The Best Laid Plans...

So an hour after I published that last post I got a text from Doc Hubby.  Bean had a temp of 102.

Are you friggin KIDDING me?  This week was jam packed full of holiday activities! Open ballet class on Tuesday for Granny and Pops to attend!  A family gathering at school.  Pajama Day.  Macy's windows!  Christmas shopping and a poker game for Daddy.  So much everyone wanted to do this first week I am away.  This last week before Christmas.

Yesterday the fever rose to 103.  And then Bean got an itchy rash on her butt.  At that point I urged Doc Hubby to text a pediatrician friend.

"Is there something going around...103 fever, mild sore throat, rash...?"
"As a matter of fact, yes.  Lasts 48 hours or so."

Can this please be some weird rashy virus that only children are susceptible to and adults simply cannot get?

We started blocking the play today.  Always feels like jumping off a cliff.  But miming making an entire breakfast in a 19th century kitchen.  Um.  So what does an ice box look like again?  And how exactly do you string green beans?

Lucky for me, Kameron with a "K" made a video to help out with that one.  I think it bears sharing.

Here's what I learned today.  All Mrs. Webb (the character in OUR TOWN that I'm playing) wants to do is to raise healthy children.  This appears to be her primary goal in life.   Yet (spoiler alert)... both kids and her best friend will be dead before her 45th birthday.

Sucks to be Myrtle.

The best laid plans...

Parenting Heroics

Doc Hubby is a hero (a hero minus a giant fish but still a hero).  Doc Hubby agreed to take on 11 weeks of solo full-time childcare so I could come to one of the most beautiful spots on earth and act in one of the most beautiful plays ever written with one of the loveliest bunches of people ever.  So there.  Thank you Doc Hubby.  My friends and family, rightfully so, are pretty amazed by him.  Impressed by his generosity and patience.  He deserves a medal.

Well, 9 weeks.  They were here in the Bay Area for two weeks. Right at first preview and opening.

Well, 6 weeks.  My mother did three weeks of childcare.

Well, we had a full-time babysitter for those 6 weeks.  So Doc Hubby did weekends and early morning and bedtime.  And of course, bore the primary responsibility for meals, discipline, and decision-making.  He limited his workday to 9 - 5...for 35 days.

You know, come to think of it, remember last fall when I was doing the play in town?  Yeah that was a 16 week commitment.  We had babysitting while I was in rehearsal, but once the play was up and running (the final 3 months or so) I was home all day taking care of the Bean.  And then I'd make dinner, and then Doc Hubby would get home and I would go and do the show.  The show was nearly 3 hours long...a five hour commitment when all is said and done (warm up and wigs and getting laced into corsets take some time--not to mention getting out of them).  Times 8 shows a week...that's 40 hours.  I was working full time. And taking care of the Bean all day.  Oh and remember the fall before when I did that other play?  Pretty much the same thing.  Only Bean wasn't in school so we really had every minute of every day together.

Doc Hubby definitely deserves a medal. He's been heroic.

I haven't had too much time to write lately.  I'm working 40 hours a week.  But here's my question.

Why is it that when Daddy does it, it's heroic and when Mama does it, it's just parenting?

What is Fun About All of This

So here is what is fun about all of this so far:

• Most of the cast went out for dinner last night. And I had almost forgotten the kind of wonderful instant family you become when you work out of town. People you have known for two or three days are suddenly your pretend family, and sort of by default, your real family. You look out for each other. You share food. The men can be such gentlemen. That's nice.
• Skype! Holy cow how technology has changed since I did this last. You can just turn on Skype, make dinner, hang out, watch TV, and kind of feel like you're in the same room. Without the pressure the phone gives you of keeping having to talk. Doc Hubby actually walked me around the apartment. It was a balm to my soul.
  
• Your only responsibilities when you work out of town are: eating, working out, studying the play, and rehearsing. When you are staying in a postage stamp of an apartment there's not much else to do.
• You get to watch whatever you want on TV.
• You get to eat whatever you want. I had two salads yesterday. I had two cups of coffee today. I am convinced I will get healthy while I'm here.
• My mange is practically gone. I think it must be the air. Divine.
  
• Exploring.
  

What isn't fun? Calling your wee one and hearing her say "I miss you Mama" and then get weepy. Mine did this just this morning. And then apparently went and looked forlornly out of the window.

I'm not sure what's worse, having her miss me horridly and start to cry, or knowing that in a week or two, she will be used to me being gone.

We Are Gypsies

Most actors work away from home. We get the odd job where we live, but far more often we are called upon to leave our homes, and our loved ones, and our furry friends, and travel somewhere else to do a show. More often than not we are unemployed at home and employed on the road.

When you are single...this is awesome. So I have been told. When you are married it stings like a ground wasp, but it's kind of fun exploring a new area when your spouse comes to visit. Trying new restaurants. Driving around on the day off. I actually quite liked the feeling of showing my new surroundings to Doc Hubby. My little apartment and my newfound coffee shops and grocery stores. When I work out of town, everything here is mine. My accomplishments. My friends. My bravery to start fresh on my own and dare to do this thing. And everyone knows what a little absence can do to the heart....

But when you are a parent...work out of town is...I don't know yet. For the first time since the Bean was born I have taken a job out of town. And not just a quick hop on a plane or train or even the car. Totally across the country. To a different time zone. The farthest I have ever traveled from home to work. For the longest I have ever been gone (well, it's tied with another job). 11 weeks away from home. And away from my Bean. AM I INSANE???!!!!???!!! I already miss her so much I could eat my arm.

