New England Mamas

All I want for Christmas. . .is my Two Front Teats

There was a time, however brief, that I possessed a chest. It may not have been bountiful, but it was not board-like, either. The first sign of increased cup size manifested itself shortly before the birth of my daughter and lasted through a single suckling year. The bounty returned with my second child. Twenty months later, it is beginning to recede again as my son cuts back to a 2- or 3-times-a-day nursing schedule. Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my boobs the most.

A Ghost Story of Christmas at the Hartford Stage

A Christmas Carol: A ghost story of Christmas begins on the Hartford Stage with a flurry of white apparitions moving to a bell-like beat that rings out from the loudspeakers. The ghosts cover the stage with the stiffness of the dead, brandishing chains and rattling them against the floor; some spirits sail overhead on wire. Then the macabre spectacle fades into the action of the play as Ebenezer Scrooge and his housekeeper, Mrs. Dilber—played with a sly masculinity by Bill Kux—carry out their rituals on the morning of Christmas Eve. The next 24 hours will bring together past, present and future in a concerted effort to save Scrooge’s life, and maybe just preserve humanity.

This past weekend marked my third viewing of the Hartford Stage’s A Christmas Carol in as many years.

In Our Car: Radio We Can Agree On

I purchased my Sirius Satellite Radio unit because of Howard Stern back in 2005. His two stations, Howard 100 and Howard 101, have been bringing me untold hours of joy ever since. Before he slipped the surly bonds of terrestrial radio, I listened to his show in syndication on WCCC, the local indie station with the claim to fame of having employed Stern as a morning DJ thirty years ago. While Stern’s detractors are legion here and anywhere, his Connecticut fan base rivals that of any other stronghold he fought to win over the past three decades.

There is an obvious discrepancy between parenthood and my subscription to the Howard Stern channels. Though I held out as long as I could—until my 2 year old daughter switched up Bob the Builder with the name of the Stern Show producer and started singing “Bababooey, yes you can!” at the supermarket—I was forced to curtail my listening habits while she was in the car. It was at that point I discovered a benefit I hadn’t anticipated when I signed on with Sirius more than six months before my daughter was born. That happy surprise was Kids Place Live. The KPL programming fell on the exact opposite end of the listener spectrum from the Howard Stern Show and would become our third most listened-to station.

KPL is built on the same format as most radio shows, with DJs of varying degrees of annoyingness and bits that are in turn humorous and not-so-much. Though I am never more of a “mom” than when I am tuned to Absolutely Mindy, and only slightly less of one when listening to the clever, adult-placating humor of Kenny Curtis’s Animal Farm, I have to say that I do get some personal enjoyment out of the genre of music that has come a long way since the Raffi and Rosenshontz of my youth.

Even if you don’t have Sirius/XM—in fact, I’d say this will be even more valuable if you don’t—I’d like to share with you a list of what I consider to be the best Parent-Friendly children’s songs out there today. These are the kind of songs that can bridge the gap between Howard Stern (or whoever you love that little ears can’t or won’t listen to) and your young impressionables. Load these songs onto your iPod or support the artists by buying the whole CD, and you will amass a collection that will keep the mini-van rocking all the way to school.

10. Electric Car, They Might Be Giants with Robin Goldwasser—an environmentally conscious boon for the whole family.

9. The Hampster Dance Song, Hampton the Hampster—This is one of my daughter’s favorites; if only the car allowed us more space in which to gyrate appropriately.

8. Four Boys Named Jordan, Jessica Harper—a melodious voice and a stunning commentary on what it means to be a Jordan in America today.

7. No Nothing, Randy Kaplan—An incredibly catchy song that I love; I would’ve put it much closer to #1 except that some people classify the catchiness as being of the “I can’t get that [bleeping] song out of my head” variety.

6. I’ve Got a Butt, Uncle Jim—before this song, I wouldn’t have known what a sacroiliac was; now I am proud to say that I am as clued in as my four year old.

5. I Like to Move It, Sacha Baron Cohen from Madagascar—A match made in heaven.

4. Toast, Heywood Banks –“Take a piece of bread, put it in the slot/Push down the lever and the wires get hot/I get toast.”

3. 18 Wheels on a Big Rig, Trout Fishing in America—a spin on the traditional counting song that includes Roman numerals and ∏.

2. Three Little Fishies, Kay Kyser – this retro hit was #1 on the charts in 1939. I assure you that mine is the only list in existence on which it is #2 today.

1. The Window, Trout Fishing in America—There are only two bands I am determined to see in concert this coming year: Rammstein (in Germany) and Trout Fishing in America. Listen to The Window—or any of their songs, really—and you will see why I believe that a TFIA concert is an experience for the whole family.

