call for poetry

Here's a poem, one I sent to Brian Lehrer at WNYC on May 5 when they had a spontaneous call for poetry personifying New York City, beginning with the words, "I am..." followed by a place in the Big Apple. They said they'd call some entrants to read their pieces on the air and just as I decided they'd never call me, I moped down to the basement to gather my clothes from the dryer, and whaddaya know? They called, and I missed my big chance to be on the air. Nine days after I wrote it, my daughter was born. Here it is:

baby carrots

Hamish ate baby carrots for a snack today, of his own volition. I'm floored. His daycare teacher came to the door and warned me that there might be some orange pieces in his mouth, that he was savoring them like chewing tabacco, and my eyes popped out of my head like Large Marge, and before I knew it, he was asking for more. I will try not to expect him to repeat this feat, but I will buy a fresh package of baby carrots anyway.

And he's started pretend reading books, like his miniature version of "The Little Red Hen." It sounds Japanese: "Hoo waa Gee fuh ball!" I can't wait to hear how it all turns out.

Stella ate banana and peas over the weekend. Bryan's mom and Grace, another of my mom-figures out in the country, got to talking about how back in the day, they'd spoon-feed their three-week olds, doctor's orders. It got me wondering what our children will look back on in bewilderment thirty years from now. Maybe all the assorted vibrating chairs and seats and swings we stash them in so we can blog.

baddish to worse

Every time the weather threatens out there, I get this claustrophobic anxiety about survivng the afternoon indoors with a toddler and a six-month old. Usually the monster in my head is bigger than the one in the external world but yesterday we went from baddish to worse.

It started out innocently enough, Hamish throwing Play-Doh across the kitchen while I talked on the phone with an old colleague, picking up bits of hairy clay in vain. Either I wasn't in the mood to use the peppy distraction method that usually works wonders around here, or he had had just a few too many grams of sugar in his organic maple vanilla yogurt to go with his non-napping ways.

renovation envy

Everyone around me is renovating. Two of my many siblings, friends galore, and across the courtyard, the young childless couple just put in a new kitchen. And me? When I'm not asking my thirteen year old nephew to slow down and really describe the wedgewood blue finish on his mommy's new island cabinets, I'm spying on the neighbors' kitchen with my binoculars in the dark like a peeping Tom, muttering, "why, when you've done a complete renovation, would you bother with laminate countertops when you could have used stone and gotten an undermount sink? Are you insane?"

review

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smug

I was so smug this morning. Bryan forgot his cell phone and while I felt bad for him not being able to receive my possibly frantic phone calls wherever he might be, I also felt this shard of smugness. I thought, I wouldn't do that. I'm much more organized. And then I forgot to put the stroller frame into the trunk when I packed the kids inside the car to take Hamish to daycare. I got home and opened the trunk and was greeted by the lone Phil and Ted's double stroller and my heart dropped into my Uggs. I knew I'd used the stroller frame. And I looked up the street and there it was, untouched, unmoved from its place on the sidewalk where I'd left it twenty minutes earlier. Thank God I didn't go to Target like I'd planned. I'm saving that fun-tastic outing for the weekend.

Dear Lady Who Hit My Car This Morning,

Remember our little collision this morning? Remember when I was driving behind you down, what was it, 4th Street, just off of 8th Avenue? Remember that black Prius in front of your old station wagonish hatchback from the early 90s, a silver Subaru perhaps? That Prius who was looking for a parking spot? And it stopped and backed up so suddenly to double park that you backed up too, without looking, right into me? Remember that? And during the November 3, 2006 incident, I watched your reverse lights go on, and though my hands froze, unable to honk or reverse myself, my mind calmed, thinking, wow, this car is going to hit me. It's not going to be bad, and I won't get hurt, and neither will the five-and-a-half month-old in the back seat. But we're about to get hit. And then BAM!

dining out

Okay, so Bryan's parents came over last night to watch the kids so Bryan and I could eat dinner like adults at Cafe Steinhof before his Miller's Farm gig. Hamish fell apart as we were leaving, saying, "I want to go with you!" which caught me off guard since usually whenever his Grammom and Pop are around he can't knock us out of his way fast enough to get to them. But he'd missed his nap, and so I pried his little fingers off my face and bolted for the car. A night out was to be had! He would live.

hillary

I don't even know where to begin. The food? The people? The celebrities? (Are celebrities people? Must research.) The underwhelmingness of it all?

Oh I was as excited as a school girl on the subway ride to Bryan's office near Radio City. Then we took a Town Car with one of the lawyers he works for, this sweet young kid, up to Tavern on the Green and when I saw the tent and the photographers, it was like my Nicole Richie moment, without the Balenciaga bag. My heart swelled. And it was down hill from there.

bananas

Aaahhhh! Feel like I'm running too fast this morning. Dragged Stella to Banana Republic, parked miles away so I could have a brisk morning rush through Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights and spill orange juice all over the stroller.

