Three. ARGH, THREE.

Me: Thalia, you have to eat this piece of pizza. It's so teeny - it's not really even a piece, it's like a quarter of a piece. It's three bites. Come on, eat it please.

Thalia: I don't like pizza.

Me: What? You're a communist. All American kids like pizza. It's like the law. You're crazy.

Thalia: I don't like it.

Me: So what do you like?

Thalia: Rice.

Me: And what else?

Thalia: Milk.

Me: And what else?

Thalia: Cake.

Me: Rice, milk, and cake. That's what you like. Anything else?

Thalia: I will eat the pizza. But only with no cheese. And no sauce.

Me: So you just want the crust?

Thalia: No, I don't like the crust.

Me: So no pizza, then.

Thalia: No.

Me: Outstanding.

Why a baby

Sage and Mickey, February 2008, at the Chinese restaurant where we told Thalia that fried calamari were Chinese french fries and she ate a ton.

My step-grandmother, Mickey, died early this morning. She was 83. But she was a young 83, so vibrant and energetic that only Friday did my stepmother have to cancel Mickey's regular tennis game.

It was sudden and it was swift, as we all hope these things should be. Still, it was too sudden. It always is.

I've noticed that every time a person leaves my world, a baby is born into it. Perhaps two. It seems to be the universe's way of reminding me that this is how things go. If we're lucky, there's some overlap so that those of us who have learned from the generation who came before us can pass it onto the generation that comes next.

These babies are our hope, our future, our hearts.

When I clutched Thalia and Sage close in those early days I remember thinking that now, they are important to me. Eventually, they will be important to the world. They will grow to be sisters and friends, coworkers, girlfriends and maybe someone's partner or spouse or mommy or grandma. They will matter to other people. They will matter, period.

I wish this were the wholly uplifting new mama post I had hoped it would be for the online shower (and it might have been had I gotten around to writing it earlier in the weekend). But Kristen and Rebecca, I can only remind you that when you're done complaining about the swollen boobs and the stretch marks and the sleep deprivation; when you have a moment between the witch hazel pads and the cabbage leaves, the swadding and the shushing and the thank you note writing (or avoiding), and certainly the 5 dozen daily diaper changes---

make sure to save some time in there to love those babies and just sniff their sweet heads and appreciate the miracle that they are. Mickey was always so good at that.

Mo babies, mo babies, mo babies

In case you've been under a rock for the last eight months or so, you might know that Rebecca of Girls Gone Child is having a second baby and Kristen of Motherhood Uncensored is having a third baby, bless her heart. They happen to be two of the most amazing writers, fabulous friends, and all around cool chicks that you could ever hope to have in your life.

So I looked it up and turns out that Emily Post says that throwing a second shower is "perfectly fine."

Seriously:

Q. Is it proper etiquette for an expectant mother to host a baby shower for her 2nd baby?

A. While it is never appropriate for someone to host a shower (baby or bridal) for themselves, it is perfectly fine to throw a baby shower for a mother’s second or third baby.

I like perfectly fine. Do you like perfectly fine? Yes? Well in that case, we--we being me and Julie and Catherine and Katie--invite you to join in the fun.



Just write a post on your own blog reminiscing about those new baby days (something happy and as uncynical as you can possibly muster so we don't freak Kristen and Bec out completely) sometime between now and Sunday, check out the rules here, and you'll be entered to win one of five killer gift baskets including stuff like $100 Amazon gift certificates from beau-coup favors and gifts, and gift cards to the Silly Wagon where honestly, I need like a 6 million dollar gift card.

Because what is a shower without gift bags?

And alcohol.

Okay, no alcohol. We would get into legal issues with the shipping.

(Okay, fine I'll send you alcohol.)

(Don't tell anyone.)

Now the one thing that Emily Post does say is that second showers are perfectly fine as long as the guest list is limited to close relatives and very close friends and/or guests.

So we will just pretend that you are all my close relatives. In fact I may hit you up for money oh, say when Thalia's ready for college.

Happy reminiscing.

(PS Amalah is having a baby too and therefore all Amalah-loving people, me included, should feel free to shower her in person if you're in the DC area.)

