Robotic Uprising

Baby Smile

2012-01-24T10:07:00.002-05:00

Kevin!

2012-01-17T18:22:00.004-05:00

A month or two ago, Roan made his first joke that was actually funny.**

He's been watching a Thomas show called "Hiro of the Rails" and there are two minor train characters, Victor the mechanic and his clumsy assistant Kevin. Kevin is always dropping some heavy metal object and making a lot of noise. And every time he does Victor yells, "Kevin!"

One night after dinner Jay was washing dishes and broke a glass in the sink. Roan yelled, "Kevin!" It took Jay and I a second to make the connection, but when we did we couldn't stop laughing. Our son had a good sense of humor!

The next day I dropped a piece of pizza, which landed face down on the floor with a splat. "Kevin!" screamed Roan. I couldn't help but laugh too. Roan (accidentally) knocked over his water bottle. "Kevin!" he yelled, giggling. I picked it up, happy to have such a funny son.

Time passed. The "Kevin!" joke flourished.

I opened the cupboard and a can of beans fell out. Jay tripped over one of Roan's train tracks. "Kevin!" we'd hear, from across the room.

It was getting less funny.

I pulled a book off the shelf and a dozen others tumbled to the floor. "Kevin!" The trash bag split while Jay was taking it out. "Kevin!"

Was our 3-year-old making fun of us?

Eventually the "Kevin!" phase wound down, and now Roan shouts it infrequently enough for us to no longer take it so personally. It's funny again. And we will always remember it as Roan's first successful joke.

The little comedian

**Wait, I take that back, the whole Aunty Nub thing was pretty funny, and is still going strong.

Brothers

2012-01-10T22:00:00.002-05:00

Sleeping In

2012-01-03T07:51:00.000-05:00

Jew Tree

2012-01-01T09:03:00.000-05:00

It all started when Jay asked if I'd like to get a Christmas tree this year. We usually spend Christmas with my family in California, but with Fred due on the 27th we were stuck in New York. I felt lonely already, and the trees smelled so good that despite my laziness and total lack of Christmas spirit, I said yes, I wanted one.

Jay seemed surprised by my answer. He started backpedaling.

Jay: If you really want one, we can get something small. But no Baby Jesus.

Me: (laughing) Who puts Baby Jesus on a tree?

Jay: I grew up in Texas. I've seen them.

Me: You've spent Christmas with my family how many times? Have you ever seen a Baby Jesus on our tree?

Jay thought this over, and realized that he hadn't been as vigilante as he should've. I saw it in his face - he couldn't recall any specific Baby Jesuses, but that doesn't mean they weren't there, hidden from plain site. Maybe he thought of those naked chubby angel ornaments that we hang on the tree...could they be Baby Jesuses in disguise?

The conversation went on and on, and I finally realized that this was no joke, my husband felt threatened by the idea of a Christmas tree in our home. My desire to stop arguing about Baby Jesuses finally outweighed my desire for a Christmas tree. I said forget it, no tree.

But I couldn't forget it. Days passed, and Christmas trees were everywhere. They smelled amazing. Having that smell in our home, that familiarity, I thought it would help me miss my family a little bit less. I was insanely pregnant and hormonal. Why couldn't Jay just suck it up?

I started thinking about what a wonderful and tolerant wife I am, sending our son to Chabad preschool where he is taught by women who wear wigs to pray before eating his snack, and we are constantly badgered to donate money for a community Mikvah. And my husband can't deal with a freaking tree?!

Which is how we ended up buying a 7 foot Christmas tree. As soon as it was secured in the stand, we topped it with a very large wooden Star of David. Why we own such a large Star of David is a whole different story, and after I mounted it I felt Jay relax a bit. Though he did shoot me a very dirty look when Roan starting talking excitedly about decorating the "Tis-Mis Tee."

Me: "What are we supposed to call it?"

Jay just shook his head.

Over the past few weeks I think Jay has warmed up to it. We decorated it with lights, strung popcorn and painted painted pasta chains, and even converted some of Roan's trains and cars into ornaments.

At night Jay turns on the lights and we sit on the couch and admire it. Well, I admire it while Jay watches TV.

There must have been some kind of Christmas slippery slope at work, because a week or two after the tree, Jay suggested we take Ro by our local coffee shop to meet Santa. Here he is, one of the only kids who consented to go anywhere near Santa (aka Josh from Southside, a good Jewish boy who wore a kippah underneath his Santa hat). We had to explain how the whole Santa thing worked, and Roan caught on quickly. He told Santa several times that he wanted trains and tracks.

For balance, here's our bicycle menorah on the last night of Channukah, full of candles:

Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

Welcome

2011-12-28T05:25:00.000-05:00

Dear Ilan,

You were born 8 days early. Your brother was born 8 days late and that, along with being consistently told that you measured small made me believe it took me longer than usual to grow a baby. I didn't expect you for another two weeks.

You came three days before the winter solstice, which marks the change of season from fall to winter. The winter solstice is the shortest day of the year, and was our first full day home with you. It was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm, and we took you on your first walk outside to let the sun shine on your face while you slept.

You are an easy baby. You have long and delicate fingers and toes. You were born sunny side up, which means you were face up instead of face down. Your umbilical cord was unusually long, had two vessels instead of three, and had a true knot in it, which means at some point, when you were very small, your cord made a circle and you swam through it. There are a thousand small details I could mention, things that came up during my pregnancy, and things that were discovered at your birth, that make your life seem like more of a miracle than most. A thousand small things that could have gone wrong but didn't.

I was sick when I went into labor with you. I had a sore throat and bad chest cold, and hadn't been getting much sleep. After delivery my voice was horse and whispery, and within a few hours it was gone entirely. I spent the first 48 hours of your life whispering to you. In the following days my voice was husky and crackly. Did you wonder where your real mother was, the one whose voice you'd heard booming and echoing for months?

You recognized your brother's voice. Your first night home was the second night of Channukah, and we lit the candles and opened presents. Roan got a finger monster, and he played a game where it attacked us. Every time he laughed or spoke you looked around for him, wanting to join the fun. When you are fussing, you often stop if you hear his voice.

Our lives seem so much fuller already, being a family with two boys. I am so happy you are here.

Welcome.

Ilan Clive Lyons, December 19th, 7:59AM, 6lbs, 14oz, 19 inches

Activities

2011-12-17T10:41:00.000-05:00

Roan has recently made the transition to swimming without me. Just in time too, because the sight of my Fred in a bathing suit has become pretty alarming.

Our playground days are winding down... soon it will be too cold and snowy.

One day we tried something new - a place called Bounce U, which has two huge rooms full of bounce houses. It was incredible. They have smaller houses for little kids, and really enormous ones for big kids. At first, Roan was content with the small time. And when I saw the long and steep slides, and the fact that on one, you had to climb up an inflatable rock wall, I was sure my son wouldn't be interested.

Wrong.

An attendant helped him climb the rock wall, which is nearly vertical, and even *inverted* in one place, and then he went down the slide by himself. See the skid marks that start right below his legs? Those are there because that's where your body first makes contact with the slide. Before that you are free falling.

Inevitably, Roan dragged me up the rock wall and made me go on the slide with him. And I was afraid. In my adult life, I don't have much opportunity to experience primal fear, but I felt it that day at Bounce U, perched on the edge of that slide, ready to launch myself into the air. That spike of adrenaline - the sudden knowledge that death is real, and possibly imminent. Roan sat in front of me, his eyes sparkling with excitement. I was so glad he was going with me - I gripped him tight. I didn't want to go alone.

Here we are on a slightly more mellow version of the slide, where you climb up using footholds and a rope.

Birth Plan

2011-12-12T22:30:00.000-05:00

Last week I had a meeting with my OBGYN to discuss labor. It went like this:

Dr. Amy: How long was your last labor?

Me: 7 hours.

Dr. Amy: Oh. You should come in after your first contraction.

There was no lofty discussion of a birth plan, no questions about whether we could dim the lights in the hospital room, bring music and aromatherapy, employ a "birthing ball." With Roan, we discussed all these things at length, and then I spent about an hour in the hospital before I pushed him out. There wasn't any time for that shit. Even if there had been, I was too overwhelmed by pain to notice the terrible lighting, the lack of soothing smells, and my screams drowned out any music.

I have a hard time believing Fred's labor will be any less terrible. I respond to pain by becoming angry and withdrawn. I hope to have enough self control this time around to reign some of that in. Though the "labor flashbacks" I've been having are not encouraging. They are traumatizing, and leave me feeling profoundly pissed off.

To psyche myself out I've been playing this game, trying to come up with all the things that people do voluntarily that are worse than unmedicated childbirth. Like running a marathon. Or trekking across Antarctica and having to carry one of those unwieldy backpacks. Traffic school. That's all I've come up with so far. And the problem with this game is that with those activities, you can always just quit, or take a break. Childbirth is unstoppable. You have no control. You can't drop out. There are no breaks.

It's hard for me to have a positive attitude.

My birth plan with Roan involved a lot of props, eloquently rehearsed arguments against any intervention, and a desperate hope for an orgasmic labor, promised to me by the Bradley Method, provided Jay could get those massage techniques just right (he didn't).

My birth plan with Fred is simple: get to the hospital before having the baby.

Roan at 3

2011-12-07T21:43:00.001-05:00

Dear Roan,

You love trains and chocolate and books and words that rhyme. You recently went through a clingy phase, but for the most part you are very independent, and will play alone for long stretches, lost in your own world. You are still a good eater, when I can get you to pay attention to food, but many times I have to feed you myself while you check the fire truck's engine or change your cars' tires.

You had, for a month or two, a curious habit of talking out of the side of your mouth that I'm pretty sure you picked up from watching clips of the movie Cars.

When someone does something you don't like, such as push you or take your toy or stand on a train track that only you can see you say, very loudly, "I don't like it, I don't like it!" You don't like to rough house. You like to get up in your friends' faces and make loud train noises, or roar, or whip trucks by people's heads. Sometimes it's hard for me to punish you, because mostly you are very well behaved. When you act like a jerk it's usually because you are strung out and tired and on the verge of tears. You have such a good heart.

You love to be silly and laugh. It's fun to spend time with you. Here are some snapshot moments from this week:

Me and you soaking in our post swim lesson bubble bath, me blowing bubbles all over, you laughing like a maniac, your hair speckled with white foam. You running in tight circles around the kitchen while I play a lively version of Wagon Wheel on the guitar. Me playing with your toes while we make up silly rhymes.

You are very calm and focused. Other moms like their boys to have play dates with you, in hopes that your ability to self entertain for long stretches will rub off. And it works if there are just two of you, most of the time. Insert a third boy and the two of them run around like crazy people while you play alone with play dough or whatever.

I think I was like this as a child, a bit indifferent to what other kids were doing, and to what was going on around me in general. I've never been completely comfortable in big groups, and though I grew up playing team sports I always felt a little awkward with the large scale social interaction that came with it. I want so badly for everything to be effortless for you, especially those things that were hard for me. So I love to see you run wild with your friends, hopped up on communal energy, going along with the group for the sheer joy of being part of something. More often than not you opt out of this kind of group play, and I worry that you've inherited my own awkwardness.

I think as parents we tend to focus on the parts of our children that most strongly reflect or react against our own identities. When I talk to your Daddy about this, he zeroes in on how stubborn you are (you once held a grudge against him for 2 hours, fell asleep for a 2 hour nap, and woke up still mad at him), and how gentle you are. He also talks about how mechanically inclined you seem to be, or at least you are very interested in the way things work. Daddy says you don't get this from him, and then reminds me of a time when we were first dating and he came to my apartment to find that I'd completely dismantled an old TV I'd found on the street.

I wonder, will you ever want all this information? Is it even accurate? Truly there is no such thing as objectivity, especially not for parents.

I write this down because for better or worse, I want you to have a record of who you were. Especially who you were before you become self aware enough to start changing yourself into the person you want to be, or whoever you think you ought to be. This is who we think you are right now, on the cusp of becoming a big brother.

You during the Thanksgiving holiday, when our backyard was full of brilliant yellow leaves.

False Alarm

2011-12-02T12:49:00.002-05:00

Dear Fred,

We thought we had it all bagged up. But it turns out, that on further reflection, we just don't like the name Micah as much as we thought. So add it to the growing list of names that were almost yours.

We went back to the drawing board and came up with two very solid contenders. They are neck and neck in the race to be Your Name. With just four weeks left, we are playing for keeps!

I've run both names by Roan, but he is no help. He will not consider any name that is not Fred. "Mommy," he tells me, "the baby's name is Fed. Just Fed." The matter is settled in his mind. He changes the subject and starts talking about trains.

Visitors

2011-11-26T21:57:00.001-05:00

Earlier this month we had visitors - all the way from Rome! Meet Pamela and her daughter Eva. Pam and I went to college together in Santa Barbara, and shared an apartment in Astoria together. Pam's bedroom in Astoria had a balcony that we nick-named "The Hamptons" and we sat out there and tried to ignore all the stray cats when we wanted to feel decadent and old money and to be able to tell our coworkers that we too had spent the weekend in the The Hamptons.

Astoria in 2003: boasted the largest concentration of Greek people outside of Athens. It was a fairly safe family neighborhood. But one night we came home and someone had obviously tried to to beat down our door. It was late at night and instead of the fixing the locks, our Greek landlord sent her cousins over to sleep on our couch, so we would feel safe.

And now we have children. Here they are, sharing a meal together, while Pam entertains them with a spirited reading of "Little Puppy."

And tail-gating in Thunder McQueen in a parking garage, the day we went to Chuck E. Cheese. That was our most American activity. We also took Pam and Eva on the R train, the Staten Island Ferry, and to Chipotle.

Here we are in Queens, the four of us, and Fred.

One night Francie drove in from Long Island for a slumber party. It was a lot different from our college slumber parties. We put the kids to sleep around 8 and Pam fell asleep on the couch around 10 (which I guess is pretty rock star if you translate to Italian time), and Francie and I barely made it to midnight. Here we are, the morning after the raging slumber party:

Pam, Francie and Elise are my closest college friends, and by the end of this year, we will all have children. It's so fun to see my friends' personalities and quirks reflected in their little ones. Eva is extremely cautious around strangers. She watched me and Roan very closely, and it took a few days for her to warm up to us. But once you are accepted into her comfort zone she doesn't easily forget you. I think that, to a much less obvious degree, this could describe Pam's way of interacting with the world.

By contrast, Roan has a more easy come easy go approach to people. They don't seem to matter as much to him as they do to Eva.

Alas, I can feel this post taking a philosophical turn. Ladies, is it time for an electronic couch session?

Naming

2011-11-20T08:26:00.002-05:00

Dear Fred,

Many people have asked, "are you really naming the baby Fred?" And the answer is no, we are not. Fred is your in utero name, just like Squid was your brother's in utero name. We have to call you something while you're in there.

But we are having a very hard time naming you.

Recently Daddy and I went out to dinner, and between the jokes of "Orion Lyons" and "Harry Lyons" I think we may have finally found your name.

We aren't telling anyone what it is. Naming you feels like a delicate operation, and if anyone poo-pooed the name it might send us into a fit of self doubt.

It's happened before.

Here are all the names we thought, at one point, we would name you, but have been rejected:

Quinn

Grey

Clive

Benjamin

Liam

Aidan

Oliver

Phineas (Finn)

Maybe when you are older you will read this, and feel that a great name was almost yours, just slipped through your fingers. Or maybe you will feel that you dodged a chamber full of bullets, that all these names are horrid. Hopefully you will feel that your name suits you, fits comfortably. At various times, I was supposed to be named Kyle or Tamara. These names seem absurd to me. How could my parents have considered anything other than Cameron?

Fred, we are getting very excited to meet you, and give you your real name.

Birthday Wish

2011-11-15T21:48:00.000-05:00

Roan had a birthday part at Chai Tots, and his teachers asked me to write something they could sing or read to him, describing Roan at age 1 and 2, and what we wished for him at 3. Here's what I wrote:

"Roan was born on November 4, 2008 - the same day our country elected our first black president. It was a day of hope and change and magic.

At 1, Roan was walking and just learning to run. His favorite foods were banana and blueberry smoothies. He loved to read books over and over and again.

At 2, Roan loved to ride his pushbike. He rode it all over the neighborhood, so fast that Mommy had to run to keep up with him! He was so good at puzzles that we nicknamed him Puzzle Man. His favorite toys were his trains and he loved to build tracks for them.

Now Roan is 3. He still loves trains and puzzles, and love to make silly rhymes. He is a gentle soul, but also very loud and talkative. I hope he continues to deepen the friendships he's formed and learn how good it feels to be kind to others."

Here are some more photos from his school party:

Birthday Bonfire

2011-11-15T21:20:00.001-05:00

For Roan's 3rd birthday we had a bonfire in our backyard. I have no love for baking, and roasting marshmellows for s'mores seemed like the best way to get our guests to make their own dessert. I gave everyone fair warning, stating in the invitations that there would be an open flame and we'd be giving beer to the parents and sharp sticks to the kids. Incredibly, everyone still came.

