as the season officially ends after Labor Day, and the recent storms may have discouraged visitors. Roan rode his bike up and down the boardwalk, played on the beach, ate his first homemade Bouillabaisse and his first funnel cake, went to an aquarium, and rode all the carnival rides he was tall enough for. The most exciting by far was the Crazy Bus, which was fascinating for him to watch but terrifying for him to ride.

I'm in between cameras at the moment, so we brought the video camera along. Unfortunately, most of the carnival footage was shot by my husband, who is undeniably terrible with a video camera. The footage lurches around, randomly zooming in and out, and coming to rest on such intriguing visuals as my husband's shoes. But the commentary nearly makes it worth watching, as there are gems like, "ugh, I'm gonna have to stand up now," and "not so good at this camera thing." He tries to interview Roan after each ride, Eric McClure style, but Roan blows him off every time.

Here is the best 15 seconds from the Crazy Bus:

Crazy Bus from Cameron McClure on Vimeo.

Preschool

Roan,

Last Wednesday was your first day of preschool. I'm sorry about the photos, which are all from last year, but I waited until the last minute and then the photo machines at CVS and Rite Aid were both out of order. I'm sorry about your lunch box, which is an old black insulated bag that came free with my breast pump that I tried to spruce up by writing your name on it. I'm sorry you don't have a Mitzva note, in all honesty, I really don't understand what that is. And I'm sorry if I screwed up the Tzedaka; I think I may have provided you with more pennies than you can lift.

Preschool doesn't seem to be as stressful for you.

That first morning we rode Frankenbike all the way down Prospect Ave. and when we got to the preschool you pointed and smiled and said, "school." We locked up the bike and saw Morah Ahuva and you walked right up and gave her a big smile. We were early, and you stuck your hands and face to the glass and waited for the doors to open. When they did you went inside and forgot all about me. I told you I was going to work and you said, "okay." Just to clarify the situation I told you that you were staying at school and you said, "yes" in a patient way, as if I were a slow child. You were too busy to even look at me.

Here is what we know about your first day: you only got upset once, and were easily calmed with some bread. You ate all your snack, most of your lunch, and didn't nap. You played well with the other kids and shared toys. Your teachers said you were a good counter; you knew all the numbers when they counted to five, and said them all ahead of time.

As for me, I rode Frankenbike back up Prospect and parked it downstairs. I took my work bag and walked to the R train, stood on the platform and cried. Everything is happening too fast. The other toddlers had never been to daycare and clung to their parents, and while I was proud of your independence it reminded me that there will come a time when you won't need me at all. There was something in the tone of that "yes" that said, "go on, Mom. I've got this." I kept replaying that "yes" over and over, until it seemed like the sound of you reassuring me was echoing off the station walls.

***

Today was your second day of preschool. I figured out the Mitzvot notes, got all the photos printed and finally bought the right smock, though you're stuck with the cheerless breast pump lunch bag for another week at least. Daddy picked you up and your teachers told him how smart you are. They even asked if there was an intellectual in the family. An intellectual! They talked about how focused you are, how good you are at puzzles, how much you like to fix things. This is such a difference from the Russian daycare, where we eventually stopped asking for information, as all they ever said was, "Roan strong," and positioned their arms in the universal sign for big muscles.

Daddy and I are still adjusting to the new routine. The sheer number of Jewish holidays is stunning. Sukkot starts on Wednesday, so today is your only day of preschool this week. You made some art for the holiday, which is currently hanging from a shelf. But who knows, maybe we will build our own sukkah in the backyard. Now that you go to preschool, maybe you can teach me how.

Roan on his first day of preschool

More

"More" is one of Roan's favorite words, second only to "no." If I only had two words to describe his general temperament they would be: No. and More. Whatever it is, he either wants nothing to do with it, or wants it in unlimited quantities.

Every once in a while he uses "more" in surprisingly touching ways. When Jay drove Grandma and Grandpa Lyons to the airport I stood out in the middle of 22nd Street, watching their car roll down the hill, with Roan kicking and squirming in my arms crying, "more, more, more!" He wanted more time with his grandparents. I carried Roan inside and calmed him down with some books, but he still would look up at me every so often and say "more," only now it had the inflection of a question. He was finally coming around to the idea that he might not get what he wanted, even though he had gone to all the trouble of verbalizing it.

And to think that somewhere on the other side of the city, over a river and across a bridge, his grandparents were speeding toward Newark International Airport in a beat up '97 Acura. Were they thinking of their only grandson, longing in a more reserved, more articulate way for the very same thing that he did: for more? Perhaps. But like star crossed lovers, it could not be. The grandparents were whisked away to Texas, and the Robot was stuck in Brooklyn, reading stories and whimpering, until he recovered the presence of mind to ask for more of something else.

Puffs I think it was. More puffs.

The Man Downstairs

Roan,

The summer before you turned 2 there was a flaming Nicaraguan salsa dancing Ph.D. student living in our basement. His name was Yader and you thought everything he did was a-mase-sing (to use a Yader-ism). You mooched his breakfast, introduced him to all your trucks, and bullied him into reading you book after book. He was very friendly and patient and engaged you in conversation at a time when all you did was grunt and point. He was an extremely loud washer of dishes and prone to lengthy high pitched giggling fits, neither of which ever disturbed your slumber. He greeted you every morning by saying, "wha happened, Ro?" On his last day here you gave him a big hug and a framed piece of art you painted in his honor. We worry that you miss him, especially at breakfast and dinner time, which the two of you almost always ate together. But you never had a word for him so we don't know how you feel.

By the time you are old enough to see us as real people and not just your parents, you will no doubt be overcome by how dull our lives are. Many nights we are happy to just sit quietly together, doing nothing. We know how boring it will look to you. We know it will be years before you realize what an accomplishment it is, to sit still and be content. You will probably vow to never be so complacent. You will certainly wonder if we were always so boring.

Let it be known that during the summer of Yader we were exciting. We rode our bikes to parties, had backyard barbeque's, and regularly drank too much after you went to bed. Your Dad joined a beer club and got a new tattoo. One time your Mom forgot her keys and came home so late that Dad wouldn't wake up and she had to break into her own backyard, like a ninja. We never stayed out all night, but we knew people who did (Yader did, once). And, we participated in the very unparental activity of having a roommate.

Let the record show that we were pretty damn cool.

For parents.

Mimi and Pops

Roan has finally settled on names for Grandma and Grandpa Lyons. Here they are at a pier in Red Hook, just outside Fairway, perfectly blocking the view of the Statue of Liberty.

Serious Business

Last weekend Grandma and Grandpa Lyons came to visit, and on Saturday we went to a water park so Roan could play. Except you'll notice that he's not "playing" - he takes his duties at the water park very seriously. We don't understand what he's doing, but you can see from his intensity and focus that it's quite urgent.

Family Smirk

Ro Ro Rebuts

Literally, the day after I posted the last post, Roan started saying his own name. Jay and I were in the backyard blowing bubbles for him, and he came over, grabbed the wand and said "Ro Ro," clear as day.

Okay, maybe it sounded a bit more like "Wo Wo," but you get the picture.

And since then it's been quite the Renaissance period of verbal outbursts. Favorite two word sentences include, "more snack," and "I help," and he said his first three word sentence yesterday when he proclaimed, "no pants on." Jay even says he's heard him practicing the title of one of his favorite books, "Ten Apples Up On Top," alone in his room.

In the spirit of growing up, he gave me this look the other day at the ball fields, which seems purely adolescent:

It like he's saying, "seriously Mom, how could you diss me online like that?"

Sorry Wo Wo, won't happen again.