Death by a thousand paper cuts. Or really, five.

Day One: Not excited at all.

"We forgot the star," I sighed, as I spotted the rows of carefully displayed handmade paper stars across the preschool classroom, each decorated by a different child.

Did we receive the star in the mail? The one that Thalia was supposed to decorate and bring to class on the first day, the teacher asked?

Um...maybe?

It's been a while since I opened my mail.

She kindly handed me a spare star which Nate tucked into his breast pocket, no other parent the wiser. They were all buried, teary, behind camera lenses, wildly documenting their child's monumental first day of preschool too.

I walked over to the wall and examined the stars covered in scribbles and squiggles and googly eyes and haphazard drops of glitter and sequins and glue, each one a beautiful example of that particular child's three year-old heart captured at a moment in time. But one in particular stood out.

The white construction paper was covered with photocopied family photos, symmetrically arranged in amateur scrapbook fashion. There wasn't a speck of wayward rubber cement or errant glue stick, no evidence of sticky fingers or chocolatey hands. It was nearly perfect. Then as the crowning touch, at the very points of the star, the child's name was spelled out in perfect, teeny little red letters.

It was spectacular. It was inspired. It was a thing of glory. It was bullshit.

"That's cheating," I blurted out. "Totally cheating."

I am trying so hard to understand what goes through a parent's mind when you do a preschooler's art project for her--You want the teacher to know you care, that you took the assignment seriously. You want your child to stand out. You want to make a terrific first impression. Yes? No?

I'm not convinced that the intent was malicious, a transparent attempt to fool the classmates into intimidation of your own child's creative prowess. And who knows, this could be a parent I meet and spend time with and grow to love to death; then one day, after a few too many plastic cups of Chardonnay at the holiday fundraiser, I'll lean over and say so...what were you thinking doing that star for your kid?" And she'll say, "Yeah, I went a little too far. We were just so excited..."

Or something.

But then, maybe she'd wonder what the heck is wrong with the parents who can't even be bothered to hand in the one stupid little assignment that the teachers asked you for before the school year began.

When Thalia and I sat down to at the coffee table last night, I told her she could do anything she wanted with her little swatch of white, five-pointed paper. She went right for a black magic marker.

I admit it would have been nice for her to show off a little. Depict her family or spell her name or draw the camel that she's been oddly obsessed with this week. Sketch a funny face or do something cool with yarn. You know, if I even had yarn around the house.

"Do you want to trade that black marker for a color one?" I urged gently. "Maybe some crayons? Some glitter? You know, we can finger paint..."

Nope.

She clasped that black marker in her fingers and scribbled a big messsy mess of a rats nest of a scribbly mess. Then she grabbed her little stamp pad and stamped some blurry, inky animals around the points of the star.

"Done!" she said. And it was.

Thalia's first day of preschool

What if the kids aren't nice to her?
What if she's the littlest kid in the class?
What if she cries when she gets there?
What if she cries when its time to leave?
What if I cry when she gets there?
What if Nate and I don't fit in with all the other parents?
What if they find out I already turned down an offer to be co-class mom?
What if they find out that Thalia barely finishes a half a sandwich in a sitting?
What if they find out Thalia watches a shitload of TV?
What if they find out I have no problem saying "shitload"?
What if I am the mom who doesn't remember to send back medical forms and permission slips?
What if I am the mom who doesn't remember to buy her a backpack?
What if I am the mom who doesn't remember when school starts each day (because I'm already off to a good start in that department)?
What if they can't understand Thalia when she speaks?
What if the other kids have a party and invite everyone but Thalia?
What if we built up school too much and Thalia freaks out completely when she gets there?
What if all the other kids are in nicer clothes?
What if all the other kids are in jeans?
What if the director hates me?
What if someone different has to pick up Thalia every day because our schedules are so wonky?
What if Thalia doesn't want me to leave even though I'm back to work now and can't stay there with her every day?
What if Thalia has the best time of her life?
What if Thalia has the best time of her life and I feel guilty that I wasn't the one to introduce her to Duck Duck Goose and coloring your own masks and baking Zucchini Pie?
What if they find out I have a blog?