Here's the scene: We strung lights and fired up the pit, and on the far left you can make out Grandpa Lyons, hunched over the s'more ingredients. He was extremely protective of the chocolate, as one pregnant mother complained, and would not allow for extra portions, even for those who were "eating for two." He neatly laid out the graham crackers under the chocolate squares, so when kids approached with their skewered marshmellows burned to a blackened crisp, he quickly assembled their s'mores, confiscated their sharp sticks, and sent them on their way.

Birthday guests sitting around the fire, in various stages of s'more preparation and consumption, or just keeping warm.

Here is Roan roasting a marshmellow. He consumed at least three s'mores that evening - possibly more. In the background you can see Grandma Lyons eating a s'more - her first ever! I only learned this later, and had I known, I would have given her an expertly browned marshmellow, and not one that Grandpa Lyons burned to a crisp for her.

Eventually the kids lost interest in the fire and the s'mores, and started chasing each other around the yard. This is generally what kids do after they eat.

And this is what adults do.

The party was a blast, but hosting so many people is hard on everyone, even Roan. For the first 20 minutes he sat on his Daddy's lap, clutching Gordon and his coal car tight in his fist, miserably watching his friends play with his trains. He got over it, and cheered up considerably when everyone trooped upstairs to eat pizza. By the time Jay lit the fire he was ecstatic.

Since the party we have been slowly opening gifts, one each day or so, so Roan has a chance to play with and appreciate each new thing. Thanks to all our family and friends who made Roan's 3rd birthday feel so special!

Halloween

2011-11-12T09:49:00.001-05:00

This year, just like last year, we were trains. Roan was a Thomas-ish train, I was a red caboose, and Jay was Sir Topham Hatt. You probably can't tell, but Jay has a pillow under his coat, in an attempt to look fat. You also cannot tell I am 8 months pregnant, which makes this cardboard red caboose the most flattering thing I own.

Here we are, all the trains, minus Sir Topham Hatt, and plus Eli, who was a chef.

In this photo you can see Roan's small purple felt Halloween candy holder. It wasn't ideal for trick-or-treating, because of the wide top, which caused all of his candy to fall out when he ran. He didn't notice, and when we told him, he said, "I will puff more carefully," but would inevitably break into a run.

This was one reason why we went home with so little candy. Roan's total take was 2 mini twix, 1 snickers, and 2 lousy peppermints. The other reason was that Roan missed the point of trick-or-treating. He would walk up the stoop with his friends, say trick-or-treat just like everyone else, but when someone offered to put candy in his bag he would say, "no thank you, I already have some," and dutifully march back down the stairs.

A Quiet Moment

2011-10-30T15:35:00.003-04:00

Dear Roan,

On Saturday we had a rare and beautiful quiet moment. Quiet moments with you are pretty much nonexistent. You are either extremely physically active, very (loudly) focused on some task, or dead asleep. You really don't spend much time loafing around.

It poured rain Saturday morning, the kind of rain where you only have to step outside for half a minute, or run from your apartment to your car, and you're drenched. It was so windy that umbrellas were useless. We drove an hour out to Long Island, to go to a birthday party for Mia and Taj. We'd only been in the car for 15 minutes when the rain turned to ice, and then snow. Snow in October!

After the party, Thunder McQueen had a nice layer of snow / slush. The tops of awnings, roofs, signs, were all white with it. And it kept coming, that wintry mix. By the time we got back to Brooklyn the roads were slush and the tree branches were bowed over with the weight of two inches of snow, bent over the roads in a low lying canopy. It was like driving through a tunnel of trees. It felt magical and it took me a while to realize why I'd never experienced this: it never snows here so early, and when it does snow, the trees are all bare, without the weight of their leaves to bend them low. The next day we would be warned to stay out of parks, away from the trees, whose branches would be snapping off all over the city.

You fell asleep in the car and you woke up groggy and tired. All three of us dried off and got in bed. You laid right on top of me, draped over my belly with your head on my chest. For a long time, maybe 15 minutes, nobody moved or talked. I thought maybe you'd fallen asleep, but you were just relaxing, staring into space. It was some quality family quiet time. We cuddled and watched the snow fall in our yard. Then Fred ruined the moment with some kicking and squirming and I told you how to feel for the baby. Then you said you wanted to "wash" something, which is what you say when you want to watch TV, and you and Daddy got in a fight over whether to "wash" soccer or some dinosaur show with terrible child acting.

As I've gotten older and increasingly pregnant, I've had to recalibrate my idea of a wonderful moment. They all used to involve a lot of action and some degree of chaos. Racing down the hill with you, watching your sneakers kick up puffs of fall leaves, hearing your wild laughter, it's still a damn good moment, but running anywhere at this point, with 30 extra pounds and no clear view of my own feet is unpleasant.

15 minutes of quiet inactive togetherness? Heaven.

Staten Island Ferry

2011-10-28T09:24:00.000-04:00

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

2011-10-22T22:17:00.001-04:00

October is holiday season for Jews. There are the high holidays, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. But then, after those, comes the best holiday of all: Sukkot!

Sukkot is 8 days long. During that time, you build a fort, or sukkah, and you live in it. Amazing! One of the things I've held onto from childhood is an undying love for building forts. When I heard about Sukkot I thought, "finally, here is a holiday that rivals Christmas!"

Of course, most regular Jews don't move into their sukkahs, they just eat some meals in them. And like everything else in Judaism, there are a lot of contradictory rules about how to make one. I decided to keep things cheap and simple and build a PVC pipe sukkah with tarp walls and thin wooden slats for an open roof.

This wasn't my first sukkah. Last year I became totally obsessed with building a sukkah the day before Sukkot, and went on a frantic 6AM trip to Lowe's to buy materials. I bought PVC pipes and a hacksaw, but they didn't have the right joinery. So I improvised with some spare parts I found in plumbing. That ended up being a mistake.

Another mistake: trying to build the sukkah by myself. To be fair, I wasn't totally alone, I had Roan to "help" me. I'd bought buckets and sand to anchor the vertical pipes, only they kept toppling over before I could get the joinery and horizontal pipes attached, because a certain toddler kept shoveling out all the sand. I finally got it up, hung blankets for walls, and was so excited that I called all my friends to come over and celebrate. They did, bless their hearts, and the damn thing collapsed in the first mild breeze, with 4 toddlers inside.

R.I.P. sukkah 2010. You only lived 3 short hours, but you taught me a lot. After two more trips to competing hardware stores I finally ordered the correct joinery online and retired the sukkah materials until 2011.

And now Sukkot has come again! With Jay's help and all the right hardware, we built our fort in less than 2 hours. Then we decorated it with white Christmas lights. I waited a full 24 hours to make sure it was stable before planning a Sukkot party.

5 kids from Roan's preschool came over to celebrate. It was raining so we had to eat inside, but after dinner the rain stopped so the adults sat in the sukkah and kids chased each other around the yard in circles, only coming into the fort when they had an injury. When hosting a party, it is sometimes hard to sit down, have a beer, and truly relax. Yet I did just that in the sukkah, at full dark with the lights blazing and kids running all around, screaming with laughter. It felt like we were in the eye of a storm. I took a moment to bask in my accomplishments: the sukkah was stable, my son was happy, nobody needed anything from the kitchen. I was living the good life.

I didn't take any pictures that night. But here are some shots of the sukkah in daylight, with two of the walls rolled up:

Daddy Race

2011-10-12T22:55:00.001-04:00

Texas Trains

2011-10-09T10:10:00.000-04:00

Last weekend we flew to San Antonio to visit Grandma and Grandpa Lyons, Auntie Lisha, Uncle Damon, and Cassie. We visited the Texas Transportation Museum, which is primarily devoted to trains.

There are steam engines, diesel trains, and a some assorted stock cars, flat cars, two cabooses, and two coaches that are decked out in 1920s splendor.

I took this picture in an attempt to record the temperature, which was about 95 degrees. On October 1st.

There were also model trains indoors, similar to the kind my father has. I have a theory that was confirmed on our trip to the Texas Transportation Museum. There are two kinds of people who are obsessed with trains: little boys, and old men. Anyone else at a train museum is there on behalf of a little boy or an old man.

When it was time to go, Grandpa Lyons bought you this engineer hat:

Pregnancy Photos

2011-09-30T21:28:00.001-04:00

Jay and I took a trip to Santa Barbara in August, just the two of us. Well, just the two of us and Fred.

We hung out with one my best friends from college, Elise, who is also pregnant. This will be my last pregnancy, and I'm really trying hard to enjoy it, so we asked her to take some pregnancy photos of us on the pier. Jay was agreeable. At first.

He quickly became overwhelmed with the sheer number of poses. All of them featured my thumb in my pocket, because Elise told me this tactic was sure to make my arm look thin.

As if the issue was my arm.

Jay could not manage one straight face through this classic pregnancy pose of father-to-be cradling baby-to-be. In contrast, I was so devoted to the photo shoot that I managed to keep my thumb planted in my pocket throughout all this nonsense.

Maria Torres took this last photo, before we flew back to New York. I was 5 months pregnant. I thought I was huge. Now I am 7 months pregnant. I want to shake my 5 month pregnant self and scream, "bitch, you don't even know what pregnancy is!"

Pregnancy, as it turns out, is no longer being to wear either of the shirts I wore for these "pregnancy photos," because they are no longer up to the task of covering my belly.

I sense another photo shoot coming on.

Black Steam Engines

2011-09-25T17:30:00.004-04:00

I have bad news. The thing you love most in this world, black steam engines... they are obsolete.

No one uses black steam engines anymore. In this country, they had a good 100 plus year run, but were replaced by diesel engines in the 1950s, which are faster and more powerful and easier to fix. In general, the electric motor and internal combustion engine have taken over jobs done by steam engines.

I think you are on the cusp of understanding this terrible fact. The other day we were watching YouTube videos of what else? Black steam engines. National Geographic has this series about black steam engines in India - their history, and how they have been phased out. The videos are full of sad music and artistic shots of steam engines puffing through the fog, goats being herded over the tracks, and village stations marked only by banyan trees and I admit, the first time I saw it I got misty eyed, because it really is tragic that these beautiful engines are destined for the scrap yards, to be forgotten by the world like old discarded toys.

Sooner or later you will realize: The age of steam is over. Even in the small villages of India where women still wash their clothes in the river, children carry bundles of sticks on their backs, and men use oxen to plough things, they have moved on. Is there anywhere left, save the island of Sodor, where steam engines are still the norm? Maybe China, the video tells us, but the tone implies that it's only a matter of time before China too caves to economic realities and leaves their black steam engines behind.

I don't know how to tell you. You constantly ask me train questions. Yesterday we were driving home from New Jersey when a freight train passed us by. "Black steam engine!" you shouted. The road curved away before we saw the end of the train, so you asked, "Mommy, did that train have a red caboose?" and I told you it did. Because all the trains in your stories do, and so they really ought to in real life. But the truth is that computers now do the jobs of cabooses and the men who stood watch in their cupolas, so they too are obsolete.

Sometimes it makes me mad. Why can't someone update our children's stories for the world that we actually live in? Why are we still reading kids entire series of books devoted to farm animals, when most American children will never step foot on a farm? And if they ever do, they are sure to be sorely disappointed.

The other day we were at Fairway, sitting outside eating bagels, contemplating the rusted out trolley cars that have been abandoned there since the 1920s, like we do every week. Someone locked up their bike on the tracks and you asked him to please move it, because the train would go soon. Another little boy came along with his father and sat with us. He was clearly being raised by a pack of realists, because he started telling us that the train was broke, and old, and wouldn't go, because it had crashed. You told him he was wrong, and the train was not broke, and had not crashed. You made train noises and shouted "all aboard!" and told him the train would be leaving soon. The debate raged on, in the insufferable way debates do between preschoolers, neither of you giving any ground, each of you becoming further entrenched in your own point of view.

I was proud of you. For believing in the trolley, and defending it. Just because it hadn't moved in 90 years didn't mean it wouldn't start moving any minute now, or didn't travel the tracks regularly, when no one was watching. I remember reading about a group of philosophers who argued that just because the sun rose every morning, that didn't mean it would rise the following morning. In fact, they believed the opposite: that *because* the sun had risen every previous morning, it was certain that it wouldn't rise the next. These people were proven wrong every single day, yet they still believed. That kind of faith has always impressed me.

Also, you held your own in a debate with a kid that had to be at least four.

So I shelved my plans to write a children's book called, "Really Useful Engines: Trains that Actually Move Stuff in the Year 2000." Because you've got the rest of your life to grow up and get disillusioned. To realize that the world is run on mechanisms infinitely more complex than steam engines, and full of gray areas and endlessly qualified answers. There's no rush. Let's stay here as long as we can.

Catalina

2011-09-16T21:52:00.002-04:00

Roan,

On a Thursday morning, August 18th, we set sail for Catalina Island on the vessel Macs'. Technically speaking, we motored the whole way over, with the main sail up for stability, because there's never any wind in the morning. It was a fast crossing, only 3 and a half hours, because my Dad duck taped the throttle to the bottom of the cock pit.

This was your, Zachary, and Jay's first trip to Catalina. It's a special place for our family - when I was a girl we spent our summers sailing back and forth across the channel. In my teens I always invited way too many friends, so that we squeezed 9 girls onto a 29 foot sailboat and my father had to sleep up on deck. On one memorable trip my father traded all our food for an enormous sword fish. You can probably guess that most teenaged girls do not respond well to their Special K being replaced by a huge stinking fish.

My dad grew up on a boat, so he spent a lot of time in Catalina as a boy. My grandparents used to make the crossing in the middle of the night, so that my Dad and his brothers and sisters would wake up to the boat rocking in its anchorage, the beach and the hills just a short swim away. My parents did that for my sister and I, and it really is magical to fall asleep to hum of the motor and wake up at first light to see the island rocking just outside your cabin, to climb up into the fog, leave footprints on the dew damp deck, to brush your teeth and spit over the hull and see the fish swarm in water so clear you can see straight to the bottom. My dad wanted to do this for you and Zachary, but nobody else was willing to leave at midnight.

The plan was to spend one night in Emerald Bay and and next at the Isthmus, where they have modern facilities like toilets, showers, an ice cream stand and a bar. But there was a mooring reservation snafu, so we spent all our time in Emerald. I didn't mind. It's my favorite place. The water is clear, the beaches have pebbles instead of sand, and there's this feeling I get, leftover from childhood, of possibility, that the world is big and there is so much to be explored. In all honesty though, I did very little "exploring" - this was the most sedentary Catalina trip I have ever made. I spent a lot of time just laying at the waters edge, letting the waves cool my legs. It felt wonderful to let the water slowly take all my weight.

You had a lot of fun. Grandpa took you for rides in baby boat and Daddy took you kayaking. We played on the beach and threw rocks in the water and did a little rock climbing. Daddy and Uncle Clint fished. We cooked dinner on the boat and you loved running around the decks sticking your head in the portholes and calling "Bee-o-weep!" which is a word you made up and love to say. We ended each day with a mug of hot chocolate and you and Daddy slept together in a quarter berth. Daddy was so tired the first night that he fell asleep before you did.

Let it be known that taking your family to Catalina is a lot of work. Sailing is a lot of work. Not that I personally did much work, but I watched other people do it and it looked intense. And, keeping your child from falling off a boat is also a lot of work. I'm proud to say that I took a more active role on that front.

Being a parent I've realized that so many things that were special to me as a child were a pain in the ass for my parents. Sailing across the channel in the middle of the night. Driving to Utah in the middle of the night. Taking two young children skiing. A truly horrendous number of soccer games. Being a parent takes some serious stamina. When you were a newborn, I thought of mothering as a blood sport. Now I think of it as more of an endurance sport.

Maybe in a few years, when you and Zachary and Fred are all sleeping through the night, we'll put that midnight crossing to another vote, and Popi won't be the only one with his hand in the air.

Aunty Nub

2011-09-10T09:18:00.010-04:00

Dear Roan,

The McClures are really big on nicknames. At one point, Erica had a rap name: E-money. Which then got shortened to Money, and then to Money Grub, because she had this habit of grubbing up any spare change left lying around. And then, of course, it was shortened to Grub.

Grub really stuck. In many ways, it is perfect for my sister. She is infamous for grubbing all the shrimp out of jambalaya, or grubbing all the M&Ms out of the trail mix - a classic Grub Move. I encouraged you to call her Aunty Grub.

Except you kept saying it wrong. You kept saying something that sounded more like Aunty Nub.

The Grub did not like this. She is a dancer, choreographer, and pilates instructor. She runs at least 4 miles a day pushing a jogging stroller. She is in excellent shape, with long slender limbs and a flat stomach. She does not take kindly to being addressed as anything resembling a Nub.

