Politics Unusual

The race is heating up and neither candidate has his eye on the White House.  In my house, two guys are running ruthless campaigns to determine which one of them will be President of the Imps.

The incumbent, long-favored by anarchists everywhere, has two and half years of experience on the newcomer.  Despite the fact that the newcomer, a staunch libertarian, has only 10.5 months of age (and thus, experience), he is already showing strong signs of creating a level of mischief not seen for generations.  What he lacks in words, he makes up for with a devilish gleam in his eye.

Of course, the incumbent not only has a vocabulary as vast as the real candidates, he can negotiate as well as them too.

"How many cookies do you want, 1 or 2?"

"Three."

"You stay in your room in tell I tell you timeout is over!"

"But, mommy, I'm worried about you!"

(WTF?)

"What did you say?!"

"I'm worrrrrried about you!"

"Come down here right now.  What do you mean you're worried about me?"

Like I said, the new guy has tough competition.  But, since he acquired his first 6 teeth in the past two weeks, he's become something of a Parana.  He'll rip apart a cheesesteak and likely his competition too.  He has nearly bitten off the finger of someone he loves, so you can imagine what he might do in a real fight.

Too proud to crawl his way to the presidency, the newcomer would rather gallop (rocking) horseback or run with the help of his mommy.  He does not sling mud (yet), but will fling himself backwards at the drop of a cookie or his premature removal from a warm bath.

The incumbent has mastered more advanced and sinister tactics, such as poo flinging, and he won't hesitate to pee on the newcomer's floor to mark his territory in the presidential race.  It is guerrilla warfare with him.  He knows how to roll his eyes, slam doors, talk back and scale dangerous heights to retrieve toys that were taken away from him.  

 He is also a tech master and can send someone calling his mommy or daddy to voicemail faster than he can look up from Angry Birds and smirk.  He is the king of mischief.  He is not afraid of time out, nor the principal's office, nor anything, except for scary music in G rated movies.

And that is why this presidential race is so frightening to the People.  The People imagined after the incumbent's years as President of the Imps had run its course that they would be free to enjoy their lives as they had known them before.   Now, with the possible rise and domination by the newcomer, the People are doomed.

Both candidates are upping the ante, digging in for the long haul and awaiting anxiously that glorious day when the People will declare:

Yes, Sir, you are President of the Imps.

Mad Libs for a Mad Week

Potty training was a cinch.

"Okay, this morning we are going to wear these awesome underwear and all pee pees and poopies will go in the potty."

Cut to little boy jumping on bed in awesome underwear.  Checking himself out in full length mirror wearing awesome underwear.  Texting pics of himself in awesome underwear.

Then, shortly thereafter, things were not so awesome.

"No worries, buddy, everyone has accidents."  So we changed him into another pair of equally awesome underwear.

"But, Mommy, I'm ______ on the floor."

"It's okay, we'll just clean it up.  Remember the potty."

We did stickers, stamps, reading while sitting on the potty.  We heard Lightening McQueen rev up his engine on the special potty seat about a thousand times.

And still.

"I need to go ____!"

"Looks like we missed the boat on that one, buddy."

We dumped the ____ into the potty.  We threw out that formally awesome pair of underwear and changed into another pair.

Then we went to the shore.  We told our extended family that our boy was potty trained.

We came home from an hour outing to the supermarket to hear tales of ____ and _____ and narrowly missing the potty and our nephew running into the bathroom after our boy to see how a big boy goes ___ on the potty and oops, stepping in the ___ that was sitting on the floor.

"Mommy, I went ____ on the potty and just a little bit in my underwear!"

We apologized for the small footprints of ____ in the house, the cleaning up that was required, the mental anguish suffered by all present.

We returned from the shore and things were going astonishingly well on the pee pee front.  Still, the ___ was an enigma.  I warned his new camp counselor.  Kept tossing out those once awesome underwear.  Found some ____ on my floor.  Thought about calling pest control.

Then, took my little guys to the playground the other afternoon.  We were the only ones there, thank ___.  My boy climbed a gigantic curved ladder about 7 feet.  I had never seen him so agile or mature.

"Did you just climb that whole thing?" I yelled up, elated.

"YEP!  Cuz that's how BIG BOYS do it!" he told me.

Within 2 seconds of that bravado, "Mommy!!!  I need to make ____!"

Like only a superhero would, I whisked him from the high platform of the jungle gym and brought him down to Earth, while ripping his shorts down at the same time.  To do what?  _____ right on the playground?  (I'm sure you're asking.)  I had no choice.  No diapers.  No plastic bags.

But it was too late.

The ___ was already there waiting in the not at all awesome underwear.