Hey, I'm signing some books today!

Sleep is for the Week Weak! (THAT is how hungover I was.) Book signing and party! Today in Park Slope, Brooklyn at Tea Lounge, 5-7

More details here. Oh please please please NYC readers, come by and say hi? If not for me, then for all the other awesome writers who will be there?

(Am too hungover to write much more about it. So yes, it was a great birthday. I swear I'll be better by 5, and if not, well Rita has promised to prop me up.)

Forty

Hello!

Today I am forty.

Yesterday I was not.

I think that's kind of cool.

It's not nearly as tough as I thought it would have been a year ago, when I turned 39. Actually, I'm kind of excited to finally have an excuse when I say that the VMAs are completely over my head. When I was 26 I sounded like a loser. Now I just appear age-appropriate.

No doubt I'll have some more thoughts on forty soon, but not today. Today I'm going to draw some runes, try and sneak in a massage, refuse to watch TV, get all pretty, have dinner with some of my favorite friends in the world, drink me some fancy Prosecco, and troll for compliments.

I'm hoping for at least 10 sincere "WHAT? NO WAY THAT YOU'RE FORTY!"s before midnight. That would be even better than a pony.

Yep, I'm a mom. Funny that.

I've really tried to look at the past week home alone as a rare opportunity to remember who I am.

In other words, to reconcile who I sometimes think I am (a pinot-swilling, bar-hopping, sparkly eyeshadow-wearing social butterfly) with who I really am (pathetic semi-recluse with far too much reality TV on the DVR).

I was sure that with ten days to myself, I would catch the last summer sunshine in Central Park, take in every art house film within subway's distance, and do girls-night-out tequila shots in some East Village dive until 3AM. Instead, indulgences have so far been limited to chewing with my mouth open and reading blogs until midnight.

It's all sort of reminded me of the kids that head off to college under the guise of a fresh start. "I can be anyone I want!" they proclaim, only to realize, one day with their feet up on the table at the student union, that you may be surrounded by new friends but inside not much has changed. Maybe you no longer have to avoid the mean girl who throws food at you every time you pass her and no one remembers the time your sneaker fell off in second grade gym class and everyone called you Cinderella for five years (sorry Tom J) but you're essentially still you.

As parents we sometimes write about our longing for love letters and booty calls and how we wish we still had money left at the end of the month for uncomfortable shoes but desiring something isn't the same as the desire to pursue it.

In the end, it would seem, I'm now a mom. Maybe even a mom first. And that momness stays with me even when my children do not.

Yesterday I learned that a beautiful little girl who lived around the corner from us was in a terrible, tragic accident earlier in the week.

She died. She was Thalia's age.

The news struck me profoundly and painfully. I spent the better part of the day inconsolable. I didn't have my children here to hug tightly or Nate to help me absorb the shock.

I took myself to a movie, dazed, swollen-eyed. (Two hours of Robert Downey Jr in an afro is an outstanding distraction by the way, if anyone is looking for one.) I returned home sort of at a loss, not quite sure what to do myself. Writing was futile, and TV wasn't nearly keeping my attention. I started to clean the kitchen counter but that lost its appeal quickly.

So I did something I never would have thought a week ago that I'd do given ten days without children: I babysat.

Tony and Oodgie got a much needed night at the movies and Cheeky got a few hours handing me my ass at Candyland and showing me her big girl underwear. The wine and the adult conversation when my fellow grown-ups returned home was healing, but I think being around a vibrant, happy, energetic three year-old was more healing. Faced with death I needed to see life. Faced with tragedy I needed to read Valentine's Day with Dora three times in a row. I wouldn't have expected it. But I'm a mom now.

One more thing I learned about myself this week: I need to get in better shape. Duck Duck Goose can be a bitch on your knees.

Number of days after my children go away that I burst into sobbing, heaving hysterical tears after hanging up the phone from them:

Four.

---


In other news, thank you so much Niihaus for nominating my post "The Truth About Two" for a Perfect Post award this month. It made me have to click over to that post and read it again to see just what you liked about it, making me cry again. I think I'm just going to skip the mascara today altogether. Maybe even for the next six days.