The combination of your sweet voice saying Aunty Nub and my sister's outrage was just too funny. I couldn't stop laughing. There was one evening, driving home from the beach, a 20 minute drive, where you said it over and over again and I couldn't stop cracking up. You were delighted. You had found the one thing to say that made everybody laugh! Well, everyone except Aunty Nub.

"What?" she'd say, when she could get a word in, "would you want to be called Aunty Nub?"

The Aunty Nub outbursts went on for the entire two weeks we were in California. You'd forget about it for a day, but then would say, "can I please have a banana, Aunty Nub?" and we would all fall over laughing, or Uncle Clint would remind you and it'd be half an hour of you screaming, "Aunty Nub!" while the rest of us giggled uncontrollably.

The Grub got so mad at Uncle Clint for egging you on that she got you to call him Aunty Clint. This was funny, but nowhere near as hilarious as Aunty Nub.

Even now, weeks later, just thinking "Aunty Nub" makes me laugh out loud.

Here's your Aunty Nub, Aunty Clint, and Baby Zach.

Thanks to Maria Torres for the photos, August 2011, California

Boys Club

2011-09-06T14:17:00.009-04:00

In early August we spent two weeks in California, with my sister and her family, staying with my parents in the house where I grew up. When my sister and I were young, my Dad bought an electric train. It didn't make much of an impression on us.

Roan is obsessed with it. Every time we Skype he wants to see it. He talks to my father about it constantly, and asks him to send photos if it. To prepare for our stay my dad set it up in his bedroom, on the carpet so if Roan dropped it or knocked it down it wouldn't break (which happened the last time we were in town and Roan dropped it on the hardwood floor). There is a black steam engine with a light and a funnel that puffs steam, a coal car, a box car, a flat car, and a red caboose. It's a delicate operation - all the tracks have to be connected just so, the many wheels of each car angled just right, and the wires clipped in to their outlets, and then, maybe, the thing will turn on.

Roan spent the majority of our vacation in my parents' bedroom, playing with the train, while my dad assisted. It was an exclusive club and no one else was welcome, especially not pesky mothers trying to enforce such banalities as the brushing of teeth, the changing of diapers, or the eating of lunch. Zachary, Roan's 9-month-old cousin, desperately wanted in. He wasn't allowed. But after some nagging from my sister and some prolonged screaming from Zachary he was finally admitted, as long as he didn't touch the train. After some negotiations, he was content to sit with a backpack full of tools and rummage through them while Roan played engineer. Every time the train got derailed, or overheated, or a car was uncoupled, or Zach broke through defenses to uproot a section of track or have his meaty fist run over, my dad was there to put things right.

They literally spent hours in there, uninterrupted, my father and his two grandsons, and a finicky, 30-year-old electric train. The air in Boys Club felt dry and staticky, and after a few days a strange smell pervaded the room, overpowering even my mother's prodigious scented lotion collection. It smelled as if something had just been electrocuted.

When my dad had to work Boys Club was closed and we went to the beach. It was great to get to know Zachary and see my sister as a mom. It was especially great to see Roan develop affection for his little cousin, and get used to sharing time and occasionally have his stuff destroyed. Frequently heard phrases were: "mine, baby Zach, mine!" and "no baby Zach, you're too little," or "no baby Zach, that's too hot." But he did a decent job of sharing. Here he is at a street fair, feeding baby Zach some of his ice cream:

Another angle, where you can see April and Roscoe in the background:

And he graciously shared Roscoe's red wagon with Zach:

And some smoothie:

I regret that I don't have any photos of Boys Club. But perhaps that would violate the spirit of Boys Club, a place where boys can escape the distractions of daily life and funnel all their energy into a singular pursuit.

Tools for Zachary. Trains for Roan

Fishing

2011-08-31T21:41:00.001-04:00

Grandma and Grandpa Lyons came to visit the last weekend in July, and among other things, they bought you a toy fish and fishing pole. The fish is battery operated and flaps through the water, opening and closing its mouth, where there's a large magnet inside. The "bait" at the end of the line is also magnetized, so if you time it right, you can catch the fish and reel it in.

Under the best of circumstances, this fish is not easy to catch. You can see that it requires some serious concentration from Grandpa Lyons. You were pretty scared of the fish, and initially wanted very little to do with this whole fishing endeavor.

It wasn't until weeks later that you picked up the fish and expressed interest. There had been heavy rains while we were out of town, and the plastic pool was full of filthy water. At your urging, I tossed in the fish and tried to catch it. It took me at least 15 minutes. Then you took a turn and caught it in about 30 seconds.

I guess Grandpa Lyons taught you something about fishing after all.

Bot Faces

2011-08-26T20:55:00.000-04:00

Thanks to Maria Torres for taking these photos, July 2011, Brooklyn.

The Green Road

2011-08-05T21:45:00.002-04:00

Dear Roan,

Today was your last day of summer camp. For the past 6 weeks, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning I've put you on Big Bike and we've rode to camp.

It's a 15 minute ride, mostly flat and shady. We talk the whole way there. We run through all the differences between bikes and cars. You noticed that cars are faster than bikes, unless they are stuck behind the garbage truck, in which case we whizz by those poor suckers, honking and furious in the heat and stench. We are never stuck behind buses, or moving vans, or Fresh Direct trucks, or double parked SUVs. You understand that cars are capable of going faster than bikes, but in our neighborhood they rarely do.

You know all about the green bike lane on Prospect Park West, which is currently the most contested bike lane in the city. We ride in it for 15 tree lined blocks. It is rumored that some old cranky woman who lives in one of the gazillion dollar apartments overlooking the park has a camera trained on the bike lane, and at the end of each day she counts all the riders who passed with a clicker. She sends the numbers to the city to make the point that not enough people use the path to justify its existence. I always think of that old lady when I ride on the path. I wonder if she counts us as one person or two.

I must talk about the bike lane a lot on our rides, because you've started repeating all the information back to me. You call it the green road. You tell me that only bikes can go on it. That if cars go on it, they get in trouble. Sometimes I will ask you, "why is the green road green?" and you'll say, "because someone painted it green" which is technically correct, though kind of missing the point.

Today you were reminiscing. You said, "one time I went to Chai Tots and I didn't want to go in my class room." I remembered. It was just Wednesday. You laid down on the futon and refused to move. The teachers and I tried all the bribes we could think of, but you wouldn't budge. I told you I was worried about you.

"Why mommy?"

"Because I thought you were sad. Or I thought you didn't feel good."

"Why mommy?"

"Because you worry about the people you love when they don't seem happy. When Daddy is sad, do you worry about him?"

"Why mommy?"

"Why mommy what?"

"Why mommy?"

As sometimes happens, our conversation dissolved into silliness. Today was the first day you started in with the endless "whys."

I love our bike rides together, especially now that that I know they are ending. If I am honest with myself you have already outgrown your bike seat. Your legs are too long and you are probably close to the weight limit. And I am growing too. As I have been told by countless neighbors, my belly is getting awfully big for Big Bike. We recently told you about the baby inside. You like to tell me he will be all your baby. And that you will name him Fred.

To be fair, I think that rich old woman should hit her clicker three times when we roll past her camera. Click click click.

To our morning bike rides, which are full of sun and breeze and circuitous conversations and the tree lined green road just for bikes. To a time when it was only just the two of us, rolling lazily along, in the soft morning light. You probably won't remember this, so I'll remember it for you.

Summer Photos

2011-07-19T21:22:00.006-04:00

Beach Boys

2011-07-10T21:51:00.003-04:00

My dad came to visit for a week in June. He taught Roan a lot of valuable things: to sing "Skunk in the Barnyard, Pee-You" everytime he pooped in his diaper, which is about three times a day. He also taught Roan a song about bananas that makes absolutely no sense, but one that Roan loves to sing. And he gave Roan whatever he asked for. One afternoon, Jay and I stepped out into the yard for no more than 5 minutes. When we came back in, Roan was double fisting popsicles. "What," said my dad, "you don't usually give him two at the time?"

Roan looks a lot like my father. When they went to the playground together, people would comment on how they look just alike. No one has ever said this to me.

Of course we went to the beach. I packed a decadent lunch, which we forgot at home. We got a pizza instead, which we ate in the shade of our umbrella, along with half a dozen oranges. Together, Roan and my father are capable of eating a shocking number of oranges. They egg each other on.

On my dad's last full day in town, he wanted to take Roan on the F train to the Aquarium. Jay and I had to work, and my dad's not familiar with the subway system, so I tried explaining it to him, pulling up maps and writing down directions. Like a typical guy, he blew me off. "Ro and I will figure it out, we don't need all this," he said. And, "Roan knows the way." Roan and my dad both nodded at me, their mouths full of oranges. I tried a few more times to explain the challenges of taking a 2-year-old on the subway, but I could tell it wasn't sinking in. I went to bed uneasy, imagining all the possible things that could go wrong.

I needed my father to take me seriously.

The next morning, over breakfast, I laid it all out. "Listen, dad, every week someone falls in front of a train and dies. Just last week I read about a 21-year-old girl who fainted, fell on the tracks, and was cut in thirds. The subway is dangerous, even for adults. You must always hold Roan's hand on the platform. He loves to look at the tracks, and will try to go right up to the edge, so never let go of his hand. And make sure he steps over the gap when he boards the train, because it's a big gap, and I've heard of kids falling down and getting stuck there, and getting electrocuted by the third rail. Once he's on the train, he thinks every stop is his stop, so hold his hand tight when the doors open, so he doesn't sprint out of the train before you can stop him. Also, be careful when you're swiping your card, because he'll go under the turnstile, and you need to make sure you have enough money on the card, and it's valid and goes through okay, because you need to be right behind him to grab his hand and make sure someone doesn't knock him onto the tracks."

I paused to take a breath. My father looked thoughtful. "Maybe," he said, "we should just take the car."

Roan wasn't having any of that. "No Popi, we will take the train!"

"Once you promise him the train, it's hard to take it back." I said. "About the Aquarium. It will be fine until 11, when the field trips show up. Then that place will be mobbed with kids, and Roan thinks it's really funny to play chase so if you let a group of kids get between you and him, he'll be gone. Then you'll have to knock down a bunch of field trip kids to grab him before he face plants into the stingray pool. And just so you know, a lot of those kids are gonna be black, so you'll have to choose between being the big racist white guy who bulldozed a bunch of black kids, or the polite guy who said "excuse me" and lost his grandson at the Aquarium."

I talked about the pros and cons of taking the stroller over the ergo. I packed them a lunch. My father had a look on his face that I couldn't recall ever seeing. His lips were set in a thin hard line. It took me a while to figure it out. My father was afraid.

Too late, I realized I had done a horrible thing, and sucked out any joy my dad would get from this day with my horror stories and neurosis. I gave him a hug which he only partially returned. "You're going to be fine," I said. But I think we both felt a little sick. I ended up walking them to the subway and helped them safely board the train.

Needless to say, everything was fine.

Dad, I'm sorry. I still feel like a jerk - for freaking you out and for grossly exaggerating the number of people who are run over by trains. But mostly for the lack of trust in you that all my worry implied. You are a parent too, and somehow you got to a place where you were okay with me taking big risks and hanging out with some pretty questionable people. Obviously I'm not there yet. And to be honest, getting there from here seems impossible. I guess you just loosen your grip, just a fraction, every day, and eventually, without really realizing it, you give up control.

And in his own way, Roan has already begun his getaway.

Dad, I think I understand why you spent so much time talking to Roan on banana phones. Today he picked up a peach and tried to call you. You know what's coming. You were teaching him to keep in touch.

Nap Game

2011-06-26T20:42:00.001-04:00

Roan,

Lately you've been role playing. My favorite game is Mommy Take a Nap. After lunch, right around your nap time you tell me, "Mommy, it's time for your nap."

I love this game. I crawl in bed and lay there, sleepy and stuffed full of Mac n' Cheese. You bring me your blankie and tell me to have a good nap. Then you shut the door and leave. Then you bring me a train and say, "Thomas will also take a nap. If you play with Thomas I will take him away." You leave again and shut the door. Then you come back in and give me my cell phone, who is also subject to the rules of nap time. You leave again. You come back to bring me my water bottle.

During each interruption I always ask for a story. You always say no. I whine and beg you to sing me a song. You get frustrated and say, "Mommy, just sleep!" and shut the door a bit harder than necessary on your way out.

You keep coming back to give me something, or review a nap rule, so I never get any sleep. One time, after a longer than usual absence, you came back in to ask, "Mommy, what is the thing that I need to do right now?" For all your pretending, you can't imagine what I do while you are asleep.

When my nap time is over you pull me out of bed and take me to the table. You say, "Mommy you are a good napper. You can have a snack now." You give me a single grape. I ask for another one. You say no.

Good thing you're not really in charge.

***

Some of my favorite things you say now-a-days:

When you ask me first thing in the morning, "Mommy, how was your day was?"

When you are pretending to go to the store and holler, "Goodbye Mommy, have a good fun!"

"Daddy is a good cooker and Mommy is not a good cooker."

Punk Rope

2011-06-21T21:37:00.003-04:00

Punk Rope Team Photo

A few weeks ago I joined a competitive jump rope team. Technically, it's a Punk Rope team. Punk Rope is this new thing, invented by this guy Tim, and you can take classes at the Y here.

I did not, however, hear about Punk Rope from my local Y. I haven't been to the gym in months. I heard about it from my coworker Amy, who was desperate to find a fourth person so her team could compete in the 3rd Annual Punk Rope Games. I am in no way qualified to compete on any kind of athletic team, but I have a certain enthusiasm for obscure sports, (evidenced by my single minded mastery of the hackie sack, the devil sticks, and break dancing). After a few days no one else had stepped up. I was in!

Two weeks before the games we had our first practice. We all met at Cooper Park in Williamsburg to run through the events. Our team members were Rich and Shaunette, a married couple with a lot of tattoos. Looking around, that seemed to be the primary difference between the punk ropers and my high school soccer team: tattoos.

As practice went on, another difference emerged: most of these people didn't seem to be very athletic. If you looked beyond their punk rope prowess, I was willing to bet that these were people who were really good at painting, or playing the guitar. My suspicions were confirmed when I started jumping rope, for, possibly, the first time in 10 years, and Shaunette said something like, "Wow, that's really good, it took us weeks to do it like that!" Probably she was just being nice, pumping up her new teammate, but I've decided to take that comment at face value.

Let me be clear: Everyone on that field was in better shape than me. I was the only person who literally peed my pants after attempting the Double Unders. (I know this because i said, "oh, wow, I just peed my pants. A lot." and instead of commiseration my teammates just stared at me.) Furthermore, I am not one of those people who excels at art or cooking, and I downright suck at decorating. After years of playing the guitar, I continue to be mediocre. But I've always had a knack for anything physical, anything requiring balance or coordination. I've always been a jock.

I figured our team had a shot at gold.

Our team name was the Unstoppable Mysterians, and the majority of our two weeks of preparation was devoted to designing our costumes. We decided against a cape, for practical reasons. We made liberal use of silver glitter glue, duck tape, and metal studs. Shaunette designed a back patch and bought us all flaming sunglasses. I provided wrist bands. We each chose names. Mine was Deus ex Machina. If you're wondering what that means, it's a literary term for a ridiculous plot device, where a god like figure swoops in at the last minute and saves the day.

I was feeling confident.

Confidence Boosting Back Patches

My individual event was the Double Unders, and I worked hard at mastering them. At first I could only do three or four in a row, but after a week I could do twenty in a row. After a set of 20 I literally collapsed on the ground and had to change my shorts, but still, it was progress.

During the games I was full of nervous energy. Before the Double Unders I felt jittery and full of adrenaline. There were 13 other teams and I had to place in the top four to win points for my fellow Mysterians. I started jumping and felt calm and focused. The timer called out 15 seconds and I barely felt tired. I tripped up once but recovered quickly. I closed my eyes. I was in The Zone. They called time and I could have kept going. I was so amped. I wanted to do it again! I knew I'd made the top four!

I didn't make the top four. I cant be sure, but I think I was number five. The point is that sometimes, no matter how hard you try and how gifted you are, and how many ridiculous obstacles you overcome, you still won't win. You will come home disappointed, and comfort yourself by strumming some melancholy guitar chords, and your husband, who vowed to always support you, will tell you to knock it off because he already has a headache. Sometimes you will feel like you're just not good at anything.

At times like these, it is a good idea to remind yourself that you are in fact good at something. If you no longer own any devil sticks and don't have the energy for donkey kicks, grab your hackey sack, go outside and have a sesh.

Mysterians in action: Rich and Shaunette jump The Twins

The Graduate

2011-06-18T13:45:00.005-04:00

On Monday Roan graduated from Chai Tots. It was a much bigger deal than I'd thought it'd be. All the parents were there, seated in folding chairs out in the yard. There was a make shift stage and a woman seated behind a keyboard. Someone gave us a program. The director gave a speech. A rabbi gave a Torah Thought. I was publicly thanked for being Class Mom. When the music started up and the teachers began herding our children on to the stage I realized, right on time, that this was kind of a big deal, and I started crying.