Three Hours

It was the same damn sky. Wouldn't you know it. I left the driveway in my car as a fusion of Over the Rainbow and What a Wonderful World came on the satellite radio. The overall effect of high blue and a gentle warble atop the ukulele should've inspired something like contentment, but instead I listened closely to the lyrics for a meaning I could relate to. It was right there. I didn't have to wait long. The wonderful world over the rainbow is a dream.

Before I got into the car I watched a ceremony and fed the baby. Then I drove to book club, where a group of us sat for two hours discussing things like organic food, the ubiquitousness of corn, and too many roosters in my friend's coop. Afterward I tooled over to the gas station to put $55 onto my credit card for transmittal to the Gulf.

Soon after my day began--at home, while the baby ate, at ten till nine--a young woman was reading the As on the alphabetical list of victims from the Twin Towers. Z did not come till I returned home, ten minutes shy of noon. In the car and at book club and next to the pump, there was a soundtrack of names I couldn't hear being mic'd over a chasm.

Three hours. With all the motions, emotions, and thoughts (about the day-to-day, but also about things less grounded) inherent in that span, I was able to contextualize in time the meaning of 2,751.

It was 180 minutes of living in the time it took to read the names of the dead.

That was the Twin Towers alone. Add Shanksville. Add the Pentagon. Then Afghanistan and Iraq. Each name buys me time that--at any given moment--I don't even realize is being paid for. But then I stop to think. And when the world doesn't stop with me, I start to understand.

There are not enough hours in the day. There are never enough hours in the day.

Cross posted at 24/7.

A Cold June in New England

I am very much a product of my New England upbringing. That is to say, I'm cold--like a November pilgrim alone in her one-room shanty mushing corn into meal. I don't tend to enthuse much with strangers. I'm slightly more animated with acquaintances. It's only with good friends (and preferably a few glasses of wine) that I begin to act like I give a good goddamn about those around me--at which point it becomes clear I'm no puritan.

When I was gestating my children, no stranger ever touched my stomach. I've heard many stories about such liberties being taken with pregnant women, but I never had to worry about it. Nobody whose name or face was unrecognizable to me would dare mention my condition, let alone feel around for it. It's like I wear a big sign flickering "UNAPPROACHABLE" in neon letters.

I belong to a mom's group where many of the members are transplants. Some are from the midwest, some from the west, others from further north. They are all very nice and quick to make friends so that, before long, it seems like they've always been here. That's well and good for them, but when they end up with all kinds of fun plans with all kinds of different people and I'm sitting at home with the family members who have no choice but to put up with me, it leaves me lamenting my roots and my subconscious determination not to weed them.

It's very hard for me to foster new friendships. I don't dig into people's pasts or predilections because I don't want to pry. I don't like asking for favors and thus it doesn't occur to me to offer them. I generally won't censor myself. I hate talking on the phone. All this comes together in an uneasy hospitality. I host play dates and visits from acquaintances, but it's usually only the friends I've had a long time who end up staying.

I don't know if I could change if I tried. I don't know where to start trying. How I've accumulated any friends at all is a mystery to me.

Some of the newest members to my mom's group are from England. They're supposed to be pretty reserved, right? Like, across the pond is where this region's particular brand of stuffiness was born. Maybe their True Englander status will be a good match to my New Englander status.

Although, if they really are like me, we'll never get to know each other well enough to find out.

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Cross-posted at the new and improved 24/7.

That Old House

The fact that I now live ten miles away from the United States' biggest and most profitable casino belies the fact that gambling makes me twitch. I hate the temporary uncertainty and the long-term losses. I hate seeing half of our state's elderly population hooked up to the slots via Wampum cards on lanyards. I hate the rank air. I do like the free drinks, but I have to imbibe vast amounts before I can convince myself that all those bourbon and cokes negate the overall soul-sucking nature of the business.

Unfortunately, there's more than one way to gamble, and we've been doing it for over a year and a half in the real estate market. We've been paying two mortgages since we relocated in July. As our new home thrives around our growing family, our original place sits forlorn on its little hill overlooking the Interstate, waiting for a buyer.

Today I got to thinking about the offers we didn't take. The price we didn't lower quickly enough. The renters that almost burned it down. Everything related to the sale of that house has been a roll of the dice. It could be sold by now if a different number had come up on just one of those tosses.

Or it could have disappeared. One of the offers early on came from a neighbor who made his intentions clear--he wanted the property for its commerically zoned land, not for the house. He would have demolished the 200 year old Cape in favor of the expansion of his business. We decided we couldn't be complicit in the destruction of an antique treasure and told him, in no uncertain terms, "no."

I'm still glad we rejected his offer (which seemed a tad low at the time, but looks higher and higher in hindsight), though there's a sting each time our bank account bleeds out the next mortgage payment.  If we didn't care so much about history, we'd have a much easier time funding the present. But so it goes. Another one of life's little lessons.

One of the most expensive locations in real estate? The moral high ground.