"Get it out," he yelled.  I masterfully had him step out of the underwear.  Oops.  I did it again.  The ___ fell onto the wood chips at the playground.  Now I clearly needed a pooper scooper.  My boy had no shorts on at that moment and I was pulling out wipes from my stroller's basket.  My 8 month old was sitting in the stroller, looking up to the heavens, thinking, as Jenny in Forest Gump did, "Deah God, make me a bird so I can fly far far away...." And just at that moment, two twenty year old guys walked in our direction towards the basketball court nearby.

"Put these shorts on quickly!" I instructed.  I grabbed the underwear and wipes and scooped up the ___.  The basketball players just ___ at me as I walked ____ to the trash can and said to them, still somehow smiling, "Oh, the ___ of parenting!"

All That You Can't Leave Behind

When you're a cross between a sentimental sap and a hoarder, what do you leave behind and what do you bring with you when moving to a new home?

Positive pregnancy tests from the bathroom drawer?  Take.

Rabbit's foot a friend gave me for good luck when flying?  Leave.

Notebooks from law school containing meticulous outlines?  Trash, except for one to show my sons when they are older and don't believe that anyone ever hand wrote anything, or studied that hard for an exam.

Photographs?  Take every single one.

Birthday and wedding and anniversary and baby congrats cards?  Take them all.

My husband's grafitti on the inside of our coat closet, saying, "I GOT THE POPS!" (as in Pops Water Ice, in South Philly, which I ate almost exclusively during the summer of my first pregnancy).  Left the grafitti; thought it added some urban flavor to the condo.

"Sexiest Man Alive" special of People Mag with Bradley Cooper on the cover?  Fished it off the 20 foot high nook in our living room which it landed on when my husband grabbed it out of my hands and tossed it up there in a jealous rage.

Book of printouts of the first emails my husband and I ever exchanged?  Took it, of course.

Pee stain on my bedroom carpet from my 3 year old's defiant act while in timeout? (I heard the sound of a diaper ripping off and threw open the bedroom door to find him without a stitch of clothing.  "What are you doing?"  "I'm peeing on your floor.")  Cleaned it up, sure, but that memory remains on the floor.

Clothes that I was wearing on 9/11/01?  Took.

Notes from middle and high school friends?  Took them.

Pee-stained bathroom mat?  (You know who).  Trashed it.

Red cowboy boots that I wore when I was 6 years old?  Took them.

Snoopy that I've had since I was 1 year old?  Took him.

Wrist bands that my babies wore in the hospital after they were born?  Took them.

Waffle iron?  Left.

Dumb bells that are just an accident waiting to happen?  Left them.

Stink bug?  Left it.

Good karma? Took it.

Pain and suffering and grief?  Left them.

Laughter and joy and gratitude?  Took them.

Memories of a home filled with love?  Took each one.

My best guy?  Took him.

My son and his 5,000 cars, trucks, trains, planes, and snacks?  Took every one.  

My baby and his belly laughs and his newly discovered voice saying, "a-Da, Da, Da"?  Took him.

A new direction?  Took it.

A new road?  Took it.

A new home?  Just a reminder of all that you can't leave behind.

A Run Down Memory Lane

Tomorrow I am running the 10 mile Broad Street Run. It will be my 4th time (and 1st time post-babies).   My ob/gyn has assured me that my uterus will not fall out. So, I'm set.

The Broad Street Run is a lot like an actual marathon, for a non-runner like myself.  It's also like watching my life flash before my eyes.

The journey begins in North Philadelphia, at Broad Street and Somerville. A gospel choir greets me as I set off on course, laces on my sneakers bound along with the knots in my stomach. The African-American ladies in the choir, dressed in sparkling white robes, remind me of my baby nurse, who lives just down the block, and the hymns she sang to my newborn babies.

I approach Cecil B. Moore Street with caution and pride. I can feel all eyes on me as my Criminal Law professor grills me in front of two hundred classmates. "'Judge' Heenan, did the defendant have the required mens rea (state of mind) to be convicted of rape in the state of Alaska?" My head and body start to ache, imagining how long 10 miles really is. I remember wanting to drop out of law school after the first week. I decide I can stick out this race, just like I stuck out those three grueling years.

A drunk dude cheers for the runners as he stumbles home from a bender the night before. I think about the hundreds of subway rides I took to and from law school and the characters I encountered along the way. "Fine oils and incense!" one enterprising young guy would call out, strutting his way from one subway car to the next. I think now maybe I should have purchased some. Just because. Outside on the street, there is a male runner dressed in drag, juggling oranges.