Then all hell broke lose on stage and I regained my composure. Because it's kind of hard to have a my-son-is-growing-up-so-fast moment when half the kids up there are crying for their parents, Oliver's shouting random dinosaur facts into the mic, and Roan is looking completely confused, trying to figure out how he ended up with a big plastic flower around his neck. Even the pianist dropped a few notes in all the chaos.

The kids sang a few songs, and were returned to us to watch the two older classes go through their ceremonies. Then we headed back inside for crafts and snacks. In the toddler room, there was a slideshow playing of all the kids with their baby pictures. Below each current photo, there was a little quote about the child. Stuff like, "always lends a helping hand," and "your smile brightens our day." Roan's read: "your determination is a lesson to us all."

East Coast Conversation

2011-06-10T22:04:00.005-04:00

The other day I had some friends over. I asked their opinion about where on the fence I should hang this plant bag called a Wooly Pocket. Here's how it went:

Me: Okay, so, what do you think, right here?

Lindsay: Wait, where do you put the plant?

Me: Right in this bag, you put in soil, then the plant.

Lindsay: Does it even hold water? What kind of material is this? (makes yucky face).

Me: It's made out of recycled plastic bottles. There's a special watering system, like this... (I explain stuff. Friends look skeptical. They discuss alternate watering strategies that would work better).

Gary: Did someone give that to you?

Lindsay: Did you choose that color?

Me: I actually paid money for this, on the Internet.

Lindsay: So you didn't know it would look like that.

Me: Guys, stay on task. Just tell me where to put it.

Gary: You know what you should buy? One of those up-side-down pots where you grow tomatoes. Up-side-down. Those are cool.

(Long argument between Lindsay and Gary about whether such a thing really exists. Gary settles it with his iPhone. It really does exist.)

Lindsay: You need two of those bags, right there, one right on top of the other.

Me: Well, I just have this one.

Lindsay: You need another one.

Gary: Why do you have to put a plant on your wall?

Me: Um...

Lindsay: Why don't you put it over there? (points to a totally different wall, which receives no sunlight, ever)

Gary: Yeah, put it over there (points to sunless wall) and then you can buy one of these up-side-down strawberry pots to hang there (shows me an iPhone picture of one).

*****

If I lived in California, I think the conversation would have gone like this:

Me: Okay, so, what do you think, right here?

Friends: Yeah, that looks good.

Me: Sweet!

Friends: (amongst themselves, after leaving my place) : That was a pretty wretched looking plant bag, right?

Yeah, she totally should have bought one of those up-side- down tomato kits.

Texas Gala

2011-05-25T20:57:00.000-04:00

Two weekends ago we flew to San Antonio, where Grandma and Grandpa Lyons were being honored by their synagogue, Agudas Achim. Here you in the parking lot with your cousin Cassie.

At the gala, an a cappella group performed, and then people talked, and there was a presentation and slide show about Grandma and Grandpa Lyons. All in all, it was about 2 hours of sitting still. You have this impeccable sense of timing - just when the music would cease, or a speaker would pause to take a breath, you would yell out some fact about Percy, or ask me a question about your transformer car at the top of your lungs. As family of the honorees, we were in the very front row, so it was pretty hard for us to pretend we weren't your parents.

I told you to be quiet, and so did your cousins Julia and Cassie. You looked all around the room, and seemed to be confused. "Is somebody sleeping in here?" you asked.

The next night, Uncle Beau taught you some classic bad boy moves.

And of course, we went swimming.

Mommy, Go Away!

2011-05-09T20:44:00.003-04:00

A few years back, before I became a mom, I sold Korean rights to a picture book called Mommy, Go Away! Every year, the book sells about 15,000 copies. In South Korea. Here in the states it's out of print.

I remember thinking: what is it with those Korean moms? Couldn't they just leave their kids alone? Such impressive sales of Mommy, Go Away! suggested they couldn't.

Now Roan is 2 and a half. His favorite thing is to shout, "Mommy, go away!"

I've tried everything. I've explained the impossibility of leaving him home alone. I've scolded him. I've actually gone away. I've ignored him. I've calmly told him, over and over, that I will not go away. I've started reciting The Cat in the Hat. Nothing works. He loves to say it. His friends all say it to each other and make each other cry.

One day I tried something new. Every time he told me to go away, which was approximately once every 2 minutes, I explained to him that it hurt my feelings and made me feel sad. I made a sad face. I told him to be more polite.

He thought this over. Then he yelled, "Mommy please go away!"

I really wish I read Korean.

Sunny Day at the Gardens

2011-05-08T11:35:00.006-04:00

Rainy Day at the Gardens

2011-05-08T11:08:00.000-04:00

Blankie - a Soap Opera

2011-04-30T22:29:00.006-04:00

Part I: In which a blankie is lost and a childhood is at stake

On Friday you left Blankie at school.

It was a perfect storm: Daddy usually picks you up and ensures Blankie's presence, but he is out of town, so a neighbor and babysitter stepped in. Your teacher usually puts Blankie in your backpack, but a new teacher was covering your class that afternoon. Blankie got left behind.

We didn't know until bedtime. I looked in your backpack and he wasn't there. I was stunned. In two years we have never lost Blankie. There is never a good time to lose Blankie, but a night when your father is out of town seemed especially bad.

I gave you a train to sleep with (Whiff) and told you that Blankie was in the washer getting all clean. Washing Blankie is traumatic, but it's familiar trauma, and he's come out alright in the past, so you eventually accepted this. I told you that when he was all clean I'd sneak into your room and put him on your chest. I lied to you. I needed to buy myself some time. I had broken out in a cold sweat and was operating in a state of mild panic. Once you fell asleep maybe I'd calm down and figure something out.

You did fall asleep. You are such a brave little boy. I called and e-mailed the school. I called my parents and friends for ideas on how to cope. I called Sarah, because I think it was her mom who gave you Blankie, and I was hoping that she remembered where she bought it or what it was called. I was hoping it wasn't hand made.

We never put a lot of thought into the blankie situation. When you were 5 months old we decided it would be good if you were attached to something that was not us, something we could put in your crib that would comfort you and help with the sleep training we had decided to try. We looked through our pile of blankets and settled on Blankie because he was the smallest, and had short satin pieces of ribbon sticking out around the edges that you liked to worry between your fingers, like an old woman with her rosary. We walked around with Blankie under our shirts, so it would smell like some awful combination of us. You were immediately hooked. You have not slept without it for over two years. Until last night.

Three hours after I put you to bed you woke up screaming. You were so upset you couldn't talk. Not that you needed to, I knew what you wanted. I tried giving you "Mommy's blanket," a satin night shirt similar in texture to the ribbons on Blankie. You were so upset to be offered a replacement that you cried harder, and in retrospect it's probably best you didn't take to that saucy little negligee, which would have been awkward to explain. I offered you a number of alternatives, and each seemed to distress you more than the last. Then I finally told you the truth: Blankie was safe at Chai Tots, and we couldn't get him until tomorrow. This news was met with violent racking sobs. At this point I was crying too, because I felt so terrible and helpless. And I had no idea what I'd do in the morning, when you'd demand to go to Chai Tots and retrieve Blankie. I couldn't bring myself to tell the full truth, that you wouldn't be reunited with Blankie until Monday, two long days and two sleepless nights away. An unfathomably long time. We would never make it.

After an hour of crying you settled down, and we lay in your bed together. You took to rubbing my fingers in the same way you rub Blankie's ribbons. In a way we had come full circle. Blankie had been meant to comfort you in my absence, and now it was I who comforted you in Blankie's absence. When you were finally asleep I slipped away to spend an hour researching how to pick locks. I told myself this was a reasonable thing to do, a skill I had always meant to acquire.

Other than lock picking, here is what I learned from the Internet: your Blankie is called a Taggie. Taggies are sold in half a dozen stores in Manhattan. So there was hope of a replacement, provided we survived the night. I couldn't find the specific pattern, but I hoped that the same shape and textures would be enough to get us through the weekend.

I went on Babycenter for advice on how to explain this all to you. The discussion boards were full of similar sob stories, which was initially comforting. But so many suggestions read along the lines of "talk to him about being a big boy and not needing a Blankie anymore." Which was heartbreaking advice. You don't need to be that big of a boy, not yet. Because of my carelessness, would you be forced to grow up and face the harsh realities of life this weekend? Even more terrifying was the story I imagined these parents weren't telling: "my son eventually recovered, but has not formed a strong bond with anything else ever since."

How could I stand by while you were cruelly pushed out of childhood? What if you would never be able to feel attached to anything or anyone else ever again? It's enough to make any parent consider breaking and entering.

On a side note, I would like to say, to all those parents who posted stories about how they bought or hand sewed ten identical baby blankies to guard against this kind of crisis, or cut an existing blankie in half or thirds so their children would never have to experience such heart wrenching loss, YOU PEOPLE ARE NOT HELPING. In fact, you are kicking us lesser parents while we are down. Yes, this is a great idea, but unless you have a time machine for rent just stop it with these here's-what-you-should-have-done posts. The rest of us are in a crisis here. We don't care about the past or the future. All our energy is focused on surviving right now.

Thus ends Part I. Will Roan be forced to become a man too soon? Will his mother be arrested for breaking into a nice Jewish preschool? How many stores in Manhattan really have Taggies in stock? Stay tuned for Part II.

Pretty in Pink

2011-04-25T22:02:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago Francie came to visit with her daughter Bianca. Francie was my college roommate freshman year. We were randomly paired together to share the smallest room available at Fontainebleau, off campus housing in Isla Vista. I remember getting her name in the mail, with her phone number. Her name was Francesca and I immediately pictured a girly girl who wore pink without irony and slept in a bed with lots of ruffles and those Victorian cylindrical pillows. Let it be a testament to my lack of girlyness that I still don't know what those pillows are called.

I couldn't bring myself to phone her.

We met on move-in day, and she was wearing enormous Janco jeans, a wallet chain and a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt. I was so relieved. Here was someone I could relate to. She was even on board with my plan to decorate our room with palm fronds and vines. I didn't object to her purple xmas lights and gumball machine. She was into Anime and wanted to be a scientist. We got along fabulously.

Now she has a daughter who is everything I was afraid Francesca would be when I read her name on that card. She only wears pink. She only eats pink food off pink plates, with a pink spoon. She walked into our apartment in a pink tutu. Just look at the photos. There is nothing this girl is wearing that is not pink.

Despite this, she is amazing - so much fun to be around. Roan and Bianca really got along. I guess it's not all that hard for kids to connect at that age, but it was still gratifying to see them playing nicely together, holding hands, and looking around for each other at the playground. They are friends. And maybe, just maybe, after all these years, I might revise my opinion of things like "pink" and "ruffles."

In any case, Bianca may end up with a unexpected birthday present from her Aunty Roo. A cylinder pillow, pink, with ruffles galore.

Figure of Speech

2011-04-23T08:45:00.002-04:00

The scene: Roan has been playing in the sandbox. His hands are covered with sticky sand, and he seems distressed.

Me: Want me to wipe off your hands?

Roan: No, I want to keep them on.

TTD - Work

2011-04-08T21:10:00.009-04:00

It was easy to come up with a destination this week. On Monday night, I left my iPad at the office. I still had three more novels to read in advance of the London Book Fair. They are all on the iPad. We had to get it.

You were completely on board with this plan. You often watch YouTube videos of trains on the iPad while I'm getting dressed, and you had noticed it was missing from our morning routine.

Daddy rode with us all the way to Union Square and you sat on his lap the whole way. You are in a Daddy phase. You also are developing one of the strongest Brooklyn accents I've ever heard. You say things like "look at the little boirdie," like some Long Island grandmother. In typical fashion, I think this is hilarious, and Jay is worried.

I work on 27th Street, in the middle of the wholesale district, or what is also known in the publishing industry as the Agency Ghetto. Rents are cheap here. 28th Street is full of plants and flowers. 6th Ave is lined with jewelry, hand bags, and wigs. 27th Street has mostly toys, with assorted luggage and socks. If you need to pick up a dozen rubber frogs and a dozen pair of feather earrings on your lunch break, 27th St. is the place to be. (Full disclosure: these are things that I actually purchased on Monday, on my lunch break).

Outside my building I explained that this is where I go when you go to Chai Tots, and introduced you to the super and the doorman. We rode the elevator to the 8th floor. You weren't too impressed with my office. After a short period of fascination with my Rolodex, you climbed on the couch and asked where the iPad was. You played games while I printed out copies of our rights list.

Jay and I both love books, and I was hoping you'd have a stronger response to being in a space that was overstuffed with them. To be fair, none of us do children's, and our offices are mostly stacked with science-fiction and fantasy novels, some with truly unfortunate covers. Roan, you should know that I really like my job. I'm proud of the books I sell and the authors I work with. Some days it is really hard to drop you off at preschool, and it sucks getting home after you've gone to sleep, but on most days the work makes me happy. It's a different kind of happy than how you make me feel, but it's a kind of happy that I need.

You were less than charming for my coworkers, who tried their best to engage you with cars and talk of trains. You opted to throw a long-winded and half-hearted temper tantrum on the floor. We had what we came for. You were ready to go back on the train.

Walking back to the train you saw a waterfall. There was a barrier of small rocks to absorb any splashes, and you put three of them in the pocket of your poncho. Putting things in your pocket is a new thing. You don't entirely trust it. You are afraid they will fall out, or get lost or perhaps teleported to another dimension, never to come back out of your pocket again.

We got on the train earlier than we usual, but even so you asked for lunch. You've gotten into the habit of opening your mouth wide like a baby bird and me spooning in food as we rush through the tunnels. This week I brought risotto. You ate a ton of it until I gave you a bite that was too mushroom heavy, and you spit it out and flopped dramatically on the bench. "Just rice!" you wailed, over and over, your face streaming tears and mucus. Even once you calmed down you kept repeating it, "just rice, Mommy, just rice" like a wronged man demanding justice.

It was a fitting week for an office visit, as I'm about to leave on my longest business trip. I will be away from you for a full week. For the first time since we started these ridiculous train trips we will have to skip a week. Which might be why I let you talk me into a train ride on Thursday. I took you to Chai Tots for school pictures, and the F/G station was impossible to miss. You made a run for it, and since we didn't have much else on the agenda, we hopped on a Coney Island bound F. After the first stop it goes above ground, and you stood on the bench and stared out at the tracks. When other trains passed, so clear in the daylight, you bounced up and down in excitement.

We rode near to the end of the line, then caught a Manhattan bound train back. We didn't get off the train to go anywhere, which confirmed something I'd always suspected: the destination is irrelevant. Maybe I've been over doing it, trying too hard with this crazy idea that we take the train somewhere. All we need is the train, preferably an elevated line.

It wasn't anywhere near lunch time, but on the way home, like one of Pavlov's dogs, you asked for lunch. Roan, 10 years from now, you might wonder why you have this inexplicable craving for a rice dish every time you board a train.

If nothing else, this post will put that mystery to bed.

TTD - The Honeymoon is Over

2011-04-02T19:36:00.002-04:00

Roan, I have a confession to make. I am getting sick of the train.

Maybe because this week was our 10th TTD. 10 train days, and we are still wearing all our winter gear. 10 train days, and you are showing no signs of walking up the hill yourself, so I continue to wear the ergo over all my winter gear. Lets just say it's not the most slimming combination.

We went to the Transit Museum again, which is what we did on our very first train day. Appropriately, you brought the subway car with us.

We got on the R train. I must have been broadcasting my foul mood because a few stops in this guy came over and got right in my face. "What you looking at?" he said. "You want me to hit you in your face?"

I've never been great with comebacks. I wish I'd had the presence of mind to say, "son, if you go out in public, you run the risk of getting looked at." Instead I started laughing. I know he meant the question as a threat, but it came out sounding earnest, almost accommodating, like if I said yes we would then discuss the particulars of where on my face I'd like to be hit. He said, "you think I'm playing?" and then we engaged in a staring contest. I took a long look at him. He looked mad and he looked tired. He was wearing a hoodie and sweat pants. Sadly, I am used to being bullied by a boy in pajamas. I said, very slowly, "I'm not looking at you," and broke eye contact. He turned away. "Don't look at that guy," I told you, because naturally you were now staring. The subway slowed to a stop and he got off.

You remembered the Transit Museum, and were very excited to go in. You remembered the pretend crate of dynamite and what I told you about the pulley cart, that it couldn't go because there wasn't enough track, and you told that story right back to me. You remembered right where the bus was. It's a real bus, with all the shifters and millions of buttons and switches.

And of course you remembered the subway cars. We went further underground to see them. The end of the platform (where you remembered "James" is) was blocked off. You stood at the barrier calling for Thomas and James. I knew you wouldn't leave without a fight or a bribe, so I took a deep breath and led you to the gift shop. I decided to buy you one train. Because I felt guilty for being so sick of them. I'm sick of formally greeting them, feeding them breakfast, rescuing them from the soccer net, finding them when they get lost, lining them up just so, gasping when they take plunges off the table, telling stories about them, reading books about them, and drawing pictures of them wearing costumes. I am dreading Halloween, when I will have to make costumes for not only you but all your trains. Percy wants to be a pig. Thomas wants to be an Indian. Gordon wants to be a knight. Henry, bless his heart, doesn't want to dress up.