Cross-posted at 24/7.

It's a Boy (alternate title: Remember Me?)

My creativity has, for the past nine months, been almost wholly preoccupied with the making a human being. This accounts for my absence from the blogosphere and from most other spheres in general. Everything was directed inward. Instead of writing, I read. Instead of walking, I ate. I took copious baths and fell clean into bed for long periods of time. At the end, I even received an hour long pre-natal massage. But as nice as it sounds, I never felt totally comfortable living inside myself.

I came out again--that is, my baby boy arrived--on the 21st of this month, a day after the full moon put the birth process in motion. He weighed 6 lbs 14.6 ozs. He was 19.5 inches long. He looks just like his sister, who looks just like her father. He has no butt and, as The Partner ceaselessly marveled during our two day stay at the hospital, "he has huge balls!" I didn't realize how much I wanted a boy until I got him.

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More stories with a regional slant are forthcoming, like how to achieve a VBAC when the prevalent medical model of childbirth in New England is making such modes of delivery harder and harder to realize. And, maybe, what to do when a toddler-turned-big-sister has her first existential crisis. Stay tuned.

He's here. I'm back.   

St. Valentine is Laughing at Me

Just to prove to you all that I do not take myself too seriously, I am linking to a segment heard on WBUR (the Boston NPR affiliate) this morning about the book I wrote as part of a new publishing venture called One True Romance.

OTR is marketed toward engaged couples looking to record their courtship for posterity by commissioning a professional author to write about it in romance novel style. The publishers have amassed a stable of writers, but I was the first filly out of the gate as I penned the inaugural book in the series. If you click on the Real Audio link on the WBUR Web site, you can hear NPR's coverage in the form of a thinly veiled satire on the sappiness of today's holiday. I alternated between cringe and guffaw as I gave it a listen myself. While I want to say that the overall tone of the book is not as schmaltzy as the artfully chosen excerpts would have you believe, that might just be my pride talking. Let's just put it this way: while I find it a little strange that they did not credit me by name as the author of the piece, I'm not altogether disappointed by the omission.

But, as far as the sap goes--what do you want from me? I mean, it's a true story. The couple I wrote about did see fireworks. Sometimes real life just works like that.

Cross-posted at 24/7.

Making Books with Blurb

I am going to write about this fantastic service I used recently, and not because I was solicited to do so. I WISH I was solicited--it would have saved me at least $40. But I'm happy to report that I came across and utilized the services of www.blurb.com all of my own volition, and it was worth every penny.

As my husband's birthday present, I compiled most of the blog posts I've ever written that have concerned him and I made a book. A real, honest-to-goodness, hardcover book. It had a shiny jacket and everything. Using my words and my photos (okay, mostly Lauren's photos), I designed the cover and laid out all the pages. The final result was a bound production that would not look out of place on the most discerning of coffee tables.

I gave it to my husband and he got a chuckle. "Still trying to turn me into a reader, huh?" he asked. "Good idea--ease me into it with a short book, all about me."

The 8 x 10 inch hardcover was $29.95 for 40 pages. The cost of shipping and handling was approximately $10 more. The quality was fantastic. I fully expect this chronicle of my husband's first two years of fatherhood to be a memento for generations to come.

I created the book using a free Blurb program that was easy to download and navigate.  Since it's not difficult to confuse me, that's saying a lot.

The whole experience was so exceptional that I already have plans for my next Blurb book, which will take the form of my thoughts on motherhood, to be given as a gift to my own mom and mother-in-law for that May holiday in their honor.

It's exactly what my mother has been waiting for all these years. What she wants for Mother's Day--she says, each time--is good children, and maybe something homemade.

RUDY

I’m one of those blips on the political radar. I am a female voter—and a mother—who will vote according to a personal platform that rests largely on the issue of national security. I was almost part of a phenomenon. Not so long ago, the term “security mom” was bandied about by pundits to describe a new voting bloc—one crossing traditional political boundaries—that could turn the tide of the next election. Now the existence of such an alliance has been seemingly, if not sweepingly, discredited. It appears that I am a not a movement. I’m just me.

I do not relish the tears that fell every day for weeks after 9/11, the frightened upturned gaze that I employed for months, or the paranoia that hangs on me today. But I respect the recall. To shake the evocative mind-print of the most significant day of my lifetime thus far would be to take away from its significance; it would be to deny the likelihood of another attack. I am not willing to do that.

This does not mean I am giving up my rights. National security is what prompted me to register as a Republican, but it’s an obsession with personal freedoms that will bring me to the polls as a Giuliani supporter. It’s not just that I want the government out of my pocketbook; I want it away from my body. I’m pro-choice. I support gay rights. Rudy Giuliani’s actions have shown we share many of the same principles.

I believe in him because I’ve seen that he believes in me. Me--one of millions of strong, confident and capable American woman.