we're all raising indie rockers

The other day I was flipping through a free, community based, Brooklyn newspaper and I saw an article about an indie rock band whose members were all twelve years old. The name of their band was something pithy, post-modern and violent sounding. In the photo accompanying the article there were three messy-haired, slihtly androgynous looking kids (two boys and a girl, or vice versa, hard to tell, they all had the same haircut) sitting on a couch, smirking disinterestedly. A year ago I would have glanced at the article, smiled and moved on, but this article somehow touched a nerve.

When you become a parent you become also riddled with doubt over, what seem to be, simple, every day decisions. Of course, not much changed with me, only now I have one more little person to hem and haw about. I realize that I can only exert so much control over my daughter. As much as I feel she is a part of me (seriously, like an extra limb), I also know she is her own, unique person. She will like things that I don't like and dislike things that I love. This is the nature of the parent/child relationship. It's cruisy and fun for a few years (um, like 11) and then suddenly the child will laugh at the clothes you pick out for her and walk a good deal behind you in public.

Looking at my sweet daughter now, a precious baby who can't go more than three hours with out wanting to nurse, who stops crying when I take her into my arms, who twirls her hair as she is falling asleep, who plays with other babies, but looks to me for reassurance and looks at everything with wonder and awe, it is hard to believe she will ever disagree with me, or I with her or worse, (much worse) think I am lame or feign or (much, much worse) really feel indifference. And so this photo of the indie rocking twelve year olds made my blood run just a little cold. I couldn't help but wonder, am I raising an indie rocker? Did the parents of these little indie rockers know they were raising kids who'd feign indifference and look sulky and be ironic before they even hit their teens? Did they lead their kids to that path of too-cool-for-school, messy-haired disinterest or did they discourage it or did they just do nothing at all? Is it inevitable?

Ridiculous as it may sound, these are the sorts of questions that haunt me, because parenting is about understanding that down the road you will know that some of your actions influenced the development of your child, but it's hard to know which ones and what effect they will have when you are actually doing the parenting and making the decisions. I don't want my child to be an indie rocker. I would much prefer her to be a dork, earnest, only rarely ironic, smart and unconcerned with being cool. Okay, okay, I know I am supposed to say that I want my child to be happy and well-adjusted, but let's face it, that is pretty much the same as saying I want my child to be a dork. I guess, what I really want is for my child to retain a sense of wonder for the world. I want her to be excited by little things. I want her to be unafraid to show that she is excited by little things. I want her world to unfold gradually so that there is always something that surprises her and she is never bored. I don't want her to be (or even pretend to be) world-weary and jaded before she has even made it through puberty.

So, should we move to the country, grow our own vegetables, make our own plates? Homeschool? Sould we stay in the city and avoid cool people at all costs? Move to Spain? Move to the country in Spain? Do they have indie rockers in Spain? How about Cambodia? Cancel the cable? But, really, is there a way to stave off adolescence (because that is what this is, isn't it?)? No. I think it would find us, even in the countryside of Spain, maybe in a slightly different guise, but it would show up to claim our daughter in some way or another.

Well, at least I have about 11 years (of agonizing over choices) until that day comes. Right now, I have a dirty diaper to change.

I remember...

...when I used to sleep. I also remember when I was able to stay up past 10:30p.m. I'm pretty sure there were even days when I stayed up past midnight. Way past midnight. Pulled all-nighters even. Did the Sunday morning walk of shame wearing my (suddenly garrish) Saturday night clothes. I swear I did. Of course, all that hinged on being able to sleep past, say, 10a.m. the next (same?) day.

These days I'm useless after 9p.m. I'm asleep (hopefully) by 10:30. And very recently I am awake again about every two hours (to feed and sooth a crying, teething H) until 4:30-5a.m. when H is awake and ready to play, talk and start her day.