I also felt guilty for letting the subway confrontation get to me. In such a dense city, we live our lives out in the open, in public spaces. Our actions and attitude impact so many. It is so important here to be kind. Nevertheless, I am used to getting bumped, muttered at, pushed, and occasionally cursed. I try not to take it too much to heart. But it wears on me. Sometimes I get tired of doing so much of my parenting in the public eye. I get tired of being judged. I want to shield you from this kind of disenchantment, for as long as I can. Some days I feel it building in me, like a shadow that gets longer and longer at the end of the day.

Some days it's enough to make me want to just stay home. Except that our home has been overrun with trains.

In the gift shop there were rows of trains lined up neatly in boxes, pull back steam engines that made a lot of train noises. You pushed the buttons on all of them, and soon the whole box was shaking with whistles and huffs. You took a red one out to play with while I skimmed through some books. When it was time to leave I offered to buy the red steam engine for you.

"No," you said, "I want to play with him here."

"We have to go home on the train now" I said, "so let's take him home. You can bring one train home."

"No," you said, and put him carefully back in the box. You grabbed my hand and led me out of the store. You asked for your subway car back.

You wanted to leave those trains as they were, so you could come back, and experience the magic all over again. I know this because you told me so, in not so many words. If you can have this much fun in a gift shop, and then ask me for a toy you already own, I guess this city hasn't turned you into a cynic quite yet.

Not Really What We Had in Mind

2011-03-31T19:10:00.002-04:00

TTD - Bikes that Look Like Dinosaurs

2011-03-24T22:45:00.003-04:00

This Tuesday we went to a bike shop in the West Village and rented a bakfiet, also known as a cargo bike. Generally, they look like this:

All week you asked to go see the dinosaurs again. But it's $25 for us to go to the Museum of Natural History, not something we can do every week. Trying to come up with a compromise, I thought of the five bicycles we have hanging on racks downstairs. You call them dinosaurs. You roar at them. I tell you they are bikes. You tell me I am wrong. Just recently, you've conceded that they are bikes that look like dinosaurs.

So we went to Hudson Urban Bicycles (HUB) to see more bikes that look like dinosaurs. A cheap alternative to actual dinosaurs.

This time you left Percy at home; Toby came in his place. You ran all the way to the train. You told everyone who would listen that Toby was the number 7 engine, and Percy was number 6, and Thomas was number 1, and Henry was number 3. We took the R train to the D to West 4th and walked down Christopher Street, past Sheridan Square Park, where a statue of General Sheridan overlooks some Gay Pride sculptures. New York City is so full of history. Events are layered one on top of the other, like the floors of the city's highest buildings. It makes me dizzy if I think about it too much, all the things that happened in one spot, all that knowing. We fit our lives around it all, and it's a tight squeeze. In a recent interview about his move to SoCal, Jonathan Lethem called it "mental traffic." I prefer the word "haunted."

The bike shop was just opening for the day - While the owner rolled out the bikes you played with Scout, the shop dog. We had our pick of the bakfiets. It was, after all, 10:30 on a Tuesday and not quite 50 degrees. No one else was renting bikes. We opted for their lightest model, which was black and plain. I took it for a test ride while you played on an antique trike and marveled at the "dinosaur" collection. When I came back you had the shop owner on board with your vision. "I can see it," he said. "There's something skeletal and predatory about some of these bikes." By that logic what we were renting was a slow moving herbivore.

I strapped you in and we were off! We rode to the Hudson River Greenway, a dedicated bike path along the Hudson River. There are all sorts of playgrounds and sports centers along the way, skate parks, a trapeze school, dog runs, tennis courts, we flew past it all, the wind at our backs. When I slowed down you told me to go faster. You weren't interested in the scenery. Your body was bent sideways, trying to get a better view of the wheels spinning under you. We rode down to Battery Park City, to Teardrop Park, where there's this really big slide I've been wanting to try. You were not enthusiastic - you wanted to keep riding. When I asked you where you wanted to go you said back to the dog, and back to the dinosaurs. So we turned around and pedaled into the wind, back to the bike shop.

We both marveled at the bikes. You played with the dog while I talked to the mechanic. I'd love to build us a bakfiet from spare parts and scrap metal, but for all the children's activities on offer in this city, I've yet to see Mommy and Me Welding. We will make do with the Frankenbike for now.

You threw a fit when we left the bike shop. Part of me was pleased. Roan Michael, I believe we are going to get along.

But as I carried you out I caught a whiff of that unmistakable smell.

A word about public restrooms in NYC: there are no public restrooms in NYC. Such services are provided to the public by Starbucks and McDonalds, and if you happen to be in a neighborhood like the West Village where there are minimal chains, good luck. The bike shop had no running water. The coffee shop up the block had a bathroom the size of a broom closet. You stood with one foot on the toilet and the other on the sink and I gave it my best shot. When you were dressed I let you out so I'd have room to bend down and tidy up. By the time I was done you'd introduced the barrista to Toby and bummed a hot chocolate.

We ate Israeli couscous on the train ride home, watched the cars and trains pass on the Manhattan bridge. Waiting for the R at Atlantic you wouldn't stop talking to the man who happened to be sitting next to you, a man who looked like he possibly killed people for a living. He gave you absolutely no encouragement or response, but your enthusiasm for talking to him could not be curbed. When the R train finally came, he made sure to get a seat in a different car.

At 25th Street we stood on the platform and watched the train go. Then we walked up the hill past the ConEd plant, which was screaming with birds. Some monk parrots had made their nests high up among the conductors. There must be thousands of trees in the cemetery across the street, but even the birds in this city have to make creative use of space. Or maybe they can feel it too, all that history and death, weighing a place down until it feels like you're wading through soup. Like the rest of us, they have to fit somewhere. They make a home where they can.

As we pushed through the doors of our building you looked up at me and said, "that was a good train day." And it was. It was the best train day yet.

Photos from the Almost Spring

2011-03-21T15:51:00.002-04:00

Big Thomas gets a new coat of paint. Percy supervises.

We walk on trolley tracks.

A train passes our train on the Manhattan Bridge.

We donate one of our many holly bushes to the Community Garden.

Close up.

Tuesday Train Day - Dinosaurs

2011-03-18T18:48:00.009-04:00

This Tuesday was our most ambitious train day yet: the Museum of Natural History. It's the best museum in the city. And, if anything can counteract all that creationism you're taking in, it's this museum, with it's Big Bang exhibit and carbon dated fossils and towering dinosaurs. Because in the battle for little boys' hearts, I'm betting that dinosaurs beat creationism every time.

Daddy had to go to the city too, so we walked by his office (i.e Southside) to pick him up. You took him through your usual pre-train chatter, this week Duck the Diesel Engine was going to roll into to the station, and after a lot of deliberation you conceded that perhaps Percy was too small to fit on the track, but Mommy could put some bigger wheels on him and then he would fit just fine.

You loved the dinosaurs. They crouched right under the ceiling, their tails swept up in graceful arcs above the light fixtures. You had been roaring all the way to the museum, but in their presence you got quiet. You walked around tentatively, circling them. Then you got bold and ran around from room to room, making your trademark pirate face when I asked you to pose for a photo.

You started losing steam around the turtles. You laid down on the floor, as if in preparation for a tantrum or a nap. I asked if you were tired and you looked up at me and said, "I just like to lay on the floor. Sometimes."

The expression on your face said, don't over think this one Mom. I'm laying on the floor because I want to lay on the floor. It doesn't have to mean something. Sometimes a rose is just a rose.

It was a message I needed to hear. That night we went to Parent Teacher Conference at your preschool. Here is what we heard: you are very focused and determined and don't like switching gears from one task to another. You will interact with others but prefer to play alone. You are never aggressive or mean. You have memorized all of the train books, including a new one they brought in on Monday. Then came the shocker: they are concerned about your physical strength and stamina. Because sometimes when you go outside, you don't run around and play with the other kids. Sometimes you just sit there.

I was gobsmacked. And insulted. Last summer you were the only kid under 2 on a balance bike; you had a reputation and some serious skills. You tackle more subway stairs than most full grown commuters. You are the only kid in the grocery store pushing the cart instead of sitting in it. How could you be weak or enervated?

I suggested that instead of having a physical problem, perhaps you just didn't feel like running around. They said they'd also noticed you leaning a lot. I've noticed that too - I figured you were looking at things from a new perspective, or experimenting with shifting your weight around. Maybe you are naturally energy efficient. I never thought it was cause for concern.

Thursday was a beautiful sunny day, the warmest it's been in 4 months. You came outside with me to take out the trash. We have a game: as soon as I close the lid you take off running down the hill and I chase you. We raced up and down the hill four or five times. It began casually enough, you happy to pump your legs. But you gradually lost enthusiasm and I gradually turned drill sergeant. I kept chasing you, kept urging you to run and run and run. I had to reassure myself that you still could.

Winter: a Tribute

2011-03-15T14:25:00.001-04:00

Now that winter is almost over we can start to get nostalgic for it and pretend like it wasn't all that bad...

Tuesday Train Day - Chinatown

2011-03-11T20:00:00.002-05:00

Two weeks in a row of train trips to Target had left us feeling culturally bereft. So this Tuesday we went to Chinatown. Like most Tuesdays, Percy accompanied us. Waiting for the train, we discussed whether or not Percy could go on the track. I thought the tracks were too big for him. You thought he would fit just fine. It's an ongoing debate that will never be resolved.

It's a quick ride to Chinatown, which is just over the Manhattan bridge. We climbed out of the station and walked east on Canal, straight into the sun. Our first stop was the Mahayana Buddist Temple. You were all over the lions at the entrance, and were put out when I made you turn around to snap a photo, until you spotted a bus in the distance.

Inside the temple is a huge golden Buddha. Also, the Buddha had lipstick on. I don't know much about Buddhism so I don't know if this is normal. We paid a dollar to pick out our fortunes, scraps of paper rolled into tight scrolls, put them in our pockets and left.

We turned south down the Bowery and you started whining. What was your problem? I wanted to know. You already wanted to go back on the train. And you were oriented enough to know we weren't going that way. You seem to have a sixth sense about where the subway stations are.

We walked down Pell and Doyer, two small pedestrian streets with a lot of hair salons and barber shops. This was what impressed you most about Chinatown - it wasn't the stalls selling gaudy trinkets and toys, it wasn't the fish markets, or the spice baskets, or the strange fruit, or the gigantic Buddha, it wasn't even the toy taxi cabs and airplanes stacked neatly in a box, being constantly dusted by a doting old man. It was the barber poles. They were lit up and spinning. You were entranced. You would only leave one if I promised there would be another. This was your big cultural takeaway.

We took a variety of trains homes because unlike you, I find Chinatown disorienting and always get lost. My original plan was to eat in Chinatown, but you were too eager to get back on the train. We took the 6 to the 5 to the R, and walked up the hill to eat lunch at home. While we were eating I remembered our fortunes. Mine was pretty good, something about no one going hungry and strong men getting stronger, and then, the last two lines advised: "stay awake a little longer, and you will sure look much younger."

Your fortune was not good. For someone who doesn't put much stock in this stuff, I was upset. How could you possibly have a bad fortune? Then I read it again a couple days later, and decided that for a 2-year-old it might not be so bad:

“The world is full of traps / Which cause many mishaps. /Don’t sail and get aground, /Or run circling around.”

I mean, you love to run around in circles. And if you were literally sailing, in a boat, by yourself, getting aground would probably be the best thing, since you don't know how to swim. I'm really trying to find the silver lining here.

Here's what I'd rather remember from this Tuesday: you at home, tugging on the door, yelling for the train, then running down the hill full tilt. You tripped and fell twice, but you are so insulated in your winter clothes that you weren't hurt or even bothered. After your nap you said, "want Mommy to say hi to trains?" so I greeted all your trains, one by one. Then we walked to Judah's house. We had just started up the hill when you stopped and said, "wait! I forgot a train!" So we went back inside and you deliberated for five minutes about which train to bring. Ultimately you decided to leave them all at home.

Old Trolley Cars

2011-03-10T11:19:00.000-05:00

Infinity Sock

2011-03-08T15:28:00.001-05:00

This weekend marked a big milestone for Roan - his first concert. Gustafer Yellowgold's Infinity Sock was playing at R2D, a small venue just outside Union Square.

This was our first foray into the kindie (kid + indie) scene, which I've just recently become aware of. I must admit, kindie has some advantages over its bigger brother, indie. First of all, it's nearly impossible for the musicians to become too intoxicated to perform at 11 in the morning. And given the audience's limited attention span, there are no opening bands to wait through. There were seats (we sat in the second row!) Instead of beer, the venue was stocked with booster seats designed to look like phone books.

The show itself was fantastic. In addition to music, there was a screen with animated sequences. The songs were part of a larger narrative arc. Gustafer has a pet eel who loves to wear socks, so he had to round up all his socks to wash them. He spotted a stray sock on the window sill, and when he grabbed it, he saw that it went out in the yard and into a tree. It was a really long sock. He went on a journey to find the end of it, and made some bizarre and fabulous pit stops along the way - in a bee hive to see a bee band play, to a secret snake prom, to visit a cat that may not have been a real cat after all.

Roan was riveted, for about half an hour. Most of the kids got antsy around that time. It's good to have a general idea of Ro's attention span for these things.

His look of Disaffected Youth. It will take a lot to impress him.

As we left the theatre we saw Gustafer Yellowgold himself, in the flesh! It was super exciting for the older kids, who seemed to be long time fans, but we hadn't prepared Ro for this, so he was suspicious.

I bought a poster and hung it in Roan's room. His first concert poster! We would have saved the ticket stub, except they were online tickets that we printed out ourselves. He is very proud of the poster and tells us a few times each day how he went to the show. He even told his friend all about it, gesturing at different parts of the poster to explain what happened. He wants to go again. In spite of this, Wagon Wheel remains his most requested song.

I don't think Jay and I have ever been cool enough for the indie scene here. Maybe we'll have better luck with the kindie scene. Ro, on the other hand, is a natural. We'll just say we're with him.

Tuesday Train Day - Sneaky Hate Spiral

2011-03-04T18:47:00.008-05:00

This Tuesday I had planned a double header - a train trip in the morning and then, another train trip in the afternoon! But then the universe decided to take a big dump all over our plans.

1. I locked myself out of the apartment, with you inside. I was schlepping all the soggy boxes out of our yard for recycling when the wind slammed the front door shut behind me. I didn't sweat it. You'd been opening the door all morning, telling me you were ready to go on the train, so I figured it was only a matter of time before you opened it again. A few minutes passed. I began to wonder what you were doing in there. I called your name, asked you to let me in, offered you chocolate, but nothing. So I scaled two fences and broke into our own backyard, a tricky maneuver I've had to pull off a few times before, but never in 30 degree weather and never barefoot.

2. We had to go to the doctor. To make sure your ear infection had cleared up. We left early and took the R to Atlantic so you could watch the trains. Even after a ton of trainspotting we still had time to kill, so we stopped by Target to see if they'd restocked their train selection. My secret plan was to exchange Stanley for Henry or Gordon, some less fastidious train who wouldn't ask me to vaccuum all the time. No luck. Even the Charlies were gone, replaced by some bloated looking Thomas themed bath toys. We were stuck with Stanley.

3. They took your temperature at the doctor's, and you had a fever of 100.5! That canceled our post nap train adventure, which was the really good one. It involved taking the train to the West Village to visit Lisa and Abi, and having dinner with Melinda and Willa. Your ear infection was gone, but your throat was red and you were developing a cough that the doctor promised would only get worse.

And it did, get much worse. You got so sick that I feel silly for complaining about such trivialities as the purple/green bruise on my forearm from breaking into my own house, and Stanley, the OCD train. The rest of the week made Tuesday look like a parental dream. We spent the afternoon painting stars on your big boy bed. You were so excited about the bed project that you only asked to go on the train once or twice. You refused to put any stars in the center of the footboard. You are saving that space for two buses.

I am sometimes prone to getting irrationally angry when small things go wrong. One of my favorite blogs, Hyperbole and a Half, calls this the Sneaky Hate Spiral, which is what happens when a barrage of small annoyances finally push a person over the edge. Having you around helps keep the Sneaky Hate Spiral in check. I want you to be better than that, to not lose your shit over the small knocks we all take, day to day. So I try and set a good example. If one of us is going to throw a temper tantrum, it really ought to be you.

