First Father's Day

“I wish it was the 1950s and I could hang out at a bar, smoking a cigar with my buddies while you’re in the delivery room,” my husband sighed, half-joking. He told me this at least once a week throughout my pregnancy.

“Sorry, it’s 2009, and you’ll be in the room!” I explained for the hundredth time, rolling my eyes. “This is all part of the deal.”

“Alright, I’ll be there, but I’m not watching,” he insisted.

When the time came, during a rare March snowstorm, not only did my husband make good on his promise, he even watched.

He watched as I labored on our sofa for 6 hours. He massaged my feet and timed my contractions, jotting down each time he saw me close my eyes and grimace.

He watched as the pain grew more intense. He placed a cool wet washcloth on my forehead and called the doctor.

He watched as I got an epidural. He held my hand when my heart rate dropped and told me about the road trip we would take this summer.

He watched as 10 hours ticked by and doctors and nurses rushed in when the delivery grew complicated. He stood by my side and wiped the hair off my forehead.

He watched as I pushed. He cheered for me, squeezed my hand, and reminded me to breathe.

He watched when our baby boy willed his way into the world. He kissed me. He cried.


And I watched too.

I watched as he lifted our newborn son and kissed him. I saw his heart open and unconditional love flow out.

I watched how he cradled him like a tiny football.

I watched as he fed our baby and changed his diapers when I was in too much pain to do either.

I watched as he slept next to me on a chair in the hospital, never leaving my side.

I watched as he learned how to swaddle better than the maternity nurses.

I watched as he jumped out of bed in the middle of the night to feed our son.

I watched as he changed the baby’s clothes so delicately and bundled him up to keep him warm after his bath.

I watched how he spoke and sang to our son and how excited he was to see his first smile.

I watched as he told our baby boy all of the wonderful things we would do with him as he grew up.

In those seconds, minutes, hours, days, and endless nights, I watched my husband become a man. A father.

And so it is time that my husband gets his wish. For father’s day, in addition to our baby boy, the most precious gift in the world, I’m giving him that cigar that he wanted. He’s earned it. Happy Father’s Day!



(this appeared in the Philadelphia Daily News last year, but I thought it was worth reprinting in honor of my husband's 2nd Father's Day).

The Bad News Babysitter

Our babysitter can now add "DUI" to her resume.

Let me clarify: our FORMER babysitter, A.K.A. CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY.

Yes, the woman who brags about her sexual exploits the way other senior citizens boast of the polyester slacks they bought on sale at Loehmanns, now has a DUI under her girdle. At least in theory anyway.

She confessed to my husband that she hopped behind the wheel of her car all boozed up and bumped into a neighbor's car. Her front end damage tells the whole story. It was so bad that she's now driving a rental car, which has developed mysterious dents over the past week.

Did I mention that CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY doesn't see well either? That's when she's NOT liquored up. She's had various eye surgeries over the past year and she should have her driver's license confiscated or at least locked up in a safe with tiny numbers that only someone with 20/20 vision could see.

CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY was sipping tea at the small table outside her home yesterday. It was an odd sight to see her with a teacup instead of a wine glass.

"This is my new drink," she cackled to my husband. "Because one glass of wine turns into two, two turns into three, and then I get in my car and . . . "

You know the rest.

" . . . I get in trouble," she giggled, rolling her one good eye.

You're probably wondering why we would ever in a million years have this nut babysit our precious boy. Two reasons: guilt and desperation.

From the moment she noticed my protruding belly, CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY begged us to babysit. And, one night, we had a rehearsal dinner to attend and no sitter in sight.

We justified to ourselves, "CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY has a very big heart, loves our baby and our baby, too, gets a big kick out of her, especially when she plays "Bom Bom Butz" with him and they head butt one another.

Maybe it would be okay, for just a couple of hours?"

We called her. Within seconds, she was banging on our door like a disgruntled Census worker.

"Okay, here are our cell phone numbers, here is his bottle . . . "

"Can I just throw it in the crib with him?" CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY pondered.

"No, they don't do it that way anymore, you need to hold him while he has his bottle," I explained patiently, trying to ignore the fact that my recently ironed hair was starting to frizz from beads of sweat at my hairline.

"And here is his blanket that he sleeps with." I handed her a soft breathable baby blanket.

"We're fine, we're fine! Go 'head, go have fun!" she cackled.

As our dinner rolled on hour after hour, I pictured CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY holding my baby on one skinny hip, smoking a cigarette, mixing a gin and tonic, while pulling sizzling Shrinky Dinks out of my oven.