Carry On My Wayward Googlers: Political Distraction Edition

It's been far too long since I've checked into the old sitemeter to see exactly what Google searches have curiously led the brain surgeons of the world to Mom-101.

Once again, you don't need a license to breed
how to tell what trimester you are in
It's been a while but I believe you count from the first day of your last menstrual period

i looked different until i stopped breastfeeding
Yeah, that baby attached to the boob generally sets you apart.

how to raise a boy with no brothers
Stop at one.

weaning dr sears
No need to wean - just put down the book and go cold turkey.

things swallowed by toddlers
Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, "Sorry, the ice cream store is out of ice cream."

my son penis is big
Oh why oh why oh why would you ever name a child Penis? And maybe you should stop feeding Penis so much junk food.


Kinda freaking me out
smelling friends moms feet
Better than her butt?

which is better flowbee or robocut
Something tells me you have bigger issues

placenta pot pie
Um...ew.

vagina hurts when it cough
if your vagina is coughing, please get off the computer and seek medical attention


Challenging the premise that there are no stupid questions
whats the technical term for vagina?
Um...vagina? Too obvious?

men like small boobs?
I know, I was surprised too.

booger eater smart intelligence?
If so, you are clearly not a booger eater

whats the kind of things that come out of dog vaginas?
If I'm not mistaken, they're called puppies.

phallic kids drawing teacher?
I always feel bad for those phallic kids

where do you put a tampon in?
Generally the bathroom

how did the north carolina get its names?
Carolina was to honor Charles IX of France. Not sure where the North part comes from.

anyone tried innuendo for sex?
It's not as good but the clean up can be way easier.

sibling vulva differences?
Well, one is a person and the other is a part of a person.

why aren't eyebrows identical?
The majority of eyebrows are in fact fraternal


Why spelling counts
beautiful buts
"...but I will do the dishes for you after rubbing your feet, my pregnant wife."

silicone verses latex nipples
Pure poetry

tonight im going to part like its 1999
See also: Midwestern Hair

the bleeding hearts media
See also: Gardening blogs

beau chevaux hair salon
For your horse? Or yourself?

i need somthing funny to write one a bosses birthday card
"Dear boss, I deserve a raise. Happy birthday"


Sorry, can't resist
Mens room icon
Larry Craig


Huh?
quaker oatmeal tragedy
"And then the small, slippery grain spilled out of the box and across the floor killing two puppies"

gloria steinem hates feminism
Just like Marx hated Marxism. He was tricky that way.

bladder song
Track #7 on the Red, Hot + Essential Organs compilation CD.

bras dent balls
That is a serious, serious bra

pesky unavailable callers from boa
One of the great problems of our day

boobs parasite creatures pregnant
I can only nod my head and agree.

retarded tuna
I believe the proper term is mentally challenged tuna.


Why must you taunt me?
worlds longest ingrown hair
Argh! You search for this every damn day you freak. If you haven't found it yet, maybe it's just not on my blog.

Can't we all just get along? Maybe in '09?

A strange thing happens in election years if you're at all political.

Suddenly the woman you've been laughing with on your message board about Paris Hilton blurts something about "whoo! the death penalty!" and you start avoiding her. The nice newsstand owner around the corner makes an offhanded remark about supporting Obama and you are now thinking hm, he does put the NY Times in front of the Wall Street Journals, doesn't he. The cool mom in your playgroup shows up with a Ron Paul pin on her bag and you don't look at her nearly the same way. Similarly, the cool mom in your playgroup shows up with your own candidate's pin on her bag forever solidifying your friendship.

Or maybe the chick who just writes the funny blog about funny mom stuff shows that more than a parent, she's a hopeless partisan with a President Poopyhead shirt in her baby's wardrobe and her heart and soul in the outcome of this election. Sometimes she gets snarky. Sometimes she's not above a good scandal.

I think that what unites us as parents is stronger than what divides us politically. I think that essentially we all want the same things for our children, even if we disagree on the best means to get there. Or how to talk about it. And that's always what I've loved so much about this place specifically, and this here blogosphere or whatever it's cool to call it these days. (I'm always like 6 months behind on the vernacular.)