I've always been a black coffee person, but I have been easing happily back into the caffeinated world from the murky land of decaf and I've discovered this delicious way to make coffee:

Warm up a 1/4 cup of milk
add a pinch (to your taste) of nutmeg and a pinch of brown sugar
mix into your coffee (I'm doing half decaf half regular in a french press).

Enjoy.

sure, the lamb looks sweet and innocent...

....but the orange monkey can tell a different story.

This long weekend we went to the Berkshires to see my family for a couple days then we headed up to the Adirondacks to see some friends. My Mom gave H this cute stuffed lamb, and H happily tossed aside her stuffed orange monkey and now the lamb is H's new BFF. Despite his cheerful exterior, I suspect the monkey is NOT too happy about this.

As always, it was really awesome to get out of this stinky city and breath fresh air and see trees and birds (that aren't scavenging donuts from dumpsters). Our friends had a cabin on a lake in the middle of a dense coniferous forest at the foot of a mountain. We went canoeing and hiking. We made fires and looked at a skyful of stars and decided, beyond any doubt that we want H to be able to breath fresh air and look up and see a skyful of stars and that if, someday she wants to go live in a stinky, crowded city that can be her decision.

baby gear and the cycle of life

The other day Alex stayed with the cutie-pie while I ran to the laundry-mat and did the laundry (don't worry, this is not a usual occurance, normally we let the laundry pile up so high and then shove as much of it as we can into the laundry bag and drop it off at the laundry-mat). Anyway, it was awesome! I jay-walked like crazy. Every chance I had, I eschewed crosswalks and ducked confidently between parked cars. I stepped, nonchalantly, infront of oncoming cars (ok, they were pretty much stopped, but still...) like I used to before I was pregnant and had a baby and had to worry about preserving both our lives.

Which leads to this next little bit I was going to mention: When I do step out with out the baby, in addition to jay-walking like I just don't care, I feel extremely and unnaturally light, as if I might just float up into the atmosphere, an astronaut, untethered from the space shuttle. Or like, maybe I am forgetting something. This is of course because I have grown accustomed to the extra weight and the awkwardness of all the baby gear.

Through painful trial and error, I have figured out how to get baby + groceries + car seat/stroller up our front stoop, propping doors open with spare limbs, without leaving baby and or groceries vulnerable. After much bruising, I can now prop doors open with one foot, while pushing the stroller through in one swift motion. Still, there are some places I just won't go, like the Champion Cafe on Manhattan Ave. It's a great place with a really cute garden but there is a huge (well, relatively) step up from the sidewalk into their establishment and then a long, narrow pathway to the counter. I'm just not sure I could handle the withering glare that the spectacle of me and my baby's clunky stroller would cause upon the faces of the preternaturally cool and collected, "freelance" generation Y-ers, updating their myspaces and facebooks on their microscopic laptops while very happily ignoring one another.

These days I feel safe in places with wide doors, level entry ways, lots of space and a good solid noise level. Places that are too quiet scare me and anywhere where there are more than two laptops in use is not my scene anymore (not that it ever really was).

The other thing I have noticed about baby gear is that most people don't offer to help you. I usually (but not always) refuse help anyway, but it's nice to at least get the offer. The best case scenario is when people don't offer and just jump right in and help me, thus circumventing my stubborn, New England, I-can-do-it-I-don't-need-your-help-thanks attitude, because, really, usually I do need your help, badly. I love these people. Normally they are other parents, even grandparents, who just jump in to hold a door or lift an end of the stroller without bothering to ask the obvious. Hipsters are totally useless, I'm not even sure I am visible to them, even if I was pinned in a doorway with the stoller upturned and the baby screaming. Of course, before I was pregnant and had H, I didn't see all the babies and parents in my neighborhood either, they were totally invisible, so I'm sure I failed to hold a door or two for a beleaguered parent/caregiver in my decade of self-absorption.