I threw back a vodka cranberry. I imagined her feeding my baby Pop Rocks, chasing them with a bottle full of Pepsi, and showing my son how to cruise the Internet for porn.

He's gonna be a good lover! CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY once told me after my 8 month old patted her cheek, as most babies do.

"Okay, that's it, time to go home!" I announced to my husband abruptly. I pushed back my chair and said the fastest fifty goodbyes possible.

We found CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY with wild bedhead from being curled up asleep on our sofa.

"He didn't want to sleep!" she bellowed, cackling. "So I brought him back out to play!"

"Was he good?"

"He's a doll! An absolute doll!" she yelled to the entire neighborhood. (Maybe she has hearing problems too?)

As I thanked her and showed her to the door, my husband tiptoed into the nursery to check on our son.

"He's fine, babe, he sleeping like an angel . . . " he reported on his way back to the kitchen.

"Thank God," I replied.

"But . . .

"What?" I spun around.

"he was sleeping with this . . . " He held in his hands a KING SIZED chenille throw blanket that we keep on our sofa.

"NO!"

"Yep."

"That CRAZY OLD . . ."

She must have brought him out to play and he probably started sucking his thumb and fuzzing the nearest blanket in sight, and then she probably tried to pry it out of his hands before carrying him back to his crib. He clearly won that battle (if it was a battle at all) and she figured, what the hell? It's a blanket. He can have it in his crib with him.

"I need another drink."

"He's okay, he's fine," my husband smiled.

"NEVER AGAIN!"

Okay, what should you take away from this cautionary tale?

1. Do not let anyone babysit your child out of guilt.
2. Do not let anyone babysit your child just because you're desperate for a sitter.
3. Avoid a babysitter who has at least one bum eye.
4. Avoid a babysitter who is approaching 80 years old and hits on your husband. Kind of.
5. Avoid a babysitter who has a DUI, or by the luck of the draw, avoided getting one. Don't go anywhere near her while she's in a vehicle.

As for CRAZY OLD NYMPHO NEIGHBOR LADY, she still holds a dear place in our hearts. However, she will never babysit my boy again and if she wants to come over and play, fine, but I am putting away my son's fleet of vehicles. If she wants to hop onto my baby's Harley, dump truck or red wagon, she'll need to pass a Breathalyzer first!

Don't Get Angry, Get Artsy

The other night, I was a bit perturbed with my husband. The question why is irrelevant. It was my innovative solution that's the focus here.

By the time the clock struck 8 p.m., he was passed out on our bed, snoring 10 decibels louder than his normal angelic sighs. After trying unsuccessfully to poke and prod him awake to give him an earful, I decided I needed to get creative. And by "creative," I mean, crayons.

I bounded with glee into the living room and pulled open the top drawer of our distressed wood wine rack. Hallelujah! A whole arsenal of pristine Crayola products, still untouched by baby hands. I decided a blue crayon might look nice.

I tiptoed up to my husband, who was lying on his side, half of his face exposed. The blue crayon made contact with his upper lip amidst my hysterics, but . . . damn it, it did not leave a mark.

Now, the average temporarily disgruntled wife might have thrown in the smock at that point, but clearly, I'm not average.

I skipped right back out to my stash and pulled out a washable Crayola marker made specifically for chubby baby hands. Green. That would make a nice moustache!

And, oh yes, it did. Not only did I design a gorgeous green moustache on my husband, but also some wiry whiskers on his one exposed cheek. He started turning over as I muffled my roars, doubled over by the bedside.

Then, I got crazy. I flicked on the bedroom light and whipped out my cell phone camera to try to preserve the evidence.

"Babe, stop! Whater you doing?!" he huffed sleepily, tugging the down comforter over his head.

The photo shoot did not go well despite my multiple attempts to capture his moustached mug shot. Hence, there is no photo to accompany this post, so you'll have to use your imagination, just like I did!

The following morning, I heard my husband in the shower forever. The thought of him wiping away the whiskers was as satisfying as a hot turkey sandwich and fries.

Finally, he emerged with a sly grin on his face.

"Babe, any idea how I got a green moustache and some sort of whiskers on my face last night?"

"You came home like that," I told him.

"Oh, really?"

"Yep, I guess your friends did it."

"Um hmmm," he smiled.

The truth was that getting artsy was the only thing that could get me through the night.

So, next time you contemplate going to bed angry, I recommend highly going to bed artsy instead. I think it could solve 99% of marital problems.

As for my husband, he now knows my Picasso pranks are not just empty threats. I have finger paints and playdoh just waiting to be cracked open and I just purchased a baby wiffle bat and a dozen water pistols "for the beach."