Here I've found friends who have voted Republican their whole lives, friends who admit to voting Nader registering Green (sorry BD!), friends who swing both ways, friends who believe better dead than red state, and connecting us all, an entire site full of friends who put me to shame with their ability to conduct political discourse at a level of maturity and respectfulness that I only dream of being capable of.

Every four years, I fear for some of my diverse relationships as elections roll around and things get heated.

I once broke up with a guy because his goal to was to be "The next Rush Limbaugh." I don't regret it. But now I guess always wonder who wants to break up with me.

Phew, I'm conspiracy theoried out for the week.

I would very much like to discuss Gossip Girl. Or Project Runway. Or How that Subway ad with the people throwing soda on each other totally makes me never want to eat there. Or why I spent my first day home alone folding laundry instead of going to a movie or getting a lap dance or something.

The Ghost Babies

You hear about these people who lose limbs but are so sure they can feel the sensations of a foot or a finger, they reach for it only to find nothing there. That's sort of what it's like in an empty home that's normally filled with shrieking, giggling, wiggling, dancing, "she's trying to get me!" shouting, mess-making, milk-spilling children.

I keep acting as if the kids are here, keeping the TV low and shutting the bedroom door. It's bizarre to step out to walk the dog or grab a bagel and forget that I don't have anywhere to be. Anyone home waiting for me. Anyone to even check in with.

I'm almost paralyzed by the options and how much I'm hoping to accomplish before they're back home nine (9) days from today. I'm not off to a very good start.

I spent pretty much the entirety of last night researching whether Sarah Palin faked her pregnancy to cover for her teenage daughter who was actually the pregnant one. (Thanks Deb for the twittered link to Kos.) I am generally reluctant to jump on to wacky conspiracy theories. But this one gives me pause.

Also it's just so perfect for Labor Day. Heh.

It would explain why a vehemently pro-life woman would risk the life of a special needs baby when she noticed that her amniotic fluid was leaking, by finishing a speech in Houston, then rushing not to a Dallas hospital--but to the airport so she could catch a commercial flight from Texas to Seattle, then a connecting flight to Alaska. And once she landed, instead of heading right to the major Anchorage hospital she drove 45 minutes to her hometown hospital. Oh and she never informed the flight crew that she was in labor, and no one saw any evidence of it.

Oh, and was back at work three days later.

Oh, and her daughter conveniently had "mono" for 5-8 months and was pulled out of school this entire time. But Palin never worried about having a high risk pregnancy around her highly contageous teenage daughter.

What 7 months pregnant looks like in Alaska when your'e 43. Things really are different there!

I don't care whether you vote blue or red or flaming neon orange--as moms, does this story make one lick of sense to you at all?

I smell a ghost pregnancy.

----

Edited to add:

Evidently this post is rubbing some people the wrong way. What can I say, I'm a maverick! A rebel!

The question has been posed whether I might first broach the Sarah Palin subject with a line about how her nomination is a good development for women and good for working moms.

Let me answer: No, I don't think this is a good development for women.

Madeline Albright was a good development for women. Hilary Clinton was (and is) a good development for women. Margaret Thatcher was a good development for women. Even Condi Rice was a good development for women. Those are women who worked their way up with impressive knowledge and credentials equal or surpassing any of their male counterparts; not appointed for reasons that are still beyond me. (Or, more likely, because McCain couldn't do Lieberman and he nixed Romney and Ridge and so went with the person he's met once who looked good on paper.)

I fear that having an unqualified woman like Palin--she's on record saying she knows nothing about Iraq or the role of the Vice President--in the national spotlight is sealing up some of the cracks in that ceiling and it just kills me. Just freaking kills me.

Am I excited about the theoretical prospect of a working mom in the white house with a SAHD taking care of the kids? You betcha. But I am not excited to see a deer in the headlights debating one of our country's foremost foreign policy experts in a few weeks. How does that benefit anyone?

The pregnancy BS - that's a distraction but it captured my imagination this week and so I wrote about it. I still say it stinks. If I'm wrong, I'll be the first to say it. You can count on it. Consider it...a campaign promise?