I kept my cool on Train Day. Even when you screamed at me for dragging you away after a paltry 30 minutes of trainspotting, when you laid down outside Target and rubbed your lips on the tile floor, when you ran your hand along the station wall where I am quite certain a homeless man recently urinated. When we left the doctors and walked to the station and I imagined that deep inside your small body your temperature was ticking higher and higher with every step until I almost did the unthinkable and called for a car service. Instead we waited 15 long minutes for the R train to come and take us home, and you told me again and again that Gordon was coming, that we would ride Gordon home, and that he would be blue. The R train thundered into the station, looking nothing like Gordon. I braced myself for your disappointment. But you slid off the bench and shouted, "here is Gordon!" and pulled me towards the opening doors.

You helped me remember something I'd forgotten. Things are never so bad, if you know how to look at them just right.

Tuesday Train Day - Stanley

2011-02-26T07:41:00.002-05:00

This week was Winter Break and Chai Tots was closed. I don't understand Winter Break. I guess it's for rich people, so they can take their families skiing or somewhere warm. For the rest of us, it creates a childcare nightmare.

On Tuesday two of your classmates came over, so we didn't get around to Tuesday Train Day until Thursday. You wouldn't have been the wiser, except that this happened to be the week that Daddy bought you a Thomas the Train calendar and started making a big deal about writing in your plans for the day and trying to teach you the days of the week. I was hoping to pretend that Thursday was Tuesday, but that stupid calendar ruined it.

I was burned out on museums, and in any case, Winter Break meant that all the museums would be overrun. So we took the train to Target. There aren't very many big box discount stores in NYC, so going somewhere like Target or K-mart, some generic national chain with wide aisles and cheap imported merchandise is a novel experience. More novel than going to a museum, which are everywhere.

It's only four stops on the R train to Atlantic Station, and the Target. You've been to Atlantic Station so many times now that you know the drill. We got off the R and you stood on the platform to watch it leave, then you looked across the platform, waiting for the express trains to come. Lots of express and locals came, one after another, and you monitored them all. We were the only people on that platform standing still.

Finally, there was a break in the trains. I waited for the crowd to thin and then we made our slow voyage up the stairs. You like to watch the track as you ascend, to see it from different perspectives. I have to time our ascent carefully. If another train comes while you are watching, you will try to reverse course back down the stairs for a closer look.

Last week we changed to the red line, so at the top of the stairs you took off running, headed for a 3 train which had just pulled up. I kept you off that train by reminding you of the Henry I promised to buy you at Target. "Henry and his COAL CAR!" you clarified, at the top of your lungs.

Target was a bust. Some Winter Break hoard had clearly razed the train selection earlier in the week, and the only trains left were a Stanley, a Henrietta, and two purple Charlies. Who the hell was Charlie, we both wanted to know? You have the complete collection of the Reverend Awdry's stories, totaling 415 pages of trains, and we have never met any Charlie before.

You kept asking for Henry and his coal car and barring that, Gordon and his coal car would do. I eventually got you excited about Stanley by reminding you of the story we'd read where he helped Thomas when Thomas's brakes failed. After that you wouldn't stop talking about Stanley. You wanted to go back on the train, go home and hook him up to the other trains immediately.

When we got home, you told me over and over to vacuum the floor, because, "Stanley no like a dirty floor. Stanley need clean floor." The next morning you brought Stanley to the breakfast table. In addition to being a neat freak, Stanley is a picky eater. He didn't touch the eggs, toast, or Turkey Food (aka yoghurt), that you ate, and repeatedly insisted on rice and beans. Then he told me to vacuum again, because Roan had dropped eggs on the floor and made it all dirty.

Stanley and I are not going to get along.

Dirty Little Secret

2011-02-23T21:00:00.000-05:00

Dear Roan,

Disappointed parents are everywhere. When I had you I finally understood. I looked into your tiny face and I knew with more surety than I'd ever known anything that you are capable of truly incredible things. As you've grown that belief has not faded, it's only become more specific. I watch you ride your bike (technically a trike) and I am convinced you will be a teenaged BMX superstar. I see your attention to puzzles and think you will grow up to be an engineer. You love to study the way things work, and with your focus I believe you will become an inventor, toiling away with single-minded dedication until you come up with something that completely changes the way we all live. Your potential is so great, so unchartered, so ineffable, that I lack the imagination to fully understand it. You will do things that are so incredible that my ordinary mind simply can't conceive of them. In my heart of hearts, this is how I feel.

In this Roan, you will probably disappoint me. Because I'm beginning to suspect something. I'm beginning to suspect that my parents may have felt the same way about me. I'm told that I was a lot like you as a kid. Bright, attentive, kind of a loner, and very very focused. And I've grown up to lead a fairly ordinary life. I have a stimulating job, a husband that I love, friends that I wish I saw more often, bicycles that constantly need tinkering, books that constantly need reading, and you. Most of the time I feel exceptionally lucky. I try not to take anything for granted. But the bottom line is that I will pass through this world having made little impact. Is this the life my parents dreamed I would have when they dreamed the far-fetched dreams of proud parents everywhere? Probably not.

There is just no way you can live up to the hopes that I have for you. It's just not possible. And it's not easy, living under the weight of your parents' disappointment, even when that disappointment is small and well hidden. Please understand it's not you, you are not lacking. It's me. I want too much for you. I want you to validate my life, and shine so bright that it burns away any disappointment I've ever felt over anything. It's too much to ask. But here I am, like a typical rookie parent, asking.

In this, I hope you have the presence of mind to tune me out.

Tuesday Train Day - Another Museum

2011-02-19T20:14:00.001-05:00

This Tuesday I meant to take you to the Brooklyn Children's Museum, but the Jewish Children's Museum was much closer to the train stop. The JCM is extraordinarily well advertised in our neighborhood - there are signs everywhere pointing the way. I kept thinking I would run into it, that it must be just right around the corner, when it's actually in Crown Heights, 5 miles away. I asked a few friends about it but no one had gone. It was a mystery I couldn't let stand.

In typical fashion, the weather sucked. All week was in the 50s, except for Tuesday, when the temperature plummeted into the 20s. An icy wind was blowing in our faces as we walked down the hill and made it hard to breathe. You kept saying, "I think wind stop blowing," which was a nice way of saying that you'd had enough.

The JCM has 6 floors, and we were told that the 3rd floor was the best place to start. There is an exhibit devoted to the 6 Days of Creation, culminating in Shabbat, a room with an enormous crawl-through challah loaf, a giant kiddush cup, and a jacuzzi sized bowl of matzah ball soup with video screens embedded in the matzoh balls. The 6 Days of Creation terrified you. It scared me too, for entirely different reasons. By the time we made it to Shabbat you wouldn't leave my arms. I sat on the floor and rocked you, halfway between the towering bread and mammoth soup. The floor above us was under construction, and when those deep rumbling sounds mixed together with the thunder and dramatics of Creation, your little arms hugged me tight.

Around the corner was an exhibit on all the different holidays. On the Pesach table there were talking kiddish cups that recited prayers. You loved them. Two of the four were broken, but you kept holding them to your ear, waiting.

Then we came to your favorite exhibit: the kosher market. There were mini shopping carts that you could push around the store and fill with food. There were check out counters where you could put the food on a conveyer belt and scan it. You could have played there for hours, but suddenly the place was overrun with 30 screaming orthodox tween girls. They raced around the store, loading up their carts with Golds mustard and kosher candy. I've never seen so many frum girls in one place, and in such a state of mass hysteria. Was Justin Bieber in the museum? Or was the kosher shopping experience always this exciting?

You stopped where you were, gripped your cart tight, and started screaming. Your screams put those girls to shame. I tried to reach you as quickly as a I could, but we were separated by a sea of navy pleated skirts and black tights, sensible shoes shuffling everywhere I tried to step. I dodged a traffic jam by the bagels, sidestepped a cart full of grape juice, pushed my way through a blockade of black cardigans. I tried to pick you up but you wouldn't let go of your shopping cart, where you had hoarded almost every piece of fruit. I had to pry your fingers off one by one.

We went to other exhibits, but all the screaming and world making, combined with all the stairs we climbed at the Atlantic Street transfer, left me drained. I sat on a bench, surrounded by religion. A position that, even on a good day, would have made me scowl. Life is exhausting, how can we be expected to summon the energy for an afterlife? Most days I'm not sure which is worse, the idea of a higher power, or its total absence.

Likewise, I have mixed feelings about exposing you to creationism, which science has definitively put to bed. But to paraphrase Yann Martel in The Life of Pi, I'd hate for you to be so pragmatic as to miss the better story, and let's face it, when it comes to the origins of life, creationism is the best story in town. But these are your decisions to make.

For myself, I rarely choose truth over a good story. Except for when I write these Tuesday Train Day posts, which are pure hits of 100% non-exaggerated truth. The truth is that after all that Judaism, cold risotto on the 3 train, up and down stairs to the R train, up the hill bouncing in the ergo, Percy squeezed tight in your fist, through the doors and off with your hat and gloves and coat and sweater and shoes and socks you took a nap. Praise G-d.

Playlist

2011-02-17T22:26:00.004-05:00

We have 3,798 songs on our iPod. Almost 300 of those are children's songs. But Roan will only listen to 2 songs. Redemption Song, and Wagon Wheel.

We have two versions of Wagon Wheel, but only one is acceptable. The Chris Pureka version, not the OCMS one. Babysitters must be advised not to confuse the two. We've also had to clarify his constant request for Redemption Song, which, when he asks for it, sounds remarkably like, "a different song." The uninformed babysitter could roll through half our library without finding the "different song" he's looking for.

Why these 2 songs? Jay's been singing him Redemption Song as a lullaby since he was a baby, and they also happen to be 2 of the songs that I can play competently on the guitar. I guess he's heard them a lot. We don't have a television upstairs, so there is always some kind of music playing. And for the last week, he has wanted to hear Redemption Song, and then Wagon Wheel, in that order, repeat repeat repeat.

It's killing us. We try to trick him by saying, okay, first we'll listen to this other song, and then Redemption Song will come on. He always remembers. And if Redemption Song isn't the next thing out of the speakers, we've got a problem. We try turning off the music, or listening to talk radio. No dice.

This morning Roan had a fever. I sat in the rocking chair and read him book after book. When he finally relaxed I realized that I'd had Wagon Wheel in my head all morning. Hell, I've had that song in my head for weeks. I sang it to him slowly, and for the first time in months he fell asleep in my arms. Even when he started snoring I didn't want to stop singing. It really is a damn fine song.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-02-14T06:00:00.000-05:00

Tuesday Train Day - Cops

2011-02-12T20:01:00.003-05:00

This week we visited the New York City Police Museum. I chose this location with a specific goal in mind, which was to settle for you, once and for all, the difference between a taxi cab and a police car. You always confuse the two. I've explained the differences - even though they both have lights on their roofs, taxi cabs are yellow and you have to pay to ride in the backseat.

The Police Museum is in the financial district, which is the only neighborhood in Manhattan where there are no children. Really, the streets were deserted when we got there, around 9:30 in the morning. We passed an empty cafe. The sun was shining so we shared a hot chocolate on a bench and blew steam out of our mouths.

I could tell right off that the Police Museum doesn't get a lot of visitors. There was an excessively friendly man behind the counter who talked us through all the exhibits and circled everything on the map. He spoke fondly of a time last week, when a field trip came through. We were the only people there.

We started in the Junior Officers Discovery Zone, which is a new part of the museum especially for kids. We took our fingerprints and I failed an observation test. You loved the police car and the ESU, and were afraid of the Station House. We went upstairs to see the jail cell, which the museum man had told me was a big hit with kids. You, quite reasonably, refused to go in. It was right next to the weapons room, which you also could care less about. At least you smiled for your mug shot.

You had a snack and I read some of the placards on famous criminals and crimes: about Ruth Brown Snyder, the first woman to die in the electric chair in 1928, and Winston Moseley, whose brutal and noisy murder of Kitty Genovese in the 1960s prompted all those studies on public apathy. I wanted to stay, but you kept tugging on my hand. You wanted to go back on the train. You wanted to go home.

You had been tired and grumpy all day. We left the museum and you immediately wanted me to carry you. The day had turned cold and windy. I put you in the ergo and jaywalked several times to reach the R train. You cheered up considerably when the train came.

Not every Tuesday Train Day can be a success. The very next day, as we drove to the grocery store, you pointed and shouted, "police car!"

You were pointing at a livery cab.

Suck it, Pottery Barn

2011-02-09T22:01:00.003-05:00

I can never bring myself to spend $25 - $50 0n a box. Not when Roan and I can make our own. And then we don't have to recycle our cardboard boxes in accordance with Brooklyn's draconian recycling rules.

I am particularly pleased with the Winter Coat Box. Because we are actually too lazy to hang our coats in the closet. We will just have to put them on again, eventually. So we pile them on our bench. Which transforms the bench into an enormous winter coat monster, not suitable for sitting. Maybe you are thinking, "but there are only three of you, how can you have so many coats?" And I would say, "you would be shocked by the things I have found buried on that bench. Sweatshirts I'd given up for lost, stray mittens, Jay's hat that he accused me of stealing, clothes that the Robot has long since grown out of, and once, a moldy piece of challah bread in a plastic bag." The Winter Coat Box has given us back our bench.

Listen up, Pottery Barn: you could make a fortune by selling the yuppie urbanite version of this box to lazy people everywhere. When you do, all I ask is that you kick me down with a set of those choo-choo train toddler sheets, which I love, and which I am also too cheap to buy.

Crazy Lady

2011-02-08T20:36:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow is Roan's first field trip with Chai Tots, to the Brooklyn Children's Museum. And I'm not letting him go.

I like to think of myself as a relaxed parent, but today I turned into a crazy lady. I kept fixating on the field trip, with a feeling that I finally recognized as dread. What scares me is that this field trip is the perfect opportunity for a kidnapper to single out Roan and kidnap him.

Yes, I am convinced that someone at the Brooklyn Children's Museum wants to kidnap my son. I know this is a crazy thing to think, but knowing that doesn't make me any less certain. I spoke to another mom about my fears, and she tried to make me feel better. She said something like, "everyone at the children's museum is there with a child." But who knows? I've never tried to go alone, but maybe they would let me in. And the fact that this mom thinks the Children's Museum is safe makes it the perfect place for kidnappers! Everyone's guard is down! All a kidnapper has to do is pay the $7 admission fee. Or maybe they have an annual pass.

I talked to another mom who confessed that she was nervous about the whole riding-in-a-bus-without-a-car-seat thing. Now that right there is some unfounded paranoia. We rarely have the opportunity to drive over 25 mph in our neighborhood. I brushed her off, bringing the conversation back around to my kidnapping scheme, which I had planned out in absurd detail. But later, after we'd hung up, I thought about the bus and how easy it would be for Roan to run out in the street and be hit by a car or a bike. The teachers and chaperones can't keep an eye on every child at all times. What if he doesn't listen? He's 2. He pretty much has an advanced degree in not listening.

To ease my nerves I made a homemade dog tag that Roan could wear around his neck, with all his personal information and our cell phone numbers. But Roan refused to wear it and when I finally got it on him I realized it was probably a choking hazard. What was worse, being lost in a museum where nobody knows who you are, or being strangled by your own ID card?

Ultimately, I e-mailed Roan's teachers and asked if I could come. Probably they will say no, since I waited until the night before the field trip to come up with this plan of action. The kidnapping scenarios kept my mind occupied all day, and it's only recently I've been able to think clearly. If they don't let me come I'll stay home with Roan and work on Thursday.

When Jay came home I explained the change of plans. He was diplomatic. He mentioned several times that there was a bottle of wine on the table.

It's embarrassing to admit that I'm a worrywart mother. I called my own mom to get some perspective. She tried to talk me off the ledge of maternal paranoia, and when she saw that wasn't going to happen, she threw in the towel and admitted that she went on every single field trip until I was in high school.

I feel better now. It's obviously genetic, this Crazy Lady thing. May as well embrace it and get on with life. Which will include a lot more field trips than I'd planned for.

Tuesday Train Day - Marionettes

2011-02-04T22:03:00.003-05:00

This Tuesday we took the train to the Swedish Cottage Marionette Theatre in Central Park. We set a personal record - we took 6 trains! The R to the D to the C to 81st Street, and then the B to the D to the R to get home. The D train runs over the Manhattan Bridge and on the way home there was hardly anyone in our car. I gave you rice and beans for lunch and let you stand on the seat to look out the window.

We've had extreme weather on every Tuesday Train Day, and this Tuesday was no different - it was snowing again. The Marionette Theatre has been in Central Park since 1877, and looked quaint and cozy under all that snow. Walking through the park, it felt like we had travelled back in time through some kind of lonely nordic forest.

We saw the 10:30 showing of The Secret History of the Swedish Cottage. It's the story of how the cottage came to America, with the help of sea creatures and gnomes. Typically, the theatre puts on traditional fairy tales, like Cinderella and Jack and the Beanstalk, but this show was a perfect introduction for us first-time cottage goers. Apart from a few other families, the audience consisted of a theatre class of 5-year-olds, who asked fabulous questions during the Q&A after the show. You were the youngest kid there. When they turned off the lights and announced that there was no eating or drinking in the theatre I took away your O's and you started to wail. Too late, I tried to give them back to you, after all, it was really dark and who would see? But you were pissed. We shuffled out of the theatre just as the show was starting.