Letter From My 2nd Grade Teacher

Back when I was a baby, my mom made me a phenomenal baby book, full of her handwritten notes about everything from my favorite foods to my tendency to hum while eating. She saved every report card I ever brought home and any comment a teacher ever expressed about me. Here is one letter that I recently found, from my 2nd grade teacher.

It reads:


July 3, 1983



Dear Stacey (sic),

Hope you are enjoying this summer. It is certainly hot! I hope you get to swim a lot. Swim for me too!

I want to thank you for being such a great person in my class. The class was a great class and I miss all of you so much.
I thank you for all the gifts you've given me - great and small over the year - but mostly for being such a lovely, responsive girl. I am sure you will always be doing well in life. It will be my pleasure to watch you grow up and it has been my pleasure to have known and loved you this past school year.

Much love to you,

Mrs. Mims


First of all, this is the nicest (and only) letter I've ever received from a former teacher. Although I never had the opportunity to reply to Mrs. Mims back in 1983, I would like to take the opportunity to do so now:

Dear Mrs. Mims,

I am totally enjoying my summer, thanks for asking! You're damn right, it's hot! (But summer in Philly typically is a roaster). You'll be happy to know that I've been swimming a lot and I'm even teaching my one year old son to swim too. Every time we do a cannonball into the pool, we yell out, mid-air, "This one is for Mrs. Mims!"

Thank you for your kind words about my presence in your classroom. Truth be known, all I can recall about 2nd grade is making a gigantic bed of down winter coats with my three best friends and laying on the classroom floor, bundled up, as if we were bracing for a snowstorm. (I still enjoy a good down comforter to this day!)

Yes, I agree with you, the class was a great class and I miss you too. None of my other teachers ever allowed me to snuggle up on the floor that way, and my college professors especially did not appreciate it.

Mrs. Mims, I have absolutely no idea what sort of" gifts" you're referring to in your letter of July 3, 1983, but I imagine I might have made you a gorgeous lanyard keychain or perhaps a masterpiece of Snoopy lying on top of his dog house. As far as me being "such a lovely, responsive girl," well, you're making me blush! You'll be happy to know that I am doing well in life. (I think).

I'm sure you had all good intentions of wanting to watch me grow up, but the truth is, Mrs. Mims, your letter of July 3, 1983, was the last time I ever heard from you. No worries, though. I have had plenty of wonderful people in my life who have watched me grow up.

It has been a pleasure to have known you and loved- (I think that's going a bit too far now). It's been a pleasure to have known you too. And, just a little tip- if you write that you "love" a student in 2010, you'll probably be arrested immediately as a suspected pedophile. I'm just trying to watch out for you.

All the best,

Stacy (no "e" in my name, k?)

Ride Above and Beyond Rejection

Rarely do I drive anywhere these days without my son in tow, bopping in the back seat or pointing out trucks and trees that catch his discerning eye.

When I do find myself alone in the car, I, for some odd reason, want to push the outer limits of my speedometer. Run my gas tank not just down to empty, but dangerously beyond. I want to feel the rush of seeing the "---" when I push a button to reveal how many miles more I can drive before breaking down. I want to blast my music. Open every window. And the sunroof. Pass cars aggressively. Floor it.

Don't worry. It's not that I (always) do these things, but I consider them. Being alone in the car is a bit of freedom, both physical and mental.

So, last week, when I took off for Lancaster, PA, to attend a two day writers' conference, I wanted to put down the roof of my car (even though it's not a convertible) and let the wind whoosh through my hair. I had big plans.

I passed sprawling farmland, horse n buggies, and homemade pretzel shops on my way to meet some of the most prestigious authors, agents, and editors in the literary world.

I listened intently in each seminar I attended, jotting down copious notes. One big time literary agent from NYC scoffed as he answered a question from one of us lowly writers in the crowd.

"It's just annoying," he leaned into the microphone on the table in front of him. "I don't understand why some of you actually feel the need to respond to a rejection letter. It's like you reject the rejection letter."

Ok, note to self: don't reject the rejection.

What's true in dating and job hunting is also true in writing.
1. Rejection sucks.
2. But it's a useful learning tool.
3. Reject the urge to wallow in rejection.
4. Remember that the most successful people in the world have experienced rejection.
5. Be patient and persistent.
6. Do what you were meant to do with your life, and
7. If all else fails, put down your car windows, crank up some tunes, put your foot on the gas, floor it, and enjoy the ride.

At least that's what I told myself to do as I rode alone in an elevator, straight back down to reality, after getting rejected brutally by a very bright yet aloof vice president of the Children's Division of a major publishing company. We had a lovely conversation. Really, we did. She told me my idea was terrible, in so many words.

