An Open Letter to the Lady at the Farmers' Market and the Lady at the Apple Store who offered me their unwanted condolences for expecting a second boy

Dear Ladies,

I don't know you and you don't me.

Yet, when you noticed the basketball "hiding" under my shirt and asked if I knew the baby's sex, and you learned that I have a 2 and a half year old son, and was expecting another son, you felt the need to sigh heavily and say:

"Oh, maybe next time you'll have a girl."

Maybe, Farmer's Market Lady, just maybe, next time you won't feel the need to add your two cents when I'm having a lovely conversation with the man at the deli counter who is slicing my turkey. Maybe you won't assume that I'm having a third baby when I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD THE 2nd ONE YET! And maybe you won't assume that I was "trying for a girl" this time.

And, you, Lady at the Apple Store, you felt the need to pause, blink back a tear in your eye and say to me, a perfect stranger, "It's okay, it's okay," when I revealed I was carrying a 2nd boy.

Thanks so much, Dr. Phil! Of course it's okay. And, it's not just okay, it's fabulous.

Do you crazy ladies know the infinity pool of baby boy clothes that I am swimming in here at my house?

Do you know the fleet of boy vehicles that I have just waiting for another driver to hop on?

Do you know the vast store of little boy counterinsurgency tactics I have picked up in the past few years?

Do you know that I have a toddler who is counting the seconds until he meets his little baby brother? Do you know he can't wait to buy him stuffed animals and take him for walks to the park and zoom cars down the hallway with him?

Do you know how much joy and excitement and laughter and insanity and life that our son has brought to our lives?

Do you know how thrilled we were in that ultrasound room when we spotted what was undeniably a boy part?

Do you know that not all families need both a boy and a girl to be complete? Both are wonderful, but so are families with two boys or three girls or one child or no children at all.

So, please random ladies (and men too), please stop offering condolences to me and people like me. It is so inappropriate.

However, if you spot me in the supermarket a year from now being headbutted by BOTH sons or perhaps worse, now THAT is an appropriate time to offer your condolences to me - or at least withhold judgment when I push my shopping cart with both sons in it 20 feet away from me and pretend that I'm the mother of the quiet little girl who is checking the sugar content of the cereal box on the shelf next to me.

THAT would be appropriate.

Attention All Super Heroes, Please Report to the Principal's Office

My little guy is about to head off to preschool in a month and the list of rules circulating is already starting to worry me a bit. It's not the drop-off requirements (no yapping on your cell phone) or lunch packing suggestions (a cold pack included) that have me anxious. It's not even the implied ban on head-butting (a favorite pastime which my son has abandoned, but for special occasions).

The explicit rule from my son's preschool that shocks my conscience the most was right there in print when I perused the orientation pamphlet the other day:

"Action/super hero clothing are not permitted to be worn at school as it promotes hyperactivity in the children."

I stopped and read it again. And again. And again.

Really? Banning super hero clothes at a preschool? I think Amish schoolchildren have more freedom of expression.

I started wondering how exactly super hero clothing "promotes hyperactivity in the children." When a two year old dresses in a Hulk tee-shirt, do the other toddlers turn green, instantaneously develop bulging muscles, and start ripping their clothes off? Does a three year old Spiderman scale the school walls during circle time? Do children encourage Superman to fly off the jungle gym at recess?

I am dying to know what kind of alarming incidents the school has encountered in the past that would necessitate such an encompassing ban on superheroes on school premises.

I'm wondering if this rule is really just discrimination against boys cloaked in other language. Gender profiling, if you will.

I mean, don't tell me that princess clothing and tiaras couldn't start a flash mob situation in preschool. Three year old girls would be chucking plastic "glass" slippers at one another and smearing fake lipstick on each other's faces. And if such a riot were not enough for an all out ban on princess clothes, surely the school might consider the fact that princess clothes promote unrealistic expectations about love (much in the same way that rampant porn online does for teenage boys).

As I toy with the parameters of the "superhero ban," I wonder if a cape would be considered a threat? How about an eye mask? What about face paint? Does Lightening McQueen qualify as a "super hero?" Your Honor, I argue in the negative.