The justice, I suppose, is that those same hipsters and gen Yers who stroll by me now in skinny jeans, texting each other without a care in the world, while my gypsy baby stroller diaper bag caravan is stymied by a crack in the sidewalk will, someday, be knocking into things and people with their own strollers and a baby who was so happy a minute ago but is now screaming, while simultaneously feeling totally invisible to a good solid demographic of young people (to which they will realize, sadly, they no longer belong).

Sigh.

how 'bout these apples

H and I went to the farmer's market at McCarren Park yesterday and I was immediately drawn to these gorgeous Ginger Gold apples, apparently so was our friend Sveta because we bumped into her paying for two enormous bags of the beauties. Two big bags may seem excessive, but according to Sveta these specific apples are only available for two brief weeks of the summer (this being the first week).

Sveta and I ate apples and discussed our strategies for attacking the various tents of produce, actually, more accurately we discussed the fact that a strategy of some sort is needed. If you have been to this particular farmer's market then you know that, like some of the neighborhood dogs, it is small, but aggressive and somehow overwhelming. Though there aren't too many vendors, the tents are all placed very close together. And then there are the crowds and the dogs and the strollers (both of which I am guilty of bringing to the market on a regular basis).

The market attracts some serious foodies, lots of Polish Grandmas, hungover hipsters, bewildered winos and sugared up toddlers, so you need to square your shoulders and put on your game face. Still, if you can maneuver through the crowds and squeeze through the tightly arranged tables and tents, it is totally worth it. These are the peak weeks for fresh local produce. The tables are absolutely teaming with treats. Which leads to the psychological part of my strategy. Um, I tend to over buy. Everything looks so good that I just go nuts, then bunches of carrots (because, honestly, there are only so many things you can make with carrots no matter how good they look) or organic snap peas or New Jersey peaches rot in my fridge, so, all this summer I have been exercising restraint.

My rule: Unless you are a really great cook (me, I just get by) or need to feed a family of five then you should have a dish or a use in mind for each bit of produce that you buy. Oh, and be realistic, the peaches may look fantastic, but you know you are not making that cobbler, so...

On that note, I got some tomatoes and basil (caprese salad) and some zucchini (my mom's delicious zucchini appetizer bread) and some cucumbers (um, cucumber slices?) then I forced myself to stop. It was hard, but I am proud of myself. I didn't even buy any of those yummy apples because I already had apples from my last trip to the farmer's market.



My Mom's Delicious Zucchini Appetizer Bread (it's like a yummy, savory, quichey, warmy, cheesy, softy, bready sort of thing):

3 cups of thinly sliced, unpeeled zuchini
1 cup Bisquick*
1/2 an onion, chopped
1/2 cup grated parmigiano cheese
2 tsp choped parsley
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp oregano**
dash of pepper
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped
1/2 cup olive oil
4 eggs slightly beaten

-preheat oven to 350 (325 if using a glass baking pan)***
-mix all ingredients by hand
-spread in 13X9 greased pan
-bake until golden brown or about 30-35 mins.

* I didn't have Bisquick (for some reason my Mom loves this stuff and it was a staple in our household, although, oddly we never had biscuits) so I used a cup of all purpose, unbleached flour and added about a tsp. of baking powder and it came out just fine.

** I used thyme because I had some fresh, on hand, and it was delicious.

*** I used a slightly smaller, oval shaped, terra cotta baking pan at 350 and no problemos.

nannies unite!

At first I thought the I Saw Your Nanny blog was maybe a good idea. You see a nanny neglecting a child in public and you submit your version of events so that maybe the parents of said child will see and fire said nanny. Fair enough. Sort of a virtual neighborhood watch version of the nanny-cam. Then I read the posts. While there were definitely some examples of neglect and rudeness, more often the reports highlighted nannies on cell phones, nannies not pushing their charges on the swings and nannies shopping with their charges at (gasp) discount stores with (it get's worse) lots of cheap products. After reading a good amount of posts the unionizing blood in me (from the Spazioso side, Teamsters!!) began to go hot.