And, guess what? Life goes on. I had nothing to lose but a great opportunity to pitch an idea that I concocted at 3 a.m. the night before.

So, don't feel sorry for me. Rejection is part of life. You know I'm going to hitch up my horse n buggy and keep on ridin'' . . . and once I get that green light, I'm going to gallop off into the sunset. You can bet on that.

Eat Your Breakfast, Beeatch

How long was this chick going to glare at my baby before my mother bear claws came out?

Start your watch. Ready?

9:15:01 a.m. - My sister and I and our two angelic boys, ages 1 and 2, sit down in a posh restaurant inside the lobby of a hip hotel in NYC, where we had just spent the night. We realize that everyone in the restaurant is either an NBC executive, C-list actor, or ad executive, all preparing for a huge NBC fall show presentation across the street, called the NBC Upfront.

9:15:02 a.m. - My son points out the lovely chandelier overhead and his face lights up. "Daht," he squeals. A woman in her late 30s at the table next to us looks as if she just sipped some spoiled milk. But she's staring at my baby. She looks back at her friend. Then my baby. Her coffee. Then my baby.

9:15:03 a.m. - "See that bitch over there?" I mouth/whisper to my sister. "Yeah, why does she keep staring over here?"

9:15:04 a.m. - We place our drink orders. My boy is hungry and I start fishing frantically through my purse for some sort of "breakfast" before breakfast. She stares. She glares. Now her friend is staring too.

9:15:05 a.m. - I pull out a toy truck, a tiny baby book with my son's teeth marks on the corner and finally, banana and brown rice in a pouch. My sister's eyes dart between me and "Frau Farbissiner" (Ms. Miserable) at the next table. "She's still staring."

9:15:06 a.m. - "Go grab a bagel at the buffet, don't worry about her."

9:15:07 a.m. - I change my tactic of ignoring Frau and I meet her steely eyes head on. I don't know whether this bitch has a bum ovary or just a bad attitude. How could she possible detest my lovable son and adorable nephew (who, by the way, has the sophistication and vocabulary of a middle aged man)? It's not like they're launching banana chunks in her direction, and at this point, if they were, I would count to "20 Mississippi" before I intervened. You know what? I don't care what her story is.

9:15:08 a.m. - I tell my sister, loudly now, "If she looks over here one more time, that's it."

9:15:09 a.m. - DING DING. I glare over at her and say loudly and obnoxiously, "They're pretty cute, aren't they?" I smirk at her and then fluff my son's curly mop of hair. She looks bewildered and pathetic. "They're actually NBC executives, preparing for the Upfront today," I added, just for my own amusement.

9:15:10 a.m. - That shut her up. She didn't throw any more daggers our way. Glare at me? Fine. Mess with my son and my nephew? You're risking life or limb.

9:16:11 a.m. - We realize Frau is not speaking English. She probably didn't understand a thing I just said. But the beauty of nonverbal communication is that one's intentions are abundantly clear. I understood her and she understood me. And, I'm pretty sure she got my real message:

EAT YOUR BREAKFAST, BITCH!

Dear Mom,

I know that I drove you CRAZY when:

I doodled off the pages of my coloring book and right up my bedroom walls.

I hid from you in the department store clothing racks while you yelled my name in a panic.

I did aerobatic back-flips off our swing-set while you waved a finger at me from the kitchen window.

I stayed out in a snowstorm until 3 a.m., singing and dancing with my best friend while you canvassed the neighborhood for us.

I…. maybe I shouldn’t even mention skydiving!


I know that I made you PROUD when:

after my first 3 years of almost complete silence, I started speaking in full sentences.

I had a starring role in the first grade play, even though I forgot my lines.

I sang and danced in the front of movie theaters as an "opening act."

I brought home excellent report cards, with the occasional note about getting kicked out of class.



You know that you drove me CRAZY when:

You made me eat vegetables and yelled at me when I passed them under the table to our dog.

You cut my bangs unevenly and brushed my hair so roughly that I threatened to call the Child Abuse Hotline, or Gram.

You eavesdropped on my conversations with boyfriends.

You refused to let me go on spring break to Cancun when I was 17 and I missed out on 7 nights of wild foam parties and body shots of tequila.



You might not know, but you made me PROUD when:

You treated everyone with kindness and compassion.

You valued other cultures.

You made me laugh every day.

You cried over the cheesiest television shows.

You blasted loud music and danced around the house.

You believed in me.

You massaged my feet when I was sick and brought me toast cut in triangles.

You made me wonder.

You bought two car seats for your car when your first two grandsons were born.

You cultivated a beautiful marriage.

You spread love, every day of your life, simply by being you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Love always,

Stacy