My little boy hasn't even started school yet and already I want to push the limits and test the boundaries as much as I know he will. I've heard it before and I'll repeat it again. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

Only problem here: it's gonna take a whole gaggle of pint-sized superheroes to eradicate this injustice.

I'm not sure yet if I'll send my son to school in his Spiderman tee-shirt or perhaps something more subtle, like a "F_ _ _ the Rules" tee-shirt (I believe this to be constitutionally protected political speech per the Supreme Court ruling in Cohen v. California).

All I can tell you is they can't ban THIS Wonder Woman from the car drop-off line. I can assure you that once the other moms see me in full super hero regalia, you can bet your ass that all other rules are out the window: the moms will be on their cell phones during drop-off (a big no-no): "DID YOU SEE WHAT SO AND SO WAS WEARING THIS MORNING?!" They'll forget to put a cold pouch in their kids' lunches (god forbid), and they may possibly head-butt their steering wheels, wishing they had come up with such a fashion forward Wonder Woman outfit first.

As for now, I'll remain vigilant, like any good super hero's mom would.

Let's Get it Started In Here

I'm not sure if iTunes has found a way for fetuses in utero to download new music, but I swear there is a bumping sound track blaring inside my belly. And someone is having a party.

To say that there is dancing going on at the oddest hours of the day and night does not begin to explain it. Baby #2 is doing back flips, the Moonwalk, the Cabbage Patch, the Running Man, and every other dance move from the past 20 years. This kid is rocking out with no regard for my internal organs. He's moshing in the mother of all mosh pits, river dancing up my rib cage, head-banging, rump shaking, poking feet, feeling the beat.

He's a rock star already.

And all I want to do is ask him politely to lower the volume and intensity so I can get some sleep.

I hate to be a buzz kill, but I'm calling "5-0" on this hooligan.

A Good Morning

It's 7 a.m. and I'm lying in bed, listening to my grandmother snore as peacefully as a newborn. She's sound asleep next to me and I realize this may be the first or second time ever that we've shared a bed.

I'm sleeping in her bed because it's 4th of July weekend and we have a full house at the shore. And by "full house," I mean 17 family members are all under one roof, which may be a record for us.

I'm wondering how my husband has slept in the daybed on the third floor and I giggle at the image he suggested of him sleeping in bed with us, spooning Gram. I guess it's good he's on the daybed.

I hear the waves of the ocean tumbling gently upon the shore outside the bedroom window. Then I hear my little two year old man start stirring in his Pack n Play crib which is in the corner of Gram's bedroom. I see him through the crib's mesh side rolling on his side, huddled in his blankets, sucking his thumb. He smiles before he even opens his eyes. I want him to see my face before he wonders where he is, calls out for me, and wakes Gram.

He sees me smiling at him as soon as he opens his big brown eyes. I wave at him from my spot in bed. He waves tiny fingers back and sings, "Mommy."

I hop out of bed and gather him up, two blankets, monkey, thumb in his mouth and all. He's warm and cozy. "You want to come in bed with Mommy and Grammy?" He smiles. "Yeah."

I place him carefully like a prince in full regalia in the middle of the king sized bed. He is curled up inches away from me and then rolls onto his other side to see Gram. He's inches away from her. "Dat is Grammy," he says pointing at her, almost grazing her nose. She smiles even before she opens her radiant green eyes. "Good morning, doll," she whispers to him.

When I was pregnant with Will, I had a dream about a baby boy lying side by side with my late grandfather. The baby in the dream was in a glass bassinet, the kind they place newborns in right away at the hospital. And, my grandfather was lying in a hospital bed, perhaps the last one I remember seeing him in before he died. In the dream, I thought, "There he is, lying side by side with his great-grandfather." It was very comforting.

But, here we are now, some two and a half years later, and this isn't a dream at all. This is life. As good as it gets.

"There he is lying side by side with his great-grandmom," I think to myself. I realize that he is one of the luckiest boys in the world. And, for me, just a silent observer, tied to these generations with profound love, I am extremely lucky too.