I approach Broad and Girard and pass the high school where I first met Antionette, when she was just 15, a freshman. I was in my early 20s, determined to be a mentor, and I strolled through the metal detectors at her high school's entrance, trying to forget how many people had once referred to my own high school as a "country club." Who would have thought that more than a dozen years later, Antionette and I would be bound for life. As I run by her school, I remember taking her to buy her prom dress, attending her college graduation, and rocking out with her on the dance floor at my wedding. I am like a proud parent when I realize how far she has come from this humble place; this high school that could not break her spirit nor cage her expectations, no matter how many bars were on the windows.

Next, I run pass Vine Street and imagine zipping down the road, over the bridge and straight down to the shore. I think about the time before SPF60, bike helmets, and seatbelts.  I feel my hair blowing in the wind with my dad driving his convertible like he was still on the AutoBahn, singing Bob Marley's Buffalo Soldier at the top of his lungs. On a constant loop for the entire hour.

I pass by Broad and Chestnut, where I spent 4 great years at my former law firm. It's the place where I met some of my best friends and encountered some of the most bizarre circumstances one can imagine. Bunny rabbit with a grapefruit sized goiter in its neck hopping around at work? yes. Mailroom guy selling sex toys on the side? Check. Fox vagina soup at happy hours? Frequent point of discussion, yes. Pinatas and blindfolded partners in the main conference room? Yes, on more than one occasion.

Okay, I'm moving right along. Wait! How can I forget the restaurant where I met my husband on the day that we discovered I was pregnant for the first time?

Next, I'm at Broad and Walnut, right down the street from where I used to call home. I had my first date with my husband at Rouge on Rittenhouse Square and 9 months later, married him right across the square.

I'm racing past the Italian market now, the route Rocky ran. I'm thinking of all of the dinners my family has shared at Villa Di Roma, one of my sister's favorites.  Next, it's on to Broad and Oregon and Pop's Water Ice, which I ate religiously and almost exclusively in my first trimester of my first pregnancy.

A little further down, I pass by the neighborhood where my husband grew up and where my in-laws still live. It is a place where tradition is alive and warmth is all around. The butcher still delivers meat door to door, people mark their parking spots on the street with lawn chairs, and Santa Claus is well represented on Christmas Eve (and even entertains the wishes of Jewish girls). I think about the gatherings, holidays, and endless laughter that has imprinted this part of Broad Street on my heart and soul.

The soles of my feet are now burning.  I pass by Broad and Snyder, the stadiums of Philly legends and on to the Naval Yard and I spot the FINISH LINE!  I remember how proud my parents looked at the finish line the first time I ran this race.  My mom begged me to never run Broad Street again, just like she begged me not to do penny-drops off the swing-set when I was eight and not to go skydiving when I was older.  Sorry, sorry, sorry.

I look at my friend, Bess, next to me, who is the reason I am running this race; the reason I am running period. I am not a runner, but she has convinced me (and half the city of Philadelphia) that indeed I can be a runner, if I just put one foot in front of the other.  And that is exactly what I am doing.

The finish line is a miracle, like a sunset over Positano. But, I never for a second forget that it's not the destination that matters.  It's always about the journey.

Throwing Binkies, Throwing Sofas

It feels great to hurl a sofa off a second floor balcony.

That much I can tell you for sure.





It's no small feat when you've barely been to the gym in the past year and you've been weighed down by a baby in utero and then in a baby Bjorn and a toddler who wants "horsey rides" every other minute. But I managed to use all of my might and give that old leather sofa a decent fling.

And I didn't kill anyone in the process.

My husband suggested that he throw the sofa over the balcony and that I go down below and "catch it" so that it wouldn't hit any cars parked nearby. I passed on that suggestion.

I told HIM to go down and "catch it."

What brought us to this temporary moment of insanity where liquidating a leather love seat in such an unconventional and dangerous manner seemed like a good idea?

A million moments of insanity prior.

It started in late October, when our 2 and a half year old son asked for one week straight about his newborn baby brother, "Um, Mommy, when's Baby Blake goin home?"

That innocent question soon turned into not so innocent behavior at home and at school. My once angelic toddler started getting daily timeouts in school for throwing wood chips and chucking cars. Thankfully the teachers overlooked his habit of peeing on them on purpose when they changed his diaper and eating sticks on the playground, which clearly only a boy would do. (As if driving to pick up my son with an inconsolable newborn in the backseat isn't stressful enough, I am now transported back to my middle school principal's office when I see my son's teacher approach the car, giving me her "stern face," reporting on his daily shenanigans).