You see, Bryan called yesterday and asked if I'd like to go to Hillary Clinton's birthday party tomorrow night at Tavern on the Green. Would I? Can you say 'Babysitter'? This is what is so great about living in New York City. His boss can't go, so here we are more than happy to fill two $1,000 seats.

hebrew school dropout

Is it Sukkoth? I dropped out of Hebrew school so I don't know these things, but I think I heard something on NPR about it. Because parking rules are suspended! Hoorah. This calls for the story of me getting picked up by a Hasidic Jew. At least I like to think so.

It was Rosh Hashana. I had just parked the Camry in front of my building and hauled my daughter, in her car seat, into the ugly and unfashionable Universal stroller frame. An even uglier minivan pulled up and a Hasidic fellow leaned across the filthy front seat and asked me where the nearest gas station was. Sexy. I looked down the street. Was he headed toward Bay Ridge or Park Slope? There were gas stations either way. I was stumped, and told him so.

poop

So my daughter's bouncing away in her doorway jumper yesterday. It's one of those Sundays where it seems like a bitch to even get our sorry asses outside. Laundry everywhere, vacuuming, a deadly obstacle course of toys, Jay Jay The Jet Plane on the VCR, and a little blogging. Bryan walks by Stella with a handful of clean sock balls and says, "Did you poop? It smells like poop," but goes about his business.

A few minutes later I'm washing dishes and I hear, "Elise, come here." Bryan's tone suggests I should drop everything and run, even though I'm down to two items in the sink and it drives me crazy not to finish. So I walk into our bedroom, and follow his gaze to Stella, happily bouncing in her doorway jumper between the living room and our bedroom, and the horror unfolds in slo-mo snapshots before my eyes:

logic of a 2.5 year old—

1)
Hamish: Mommy you crazy driver.
Mommy: No I'm a sane driver.
Hamish: No you crazy driver.
Mommy: Why?
Hamish: 'Cause, 'cause Stella's sleeping.
2)
Mommy: I don't like to be angry at you. Do you like being angry at Mommy?
Hamish: Yeah.
Mommy: You like being angry at Mommy?
Hamish: Yeah.
Mommy: Why?
Hamish: 'Cause I eat poop.

go vagina

I can't believe I survived the week thus far without having a mental breakdown, complete with a crying jag that takes me on a journey across the wall and down to the floor to watch myself cry in the mirror. Am I the only one who does that? I'd think in this age of reality TV we all do it. Aren't we all sure that someone is watching our oscar-worthy performance? Sigh.

So. The soiree at the school (my old work haunt) was good last night. The fact that I even made it there with the kids left me so high, so full of hope for the future, that I tossed and turned at 4:30 this morning, reeling with excitement. I mean, Stella had cried almost all morning. Hamish had no nap. My throat was sore.

sighs required

I never did find those funky sneakers. I'm going to look again today. I already have two kinds of Pumas and Converse low-tops, but now I suspect I need Vans. Need. I'm not even going to write about the job interview I have this afternoon because I read an article about how employers spy on their employees, and their internet lives. Plus, I don't want to jinx it. I may have to journal about it separately. Also, if I don't get the job, then I've dragged you all into this drama that wouldn't exist had I not brought it up and then I feel all, ugh. Last night Stella woke up every half hour crying hysterically. She knew I had other things on my mind, like, what the hell am I going to wear to this job interview I'm not blogging about? She sensed my emotional estrangement. Is that grammatically correct? It just sounds more poetic than "emotional neglect." I guess I'm a sucker for alliteration. Oh boy. I like to sigh. I do it a lot, especially now that I'm a mom. Once I battle the kids into the car in the morning and finally sit in the driver's seat, I let out a sigh and it's the one moment of my day when I feel collected. Or calm, or like crying. Or laughing, depending on my optimism level. I've decided that I'm cynical, but optimistic. I still believe in fairy tales and karma, because if it's all chaos and nothing means anything and there's no consequential bearing on my actions, then I'm really going to be stressed. Sigh. Sometimes when Bryan comes along in the car in the morning (I drop him off on the corner near the subway), we sigh simultaneously. I think this is another reason I am probably going to keep Hamish home Fridays, to simply avoid the morning upheaval of our lives. You wouldn't think that getting two tots out the door at 8:30 would be a harrowing ordeal that required sighing. Ugh, Stella, she stirs.

an explanation

Just back from dropping Hamish at daycare. He goes five mornings a week to a place we love. They have music, and art and nature day where they meet a different animal every week, although Hamish usually chooses not to touch the animal guest. Sometimes Bryan and I worry that our son's not adventurous enough, as if there is a quota for adventureousness (is that a word?) and he has yet to reach it. On the other hand, I applaud his individuality. If all his classmates opt to touch the pet cobra (for example) and Hamish doesn't, then hooray for him. There's always something I can worry about. Better to worry that he doesn't touch than worry if he'll live after getting bit. Is that profound at all? Hamish is also a little anal in his young age. The other day I threw my dirty socks into the hallway to make them closer to the hamper and Hamish walked by, pointed at them and said, "Mom. You socks on the floor," and I gulped, dumbfounded. "Will you put them in the hamper for me?" I asked and he did and I felt such an odd mixture of pride and fear.