I babysat my way through middle school and into highschool. I dabbled in nannying when I first moved to New York, and let me tell you, there is nothing harder than taking care of other people's children. The pay sucks, there are no benefits, no job security and usually no limits to what you will be asked to do. Many of the women working as nannies in this country are immigrants, most of them are undocumented immigrants, which inherrently puts them at a disadvantage with their employers.

I was a young, white, college educated nanny and my employer constantly pushed the limits of what she assumed was my very flexible position, still I am sure I was treated better than the other nanny she employed who was an undocumented Trinidadian. Taking care of her 4 year old turned into taking care of her 4 year old and her 9 month old. Doing some cooking turned into doing the laundry, making beds and some light house cleaning. She called me in on my days off, begged me to "just please help me out this once" because "something came up that I absolutely have to do" and I'd go in only to find that both of her children had fevers and were vomiting. "Oh yeah, they've got a touch of the flu, but they'll be fine" she'd say while pulling on her coat, as I stood there looking stunned.

Um, yeah, they'd be fine, but then I'd have a disgusting flu (I even got strep throat for the first time since my age was in single digits) and of course I had no health insurance, no sick days etc. Needless to say, that job didn't last too long. Still, my employer, who was a nice person, just a very bad boss, was very typical and when she hired me (at 12 dollars an hour) she made it clear that she was paying me very well.

Nannies can't win. They are meant to do the job that a mother would do, yet they aren't meant to replace the mother, in other words they have to be good, but not as good as and definitely not better than the mother. And then there are the cultural differences. Let's face it, there is a specific middle-upper class American way of parenting that your Filipina nanny is, at the very least, going to have to adjust to and who knows maybe she never will (time outs for Timmy and reasoning with a belligerent 3 year old are all distinctly American parenting techniques).

Now that I am a mom myself I can say that taking care of your own kids is nowhere near as difficult and murky as taking care of someone else's. Maybe that is because I know I am not perfect and when I make a mistake the only person I am accountable to is my daughter and ultimately, my only goal is to keep my family happy. However, as a nanny, you are not just accountable to the child/children you are accountable to the parents and now, apparently to every innocent seeming bystander with a camara phone and an internet connection.

Now, obviously neglect and abuse is bad and I would hope that anyone who was really concerned for the welfare of a child with an abusive and/or neglectful nanny or caregiver would just step right up and intervene instead of running home to email a detailed report that the parents may or may not see. And I guess that is my point: I think these reports probably do little to improve the quality of care children receive from nannies, they just make the reporter feel better (superior) and fan the flames of probably the most contentious relationship on earth, that of mommy and nanny.

Today was a Fairway day

Most new mom's have one favorite thing, say the coffee from Oslo or walking aimlessly through Target or maybe sleep (but let's be realistic), and that one favorite thing gets them through the rough days, weeks, months of the begining of their little one's life. My one favorite thing is going to the Fairway Supermarket in Red Hook. Really. It makes me so happy that I could cry. In the begining I would make excuses, like "oh, wow, are we out of gourmet olives again...you know where they have great gourmet olives...?" Now, however, I don't even make excuses and sometimes I don't even buy anything. I just go and walk around. Sad. I know.

I've always been a supermarket person, maybe because living in this city usually means buying your groceries at the nearest deli or bodega, so supermarkets, real supermarkets, are a luxury. The Fairway in Red Hook is like going on vacation. It's huge and it has lots of yummy samples, like a gazillion types of olives and mountains of cheeses from all over the world. The best part, of course, is the little cafe in the back, with the outdoor seating right on the harbor. Red Hook has a sort of other-worldy feeling or at least other-worldly by New York standards. Surrounded by water, with a briny smell (on good days), an ocean breeze, cobble stone and waterfront warehouses it's easy to forget the rush, rush urban, chock-a-block city I live in and feel like I could be somewhere else, even if that somewhere is well, pretty much like Massachusetts.

Today was a good day. Welcome to Otherhood.