It took you a while to calm down, and when we went back in the Swedish Cottage was in a boat, making its way across the Atlantic.

There was a storm and the Swedish Cottage sunk to the bottom of the sea, where it was met by a hostile octopus and an amorous whale. You started to cry again. You were afraid of the octopus. I whispered in your ear, offering you O's, but you were having none of it. One of the theatre teachers turned around and and put her hand on your knee and asked you questions like, "are you afraid of the pretend octopus? Or the pretend whale?" Inexplicably, this calmed you down. A few scenes later a steam engine showed up, and you were all smiles.

The show was really great. It was funny and wildly creative. It actually made me tear up, just knowing that people are doing this, and have been doing this in this very building for the last 130 years, despite real world obstacles that are just as intimidating as giant octopuses and the wide and stormy Atlantic. I thought about why I take you places like this, why I like to take you on the train. It's because you're good company. And it's because I want you to know that the world is big. It is big and full of some terrific surprises. There's so much stuff and so many people you'd never imagine. There are so many things to do. And in this city, nothing is too far away, and it's never hard to get there. Nothing is inaccessible. You can always take the train.

Flossing

2011-02-02T21:51:00.003-05:00

Tuesday Train Day - The Library

2011-01-31T22:26:00.000-05:00

Last Tuesday we took the train to the library. There is actually a library within walking distance, but I wanted to check out the Brooklyn Central Library, which is really big and landmarked. To get there we had to take two trains - the R to the 2/3. I knew you would be excited about changing trains.

Tuesday Train Day is not for the faint of heart, and this week was no different. It was snowing when we left home, big fat quiet flakes. The transfer at Atlantic St. Station involved a lot of stairs and you walked up and down them all. Going up one set, we were passed by an old man with a cane who stopped to tell you how strong you are. We got off at Grand Army Plaza and walked around the traffic circle, then up the stairs to the library.

Right inside the library there were two narrow escalators, and that was all you wanted to do. By that point I had had enough of stairs, in any form. I dragged you into the children's section where you picked out an Elmo book on opposites and demanded a bagel. We went to the cafe and shared an everything bagel with orange juice. Again, I had to drag you past the escalators and back to the children's section, where you kept trying to escape. So much for fostering a love of literature.

We couldn't stay long. You had a doctor's appointment. You were happy to break out of the library and get back on the train. We walked to the Eastern Parkway Station, past the Brooklyn Botantic Gardens, where all the plants were blanketed in fresh snow. We hopped a 2 until Atlantic, where I put you in the ergo and rushed down 4th Ave, trying to make it to your appointment on time.

A word about Doctor's Appointments: this is a Daddy thing. When you have a cough, it makes Daddy feel better to have a doctor look in your mouth and your ears and listen to you breathe and make sure everything is okay. You and me, not so much. It takes forever, costs $15, and makes you scream. This time it wasn't too bad - Thomas and Friends was on TV, which reinforced our train theme. I read you a really good Dr. Seuss story that I've never read before, about Sneetches.

Afterwards we walked down to Union Street and caught the R train home. I started taking photos of you on the train, and got so carried away that we missed our stop. We had to get off at 36th Street, climb up and down more stairs, and catch what would be our 5th and last train of the day. You stood on the platform and pointed out all the trains that were not our train. There were a lot of "not our trains" before our train came.

Snow Day

2011-01-27T22:28:00.000-05:00

Tuesday Train Day - Transit Museum

2011-01-26T21:59:00.004-05:00

Ever since you’ve gone to Chai Tots, I’ve worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and stayed home with you on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Last week I decided to make Tuesdays a day we take the train somewhere.

Last Tuesday we took the R train to the Transit Museum. The train was packed full of commuters, but we found you a seat between two plus sized women with big puffy coats and big hair where no adult sized passenger would fit. It was a tight squeeze even for you, but the women kept you steady through all the rocking turns and starts and stops, squeezed between their jacketed hips. Daddy had to go to the city, so we all rode the R together until you and I got off at Court Street.

It was a terrible day to do anything. We were experiencing the most intolerable of all winter weather patterns, the “Wintry Mix.” This is a mix of rain, sleet, hail, and snow, accompanied by strong winds. It's the type of weather that renders an umbrella completely useless, so you really just have to accept that going outside will make you wet and cold and mad. By the time we got to the subway our mittens were soggy and our pants were drenched from wading through slush. Daddy thought this whole outing was a terrible idea, but my mind was made up. It was the Inaugural Tuesday Train Day, we had to go.

We got off the train and walked a few blocks to the museum, which wasn’t open yet. The Wintry Mix was in full swing, and we huddled in a doorway with two other boys and their babysitter. The boys were 3 and 4, and when I told them it was our first time at the museum they got really excited and started telling you all about it. By the time it opened they had taken you under their wing. They waited patiently for you to work your way down all the stairs, and showed you all their favorite exhibits. There are old turnstiles, trolley cars, buses, stoplights – everything functional and real. Except for the pretend crate of dynamite, which I’m guessing was used to make the tunnels. Keeping up with you didn’t give me much time to read the markers.

Finally, the boys were ready to show you the best part – the trains! We went deeper underground to an old subway station where different kinds of trains sat on the track, from the 1920s onward, their doors open and welcoming. You ran in the first one you saw, climbed in the seat and said, “train go?” And I told you the train couldn’t go, because it was stuck between all the other trains, and we walked to one end of the platform so you could see how the track ran out against the wall. You seemed unconvinced so I told you that all these trains had the day off. That seemed to do the trick. You walked into each train and proclaimed, “this train not go. This train resting.”

The boys told you that there was a train that looked just like James at the far end of the platform and off you went. You deserve to know the truth: that train looked nothing like James. He was red, but that was it. But you were ecstatic, and cried for James when I finally had to carry you away.

I'm not going to lie - the commute home was terrible. The Wintry Mix never let up, so I put you in the ergo to speed up our time outside, but by time we got to the station my fingers were frozen into stiff claws. It took a couple of tries to free my metro card from my pocket, and when I finally swiped it and it blinked "INSUFFICIENT FARE" I wanted to cry. Accessing my wallet would mean taking you out of the ergo, unbuttoning buttons and unzipping various zippers, and there was no way my numb fingers could navigate all that. I got help from a stranger and while I refilled our card you stood at my side, patting my leg and saying, "okay mommy." Maybe I wasn't keeping it together as well as I'd thought. Or maybe you just knew I needed some comfort.

Walking home from the R train, uphill the whole way, your 30 pounds limp in the ergo, my feet slipping backwards through slush as if I were walking up a sand dune, the loathsome Wintry Mix dripping down our faces, I thought that maybe this would be the first and the last Tuesday Train Day. But later that day, you woke up from your nap and said, "go on train?" Go on train with Mommy?" as if it was this fabulous new idea and we hadn't spent our entire day doing just that.

I knew we would do it again. Next Tuesday.

Because I'd need a week to recover.

Rockwell Moments - Essay #5

2011-01-25T21:33:00.001-05:00

*What motherhood means to Erica, mother to 3-month-old Zachary*

On November 20th, 2010 motherhood was pain. Gone were any sweet thoughts of carefully folded onsies, perfectly coordinated bedding, and over-priced birth announcements. That baby needed to get the hell out of my body---right now. Our 41 week co-habitation was coming to an intense end in ways that only a first-timer could not have imagined.

Eventually Zachary did make his appearance, and since then motherhood has been many things.

Motherhood is wanting so badly for the little one to take a nap, but when the nap goes on and on, wanting even more badly for him to wake up and begin the endless feed, burp, change, sing, read, cuddle and soothe cycle.

Motherhood is speeding home after an hour away, and wanting to know in great detail everything that happened during those 60 minutes.

Motherhood is having the intention of writing this essay for two whole months, but never finding the right moment---always too busy or too tired.

Sometimes my life feels like a Norman Rockwell painting. I adore my handsome husband, my baby boy is so sweet and perfect, we have a comfortable home, the fireplace is lit, the Christmas decorations are still up-----and all I really have to do all day is love my baby. Well, that and lose 15 pounds, write a thesis, keep up the house, and somehow continue advancing my career…. But whatever, these snap shot moments are blissful, and I have experienced a contentment in these past two months that is refreshingly new.

Of course there are the Rockwell outtakes. A neighbor would be more likely to peek in our window and see this less than idyllic scene: I am half-dressed, Zachary has been fussy/screaming bloody murder and the blow-dryer/vacuum trick is not working but both appliances are still running full blast, Clint is a minute late and I am literally staring out the window willing him to pull up in the red Jeep and save me, and the part of me that's dressed has been wearing the same annoying pants for two months now because they are the only ones that fit.

If I said motherhood was always a dream I would be lying---and all you other mothers would know it. But I can say that I have discovered love that I didn’t think possible, a pride that I have never before felt (I have finally learned to use a camera! And I'm taking pictures!), and sometimes, despite my sleep-deprivation, I just cannot wait for my little one to wake up. I’m sure all you other mothers out there know the feeling.

*Erica* January 24, 2011* *420 words*

Cold Day at Lowes

2011-01-23T20:52:00.003-05:00

Roan,

On the first truly cold day of winter we walked to the car and climbed inside. The straps of the car seat were so tight against all your layers - they pushed your puffy coat up over your mouth and your arms stuck out at your sides. Your hat slipped down over your eyebrows. It reminded me of lifeguard training, when we practiced strapping people down on spinal boards. You looked completely immobilized.

It was the same temperature inside the car as outside, except it felt worse because we were just sitting there. I put on the radio and drove down the block. At the red lights I tried to teach you how to make steam clouds with your breath. I think you were getting the idea, but the coat made it hard to see your progress.

"Go Lowes?" you said. You recognized the turns.

"Yep." I said.

"Train come?" you said.

"Maybe." I said. You think I control the F train the same way I control when we go outside and whether or not we eat red soup for lunch. I can't convince you otherwise.

At Lowes we parked in the back of the lot, where we have a clear view of the elevated tracks. The F train isn't all that reliable, but it runs above ground for two stops, up over the Gowanus Canal before it slips back underground and goes all the way to Coney Island. We got out of the car and walked to the edge of the Gowanus. Across the canal there's a scrap metal yard where cranes move piles of twisted metal onto a barge. It's hard to capture the drama and operatics of the magnetic crane, flinging junk through the air, and my fingers were too frozen to operate the camera. The barge was already full, so we watched the cranes move stuff from one pile to another. It looks random, like maybe they are doing it just for fun. Later I found this video online - it's our scrap metal yard in 2008:

The Lowes parking lot is the perfect place for boys. I'm always surprised there aren't more kids here. Whatever the reason, we always have the place to ourselves. Except for that first cold cold day. Some Scandinavian-looking guy with neon orange sunglasses and a real serious camera showed up. It was his first time here - he'd been kicked out of the actual yard earlier, and across the canal, one of the men on the barge was pointing at him. I shared all the information I had - if he wanted to see them load the barge he'd better get here early, 8AM was best. They tend to use the magnetic crane closer to lunch time. Noon to 3 is your nap time, so who knows what happens then. In the afternoons, there's an old apologetic man who practices his trombone.

Eventually you started whining - the tip of your nose and your cheeks were bright red and your lips were chapped from the wind. I picked you up and was carrying you back to the car when we finally heard the F train rumbling. "Train coming!" you shouted, and I held you up high. We stood shivering and watched it pass. As soon as it was out of sight you said, "train come again?" And I told you no, that the F train wouldn't come again until Spring.

I think you believed me.

Baby Zach

2011-01-09T15:16:00.008-05:00

It is far past time to acknowledge the birth of Roan's first baby boy cousin: Zachary Eric Womack, November 20, 2010. I met him for the first time 2 weeks ago. He is my sister Erica's first child. He is six weeks old and likes loud noises, just like Roan. For 15 terrifying minutes I was alone with both boys. How did I cope? I made a smoothie. When the smoothie was done, I just let the blender keep going.

Roan calls Zachary Baby Zach. Most of the time Roan didn't mind when I held him, but once he grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy, put Baby Zach away." When I asked Ro where I should put him, he impatiently pointed at the floor.

I didn't love the infant stage. They cry a lot, and frankly, it's hard to interact. But holding Baby Zach, I remembered how nice it is to hold somebody who really only wants to be held. You can cuddle all you want, they have nothing else on the agenda. We couldn't put Baby Zach down unless the vacuum cleaner or the blow dryer was on, and even then it was dicey. I tried to hold Roan like that and he stuck his finger up my nose.

On New Years Day we had Mo come over and take some family photos. My favorites are of my parents, holding their grandsons.

Makers

2010-12-29T21:36:00.000-05:00

Dear Roan,

The true practitioners of maker culture are not hipsters or basement engineers or Etsy-obsessed crafters. They are toddlers. Toddlers are intensely fascinated with the way things work. Watching you operate the salad spinner, the blender, the juicer, watching you build a train track and string together your magnetized trains, helping you roll out dough and push the cookie cutters in hard, I remember that the world used to be a fascinating place, full of mystery and intrigue but quite possibly understandable, until I reached a certain age and was completely overwhelmed by modern enigmas like the fax machine.

When you are upset, or hurt, or in the throws of a minor tantrum, it is often the promise of making something that brings you back from that dark place. You like to talk about the process - getting out the juicer, putting it together, opening the fridge, getting the carrots, washing the carrots, cutting the carrots, pushing the button, taking off the top, putting the carrots in, making a loud noise (your favorite part), drinking the carrot juice (your least favorite part), and cleaning up. The process seems to fascinate you much more than the end result. Most of the time, as soon as the carrot juice or smoothie is done, you look up at me and say, "again?" After you sprinkle the cheese on the ravioli we've made for lunch you immediately ask, "make more lavalolis?" When I make risotto, a rice dish that has to be stirred constantly, you sit up on the counter top and give it your full attention. My risotto was never so effectively stirred.

Roan, you and I read a lot of books about trains. You are enamored with steam engines, and really don't care about the electric trains or monorails. And I get it - everything about the steam engine is easy to see, coal is the power source, it's in the tender, and you shovel it, and the train coverts it to power and moves, making steam along the way. Electricity will never be as exciting. It's not as outwardly visible, nor does it require as much human effort to operate. I am going to guess that you will love dirigibles. You are more genuinely Steam Punk than most of the books I sell.

Here are some of photos of you making stuff.

Making carrot juice

Making a smoothie

Making sugar cookies

Making play-dough

Grandparents - part II

2010-12-11T08:10:00.000-05:00

Grandma and Grandpa Lyons came all the way from Texas to attend Roan's 2nd birthday party, on November 6th. The party itself lasted 2 and a half hours. Barbara helped with all the setup and clean up. Roger was the party photographer. We started with an art project: fall leaves made with contact paper and shredded tissue paper. You can see how well that went from this photo:

After art we had music. Pete from Music Together came over with his guitar and a bag of instruments. Roan treated him like a visiting dignitary. He kept climbing on the couch next to Pete, smiling at him and shouting his name to everyone. He couldn't believe that Pete, a real live rock star, was sitting on his couch, in the flesh. Here is Ro shaking shakers with Dad:

The party even had a theme. The theme was Thomas the train. Jay bought things like banners and these Thomas the train hats from a website called TrainParty.com . It has become a running joke how much money Jay spent at TrainParty.com

Pete, rocking out. I am the only one wearing a Thomas hat.

We ate pizza.

The next morning, we arrive at the Opening Presents stage of the birthday party. Grandma and Grandpa Lyons gave Roan a lot of Matchbox Cars.

Holiday Card

2010-12-04T09:20:00.003-05:00

I intended to make a photo/video Holiday Card. Instead, I've created an extremely indulgent collection of pictures/videos of Roan over the course of 2010.

Enjoy!

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Preschool

2010-11-19T22:08:00.001-05:00

We aren't totally sure what Roan does there all day, but pictures like this suggest he doesn't miss us at all.

What Pedals?

2010-11-12T14:29:00.002-05:00

Grandparents - part I

2010-11-08T22:30:00.006-05:00

It's that time of year when our apartment is overrun by senior citizens bearing gifts. It's Roan's birthday.

My parents came first. After packing all of Roan's presents, they actually didn't have any room in their luggage for stuff like clothes, which is why my father is wearing his MACS' sweatshirt in every single photo.

At The Top of the Rock, Roan gazes longingly at the Lego truck he can't open, my mother gazes southwest, out across the city, in the general direction of all the clothes she left behind.

Eric McClure: the only man in New York City wearing shorts.

Bike ride in Prospect Park

That yellow speck on the horizon is my son's helmet. He broke away and rode for freedom. Team MACS' never had a chance.

Eventually we caught up. We threw some leaves.

My parents commune with nature. Look closely and you will note that underneath her kangaroo sweatshirt, my mother is also wearing a MACS' sweatshirt.