One day, this will all just be a dream, but for now, this indeed is a very good morning.

Blue Cigars For Everyone

It's a BOY!

Injustice Anywhere is a Threat to Justice Everywhere

That's what Martin Luther King Jr. once said.

So when I heard of the injustice surrounding a harmless high school prom proposal, I could not sit by quietly. No, I had a bone to pick with the administrators of Shelton High School in Connecticut.

I had never heard of Shelton High School, nor the young man, James Tate, who had single-handedly revived chivalry. But I didn't care.

"I'm gettin' on the horn, and I'm calling the school," I announced at 8:30 the other morning to my husband. I had just caught a glimpse of a segment on the Today Show about a high school senior who was banned from his prom because he trespassed on school property, climbed a ladder, and wrote in tape on the school building:



("HMU" means "hit me up" or "call me")

"Really? Is this REALLY how you're starting your day?" my husband asked, rolling his eyes. He took a deep breath as I punched the numbers into the phone, while I fed our son Cheerios.

"Yes, with whom may I speak about the decision to ban James Tate from the prom?" I inquired. I spoke as if James Tate was my son or perhaps my nephew.

A lady on the other end of the line snorted, "You can talk to me, I guess."

"Okay, great," I replied. "I have to say, I have never heard of a more romantic, creative, and innocent gesture," I began, "and banning him from the prom is just completely excessive and wrong."

"Well, I DISAGREE," the school secretary/hench woman interjected.

"You may disagree, but seriously, there are teenagers doing TERRIBLE things every day, and all this boy did was ask a girl to the prom. He didn't hurt anyone, didn't damage any property. I mean, come on, one day of suspension is enough! I have to imagine you guys are going to reconsider this decision to ban James Tate from the prom?"

"I don't think sooooooo," the secretary sang with glee.

"Well, you're making a huge mistake," I said and hung up abruptly.

"Why did you hang up so quickly?" my husband asked, now fully invested in my battle for justice for James.

"She had no authority. Maybe I'll call the superintendent later."

Within 24 hours, James Tate had hundreds of thousands of supporters, and people from as far away as Scotland and Ireland were emailing his school, petitioning for his cause.

And, guess what?

The school administrators reversed their decision. The school's headmaster suggested that the international circus surrounding her unpopular decision to ban the teen from the prom interrupted the educational mission of the school, and therefore, she would reevaluate Mr. Tate's punishment. She did not acknowledge that she made a mistake.

But here's the bottom line: every email, phone call, television segment and supportive voice helped right a wrong. Maybe one teen boy's plight to get to prom is the most inconsequential injustice in the world that you can imagine, but it's the principle that matters.

If you have a voice, use it.

Power to the People!

And, James Tate for Prom King!

Mommy? Mom-my, Mommy!

"Is that your favorite word?" I ask my two year old son.
He giggles in the backseat, sucking his thumb and fuzzing his monkey's ears nearly off, so that Mr. Monkey now resembles a bat.
"You're singing that 'Mommy song' AGAIN?"
"Yeah," he sighs.
"You just want to tell me how much you love me, right?"

We sit side by side on the sofa and he leans into me, snuggling up close. I feel his hand tap on mine, his monkey bouncing gently on my cheek. "Monkey's daaancing," he says, with an English accent on the word "dancing." "Monkey's happy."

I kiss his still chubby cheeks hundreds of times a day. "You're just the best little boy, you know that?" He sighs. "How much does Mommy love you?"

"To da moon and back!" he yells.

I want to tell him how charming he is, how much he makes me laugh, how proud I am of him, how much he has made me a better person, what joy he has brought to the world, what magic he posses and passes out like candy.

I can't wait to celebrate Mother's Day with him, but then again, we celebrate that day every single day of the year. I want to thank him for that.

I want him to know that he brings the color, charisma, and yes, the choas to life. He is the exclamation point, the hope, the innocence, the adventure, the most beautiful vista, the heart and the soul.

Of all the things that I have helped create or will create in life, he is, by far, the best.




HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!