Things at home have not been so serene either. My baby has a case of reflux which had made him, up until this week, the saddest baby this side of the Mississippi. When I tell you that he cried day and night for weeks, I don't think that quite does reality justice. I almost had a heart attack the first time I saw him smile. Didn't recognize him at all.

Thankfully, now everyone is referring to him as "joyful" and "sweet," but it took a long journey through formula/nipple/medicine changes/rocking/swinging/bouncing/upright/and downright insanity to get him to this peaceful destination. Over the past few months, we've had nature sounds in every room. You name it: crickets, waves breaking on the sand, birds chirping. More frequently, we've had the call of the wild - both a toddler and a newborn battling it out for Champion of the Criers.

In the midst of all of this, we managed to go trick or treating, eat turkey and stuffing, light the menorah, see Santa, watch the ball drop in Times Square, while doing nightly feedings and trying not to lose our minds.

Sure, my sweet husband has thrown binkies against the wall (equivalent to a normal person committing murder) and I have thrown a sofa from a second floor balcony, but all in all, I think we may still be up for Parents of the Year.

Our sons are clean, well fed, doted on, and generally "joyful." They are learning to live together slowly but surely. Comments like, "Mommy, I'm gon give Blake a hair cut," (with plastic Handy Manny toy pliers in hand), have not been uttered in a few weeks. And, they're even learning to share. "Mommy, I asked Blake if he wanted a cheerio and he said no." (How a 6 week old conveyed a "no" response to my toddler, I'll never no. I'm just glad the baby didn't "say" yes).

We are 12 weeks out as of today. First time I've had a second to blog. Second to sit. Second to think. So here's to me, to us, to all of you who survived the first 12 weeks, once, twice, or more than that. My hat's off to you, party people!

Wishing you all a "joyful" new year!

A New Canvas

I swore I would never do it again.
Have another baby.
It wasn't that I didn't want another baby.
I just didn't think I could handle another awful, complicated delivery.
And for some short time I thought my son might be an only child.

But slowly the fear started to give way to hope.
That I could be strong enough.
Endure.
Be courageous.

I thought this time around I would do things differently.
Ask more questions. Feel more empowered.
I made a rockin' "Labor and Delivery mix" on my iphone. Enough songs for 30 hours or so. A tune for every kind of contraction. From Lady Gaga to Bruce Hornsby to Aretha to the Grateful Dead. I read a lot of books. Talked to all the right people.

Then two weeks ago today, as labor seemed imminent, I started googling wacky stuff, like, "Labor and delivery mantras." I felt like I needed a good mantra. I found one that was short and simple:

"Give me the strength.
Give me the endurance.
Give me the courage."

Perfect. As we drove to the hospital in the glistening sun, I remembered these words.

The contractions were mild, but regular, so it seemed like the arrival of our son was nearing. The doc checked me and told me to walk around the hospital for an hour to help the labor progress.

That sounded like fun.

"Do we have time to grab some coffee?" my husband inquired as we exited the doc's office.
"Um, I guess," I said.

Next thing you know I'm a mile down the road at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru, hoping my contractions don't start to speed up furiously like you see in the movies.

We headed back to the hospital just to be safe. We walked the perimeter of the hospital parking lot a few times. I reminded my husband that I was Rocky Balboa and he was to be my revered coach, Mickey, in the delivery room.

"Should I yell, 'Get up, you sonofabitch!'" he asked.

"The nurses might throw you out," I told him. "But that's the spirit, yes."

After an hour, my labor had only progressed minimally. But they sent me up to LABOR AND DELIVERY, checked me in, and gave me a room in which to breathe, walk, and prepare for my son's birth. My nurse suggested rocking, rolling, and other new age hypno-birthing options which were discussed in the birthing classes I was too afraid to attend.

While "Coach Mick" emailed on his laptop, I got down to business of my own. I walked, repeated my mantra, "STRENGTH, ENDURANCE, COURAGE," and rocked my hips from side to side while planting my feet firmly on the ground. In the midst of radiating pain up my back and front, I channeled the energy of women around the world. I envisioned a woman in labor in the Sahara, another woman standing in a rice paddy, another woman delivering a baby at the top of a mountain. Then I pictured myself running a marathon, with all of these women cheering me on, holding "Go, Stacy!" signs for me along my route. Finally, I felt them all in the room, whispering to me, "Strength, Endurance, Courage."

If they could all do it, surely I could too.

And this is how I got through 18 hours of labor.

By the time I was ready to push, it took just 5 minutes and my "coach" was right there by my side.

"You did it!" he yelled as our son made his way into the world.

"You have a new canvas now," he told me, feeling the baby's velvet cheek.

Now it's time to add the color.

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.