Roan and Mia, at Mia and Taj's Halloween birthday party. In the background, my father, and the ubiquitous MACS' sweatshirt.

Choo Choo Halloween

2010-11-02T21:54:00.001-04:00

Puzzle Man

2010-10-21T15:16:00.000-04:00

Around the preschool, Roan is getting a reputation. A reputation as someone who loves puzzles. His teacher starts to tell me about his puzzle obsession, and of course I am interested in anything Roan related, and I am doing my best to pay attention, but...

I have this habit. When a conversation is full of text book phrases I go into a sort of translation mode. I mentally dumb down anything elaborate into something simple and catchy. So when Roan's teacher goes on and on about Roan's puzzle savvy in her Masters-Degree-in-Early-Childhood-Development terms I tune her out and think: Puzzle Man.

Puzzle Man's powers include undivided attention to putting together any puzzle ever devised. His single-minded focus is his greatest strength, but also his greatest weakness. Should a puzzle piece go missing, Puzzle Man will become distraught, even angry. The puzzle must be completed. He will not to be distracted from this mission. You will bribe him with other games, fruit, even ice-cream, and his will not even look at you except to insist that you produce the missing puzzle piece. You will explain the puzzle piece could be anywhere, under the stove, outside in the sandbox, downstairs under the couch, in the dark and dusty reaches under the bed and a thorough search would take hours, possibly days, and who wants to go to so much trouble when there are so many other puzzles to complete, so many slides to slide down, so many swings to swing on, and hey, shouldn't we go to the playground? And Puzzle Man will fix you with his steely gaze, undeterred and untempted, point to the spot where the missing puzzle piece belongs, and make that exasperated question mark noise that sounds like "eh?" and means, "Mom, we need to find it."

Back at the preschool, Roan's teacher smiles at me, somewhat expectantly. I have a bad feeling I've missed a conversational cue, it is probably my turn to say something with the words "executive function" or "synapse" but I've been checked out, daydreaming about Puzzle Man: The Halloween Costume. It's an awesome vision, but I let it go, and listen to her tell about the time that Roan commandeered all three teachers to scour the room for a lost puzzle piece. Eventually, they found it. Puzzle Man clapped, then dumped out the pieces and started all over again.

Apples and Bananas

2010-10-17T21:35:00.001-04:00

Week in Review

2010-10-17T21:06:00.000-04:00

Shabbat Abba

Making the challah

Expired rice

Daddy swing

Mushrooms

2010-10-16T15:11:00.000-04:00

There are a lot of mushrooms in our backyard. They seem to grow most vigorously after it rains. Our neighbor says they are okay to eat, but we are not so sure...

Seize the Day - Essay #4

2010-10-10T15:07:00.003-04:00

*What motherhood means to Pamela, mother to 4-month-old Eva*

Being a mother means thinking about writing this essay for three days before there is actually time to do it, writing half of it, and then trying to write more, piece by piece, for several weeks after the fact before it is actually finished.  

Being a mother means an ache in my heart when I leave her in the morning and a bizarre sense of accomplishment and focus at work that I hadn’t expected, and feel guilty about regularly. Motherhood is conflicting emotions. When I pick her up at the end of the day, I want to smother her with hugs and kisses and smack the nursery director in the face as she coos with my daughter and recounts just how much fun they had together all day. When we are alone her simple smile fills up my heart and my eyes, with tears and I ask myself how I can leave this creature to be taken care of by someone else. After nearly four months, motherhood means being spoken to and yelled at in a language I can't yet understand- an endless guessing game of getting to know each other. It means founding her fan club and keeping it going for the next hundred years.   

Being a mother means sacrificing (in whatever form sacrifice may come), without question, for her; putting her needs before mine. My pre-motherhood fetish for shoes has turned into a nearly obsessive attraction to tiny little ones for which I have to convince myself she’ll grow out of too quickly to be worth buying. So, perhaps I have not become completely selfless, because her happiness gratifies me and gives me an indescribable satisfaction.

A sense of time and mortality have come over me, that I’ve never felt before. Absolutely nothing is forever and everyday is to be cherished and not just floated through as the current carries you. And time. There is never enough. You can't borrow it, steal it, save it, lend it, let it collect interest, get it back from a friend to whom you lent it, or earn more of it for something good you did. But, you can waste it. Being a parent brings new meaning to the cheesy maxim 'live everyday as if it were your last.'

Eva grabbed one of the toys hanging in the baby gym, held it in her hand and stared at it for the first time yesterday and it'll never happen again. I can only hope that her father or I will be present for as many of her firsts as time permits, even the small ones. The realization that I will not live forever may have scared the hell out of me only 13 months ago, but fear is not an option anymore. I have to accept and prepare for this fact. She must have everything she needs. I need to teach her love and independence and loyalty; all the important lessons in life, and of course not to smack the nursery director just because you may be jealous of her.

*Pamela* *October 9, 2010* *510 words*

Fishey Lyons

2010-10-08T11:05:00.001-04:00

*A post from Jay*

Roan got his first pet this week. His preschool was explaining the seven days of creation (don’t get me started on this), and in order to explain the sea teaming with sea creatures, they gave him a goldfish. In abstract this seems like a great idea – something I'd expect an enthusiastic young teacher to come up with. The reality… well.

I picked Roan up from school, and he ran to me with his usual big smile, giving me a hug and a kiss – a routine that will end one day, but for now is one of the bright spots of my day. He started babbling like crazy, telling me all the things he did at school, a bunch of mumbling interspaced with “color” and “school” and “sing” and “outside” and "soup”. He then started saying “fishey” and “fishey home”. I looked up, and there was his teacher, holding his fish in a clear, large plastic jar.

His teacher had told Cameron about the fish plan in the morning, so I was prepared. The fish already looked a bit sick, not surprising considering the size of his jar and that it was littered with way too much fish food, that it was almost 80 degrees in the school, and that Roan and the other kids had probably been playing with him all day. I scooped him up along with Roan’s things and we headed home. Unfortunately, Roan wanted to hold the fish, which caused a bit of jar shaking before I was able to convince him that the fish needed to sit in his own seat with a seat belt that snaps, just like Roan does. On our drive back I asked him what name we should give his fish. Roan responded, after much pondering, “Um… Fishey!”

After a bit more shaking while I tried to parallel park, we transported Fishey to the kitchen table. Roan sat at the table and had his snack, watching Fishey intently. Unfortunately, I hadn't had the time or the energy to pick up the proper gear (a large tank with things inside that Fishey could use to hide behind), so I switched him from the plastic jar to a Tupperware bowl filled with water at the proper temperature, and then went back to work, leaving Roan with Elizabeth, his new baby sitter.

When I got home later that day I noticed the tell-tale tilt of a fish on his last legs, angling 45 degrees, with his mouth almost out of the water. I quickly moved Fishey to the corner of the table, behind a picture frame, so that Roan wouldn’t catch sight of him. Throughout the rest of the evening Roan would ask me every few minutes about Fishey, and I would respond that Fishey was resting and could play later.

After dinner, some chasing, Wonderpets, teeth brushing, hand washing, books, serenading and finally sleep, I went over to the Tupperware bowl, each step filled with worry. Unfortunately, my fear was confirmed. Fishey was dead.

I teared up a little. I love all animals, and I was crushed that Roan’s first pet didn’t even last the day. I knew the odds were against Fishey from the start, but I had desperately wanted him to pull through. Looking back, I knew I could have done more to save him, which made me even more frustrated. I did make sure that Fishey got a beautiful burial at sea though.

We’re going to get a dog soon, and I know that Roan will likely forget all about Fishey and will consider this dog to be his “first” pet. But every time he says “Fishey?” or “Fishey home?” over the next few days, and he’ll ask plenty, my heart will ache a little.

Fishey Lyons - RIP

Some Photos

2010-10-08T09:16:00.001-04:00

Washing Blankie

Post Nap Popsicle

On Top of Hay Mountain

Hay Ride to the Orchards

Apple Picking

Hay Ride - the return trip

The New Perfect - Essay # 3

2010-10-07T06:41:00.001-04:00

*What motherhood means to Carmela, mother of 14-month-old Raphael*

I was worried that motherhood would become something so all encompassing that I would be stripped of my former identity; my sense of humor would vanish, and I would be reduced to a haggard spit up-soaked slave to my child. My career would no longer be important, and conversations with me would be reduced to insipid pureed mush. Fortunately, motherhood has been none of these things.

Nonetheless, motherhood has made me realize that you cannot always be an overachiever. I now willingly accept “good enough.” Life has been stripped down to the essential; decision making is a constant battle between “necessary” and “nice to have.”

I realize that brunch can be served with just waffles and fruit salad, with eggs, bagels, lox, and the fragrant aroma of homemade cinnamon rolls existing only in my nostalgic memory of pre-child Sunday mornings. I forgive myself for not cleaning the bathroom before houseguests arrive, and I accept that, until Raphael is old enough to stir a pot or grab a bucket and a sponge, a heavy dose of pragmatism will be required.

Motherhood is, however, holding a small piece of perfection. For an ephemeral moment, I can look at my son and love everything about him. For a blissful moment, there are no character flaws or complexes. My entire being smiles as he shrieks with glee when the wind tosses his hair in all directions or when he sticks his hand out to feel the rain. I laugh when he teases me by popping his thumb in his grinning mouth, just to have me take it out again and again.

For the past 14 months, each day has been better than the previous one. Each day I wonder what new discovery Raphael will make. When I’m away from him, I daydream about something he might like to see or do. I imagine him smiling his gummy grin, with just the slightest hint of self-satisfaction. I picture him turning his head and looking back at me, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he heads at breakneck speed for some forbidden corner of the apartment.

I see his personality evolving, and I see parts of myself and my husband. As a mother, I want to protect him from the inevitable things that come with growing up: hurt feelings, disappointment, frustration, and anger. I can’t stop myself from imaging him as a little boy or young man and wishing that I could protect him forever. If only, somehow, I could make him a little less shy, maybe a bit less critical, and perhaps a touch more patient than his parents.

Most of all, though, I hope my little child stays perfect for just one more day.

*Carmela* *October 6, 2010* *450 words*

The Motherhood Equation - Essay #2

2010-10-05T13:37:00.006-04:00

*What motherhood means to Francesca, mother to 2.5-year-old Bianca*

They say that the bond between a child and a mother is the strongest possible bond there is.

I’m a full time student and my husband is a stay-at-home dad. I’ve found that motherhood as it’s defined by society is being the center of your child’s care and the center of your child’s life. Being the one your child looks to first when they’re hurt or tired.

I don’t know anything about this kind of motherhood.

When my daughter is sick or hungry her dad is the first person she wants. When she asks me to run with her around the house, it’s for her to run away from me and for her dad to “protect” her. When I hold her in my arms, staring into her beautiful dark brown eyes and fondly ask, "are you my baby?" she answers with a coy smile, "no, daddy baby."

I laugh and pretend she’s made a funny joke, because I know that’s the right thing to do. She only speaks the truth of her experience. She is daddy’s baby.

I feel left out at times. Sometimes when we’re out shopping she won’t let me push the stroller because she wants daddy to. Sometimes she asks for milk, but doesn’t want me to give it to her because she needs daddy to.

I’m working toward a Ph.D. in cellular biology. I’m not even sure if it will earn me a decent paying job when I graduate. I’m scared to death I’m working so hard for little return on investment later.

But sometimes when she hears me come home, she runs and jumps on me and gives me a big hug. Sometimes when I hold her she puts her hand to the side of my face and says "mommy beautiful hair." Sometimes it feels like she’s really mine.

My most favorite time with my daughter is when daddy isn’t around. I urge him to go to rugby practice as much as he can. I try to convince him to spend the weekend at a friend’s house. Why? Because when it’s just me and her I am mommy. She wants my attention. She’s excited to be with me and wants me to play games with her. Sometimes we go shopping or just play outside, it doesn’t matter. It’s just fantastic that she is enjoying her time with me.

And if I have a week or two off, it gets really good. She’s so excited that I’m home everyday and by the end of the week she’s coming to me as much she goes to him.

Motherhood comes down to time spent. The more you put in the more you get out. But it also means sacrifice. Sometimes motherhood is sacrificed to give our children a home and an enriched life. Though they may not understand our absence now, they will be proud of our hard work later. That’s what I hold on to when daddy’s baby doesn’t want me around.

*Francie* *October 5, 2010* *490 words*

Love Hurts - Essay #1

2010-10-03T20:27:00.008-04:00

*What motherhood means to Sarah, mother to 6-month-old Scarlett (aka Scout)*

Motherhood is falling in love. Some days, when I’m too tired to be very interesting, my daughter and I lie in bed together and just stare at each other. I kiss her forehead and her cheeks; she pulls my hair and tries to eat my nose. I sing her songs; she screeches in my face and punches me. Though it may sound like a one-sided romance, I know that when she rakes her teeny nails across my face, she is really expressing her total and unwavering devotion to me. (And maybe she is reminding me that it’s time to find the nail clippers.) Ah, the passion of a new relationship. Will it be like this forever? No chance.

Right now, our relationship is uncomplicated. Every morning when I lift her from her crib, she looks at me like she can’t believe her luck that it’s ME again. Sometimes she sees me and just laughs (this might be because I haven’t brushed my hair in a few days), and other times when I’m holding her to my chest, I look down to see that she is gazing up at me quietly.

It doesn’t matter that I’m tired, that my hair looks like this, that when I do make it to a yoga class I spend the whole time thinking of all the other things I should be doing. My baby needs me, and my reward for meeting her needs is the brilliance of a smile that turns her eyes into little rainbows, and the sweetness of her contagious giggle. Sometimes it’s also the sweetness of pureed peas being flung at my pants.

But someday she’ll realize that I am always there, and the excitement created by my very existence will fade. We will enter a period of familiarity, that natural progression of even the fiercest love. She will reject me, fight with me, tell me everything I’m doing to annoy her and ruin her life. She will do these things because she is secure in my love for her. But I’m certain that won’t make it any easier to take.

And I suppose that this is motherhood, too. The fact of loving someone so intensely, and then having her grow up and away from you while you can only watch. Already she is changing so much, becoming more independent, putting tiny touches on her burgeoning personality. The things she couldn’t do yesterday—she can do them today. And she’ll just keep becoming herself, a person who I don’t even entirely know yet, a person who will most definitely be taller than me.

So today, in this moment, what I feel most about being her mother is grateful. So incredibly grateful for this time we have to just stare, to sing, to squeeze the soft part of a chubby arm (I really should get to yoga more often.) Our love may grow and change, along with my daughter, but it will definitely last. I do hope there will eventually be less punching.

*Sarah* *October 3, 2010* *500 words*

Read more fabulous posts from Sarah here and here.

Breathless - my motherhood essay

2010-10-01T18:32:00.002-04:00

Motherhood is never having enough time. You never have enough time for yourself: to do those morning sit-ups, to match your clothes or to even have bought matching clothes in the first place, to fix your hair, to read any of the articles you want to read, to read the Sunday Times on Sunday.

It is official: you will now have to give up on those far-fetched life goals like writing a novel, riding your bicycle across America, living a life of meditation on some deserted mountaintop, because you may have thought you were busy before but now, really, you truly don't have the time.

The only moments when time slows down are those endless nights when you are trying to get your son to sleep, singing Ani DiFranco's 'Tis of Thee over and over, because that song has somehow become your go-to lullaby in times of deep distress. At times like those, time just about stops.

The most heartbreaking part? You don't have enough time for your son. You keep thinking you will get to this place where you can stop and take a breath and realize that everything, for the moment, is just perfect. But then you realize that moment already came and went. For just one second after he ran into the neighbors' yard and pulled out their pinwheel and, over his shoulder, gave you such a smile of accomplishment that you forgot about what a rush you were in. It came for 15 fat seconds when he woke up from his nap calm and talkative and let you run your fingers through his hair. It came for nearly a full minute, when he leaned his heavy head against your chest as you read him One Fish Two Fish. It flashed on and off when he climbed into bed with you and your husband and you took turns tickling him.

You were too busy to see these moments for what they were and now he is asleep and the day is gone and tomorrow, tomorrow will be something brand new. He might stop doing that ridiculous thing where he insists that you tell him and every item of clothing he is wearing to "come on," before he will walk down the street with you ("come on hat, come on pants, etc."). He might stop calling the color "orange" "juice." It could be weeks before you realize he stopped doing these things, and you will sit glassy eyed and wonder what else you might have missed.

Sometimes you will be lucky enough to realize you are living a perfect moment, right now, but it won't last long. You will want to freeze time and bottle it, the way you can capture his pudgy hand print with acrylic paint and paper and save it forever. But you can't. There is never enough time to take it all in. There is barely enough time to breathe.

*Cameron* *October 1, 2010* *490 words*

Motherhood - call for submissions

2010-09-28T14:05:00.004-04:00

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!

2010-09-26T21:14:00.003-04:00

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

Fake smile

Pancake Sunday

Chivalry: not dead for the under 2 set