She and Doc Hubby will come to visit for two weeks in the middle. FIVE weeks from now.

I AM TOTALLY INSANE! Commence gnawing.

I already miss the squiggly weight of her on my lap. My mother said that after dinner tonight Bean had a cupcake. As per usual, Bean licked all the icing off her cupcake. Then she set the cake down. But then, Mom said, she stared at the cupcake, completely bereft, as if to say "where did all my icing go?" And then her eyes welled up and she said "I want my Mama."

A little girl, not much bigger than Bean, projectile puked on the plane today. (Note to Doc Hubby, pack wipes and an extra change of clothes in the carry on). I was far enough away to only see the flurry of cleaning from a distance and catch a delayed whiff. We took Bean on her first plane ride about two weeks ago. I am delighted to say she did not puke. Hoping desperately she has inherited Doc Hubby's hearty New England constitution in that regard. I watched that clean up with a teeny bit of schadenfreude I will confess.

So far, not having to clean up puke on a plane is the only good part of leaving a child behind to go and do a play. So far, when you are a parent, work away from home is horrible. I will check back in when I have found a few good coffee shops.

I miss you Bean.

Joy

Ok I totally can't leave it like that. You all are the best. And her birthday party was a total success. She managed to pull her tiny little three year old self together and have a wonderful time. Four of her friends came. The theme was whales--selected by none other than herself of course. And thanks to Etsy, man did I have super cute whale-themed cupcake toppers and stickers.


I'm so fascinated watching the raw emotion of being three. Nothing is filtered. Nothing is held back. When she's happy she laughs. When she's sad she sobs. When people are singing "Happy Birthday" to her she feels uncomfortable because everyone is looking at her. I know this feeling. What do you do during that agonizing minute and a half when everyone is singing "Happy Birthday" and looking at you and you are to simply sit and listen? If you are the Bean you do this:


And honestly, that's kinda what I want to do every time a group of people sings "Happy Birthday" to me. It is hard to just sit there, smile, and listen.

I'm still thinking a lot about how I don't feel things as strongly any more. Or maybe I just don't allow myself to feel things as strongly any more. I have another job. Another good one as it turns out. But it's a little scary to let myself just be thrilled about it. I always feel like I have to couch my excitement in something so I don't end up disappointed. I kind of think that, ironically, actors learn to feel things less. We can't want jobs or opportunities or accolades because in this business we just really really rarely get them. I, for instance, am continuing my remarkable run of ending up on the cutting room floor. Remember the movie from exactly a year ago as it turns out? Well, recently I did this really hilarious web advertisement for the video game Civilization V. Doc Hubby and I happen to be totally addicted to Civilization which made the whole thing all the more sweet. I had a really funny short scene to do. A good actor playing my husband. I never dreamed that we'd be cut. Here's the final video. Look carefully and you'll see me smacking the hell out of a sock puppet, but snip snip snip goes my scene. My record is, like, 8 and 0 for having lines cut from anything on film. Anything. What's up with that, yo? Hm. So I have to stop hoping my lines will end up in whatever I shoot and just be glad I can pay for preschool.

Maybe that's my problem. Maybe the people who really succeed don't let that wanting dim. Maybe that's what drives their ambition. Frankly, I'd rather be basically happy all of the time.

But in this case I am happy. I have a new job. And that's thrilling. I will turn 41 during my second Broadway show. Hopefully when the cast and crew sing Happy Birthday to me I will be able to sit there and just listen.

Actual Series of Emails Exchanged Between Me and Doc Hubby Today

The following is a verbatim exchange of emails between myself and Doc Hubby today between 10:11 and 11:16 am.

Me to Doc Hubby: All ok. My texting not working. At a nice blog event. Xo.

Doc Hubby to Me: You OK if I stay here late tonight to work on the grant?

Me to Doc Hubby: If you are ok with me locking our child in a closet.

Doc Hubby to Me: Funny, but dark. You need that girls' weekend.

Me to Doc Hubby: You think I am joking. Also funny.

I am finding two and 3/4 to be so so so so much more challenging than anything to date.

Screaming match two nights ago. Over chicken and a yellow pepper. Sobbing, snotty nosed (on her part), red faced, cruel and fuming (on my part...or was it the other way around). I feel that the battles, particularly over food, are going somewhere quite dark and not at all funny. It was so much easier when I picked out cute little organic green beans and prunes all tidy and pureed. Now she gags on chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and I just want to scream "MOST KIDS WOULD BE SO HAPPY TO HAVE THIS TO EAT!!! THIS IS KID CRACK!!! JUST SLATHER IT IN KETCHUP AND CHEW AND I'LL GIVE YOU A FRIGGIN' CUPCAKE ALREADY!"

Mac and cheese. Nope. Chicken nuggets. Nope. Needless to say anything green. Nope.

I think I am going to have to get some kind of book.

Only Girls

My maternal grandmother was an only child. My mother was an only child. I am the eldest. I have a younger brother. I have one daughter.

My mother found this poem in my great-grandmother's things:

For a Very Young Daughter

By Anne Mary Lawler

Soon you will leave your pinafores and toys,
Your dolls and dishes, and your little bib:
Soon you will scorn to sleep within a crib;
And you will smirk at grubby little boys
And write them silly notes; you even may
Walk giggling home from school with them each day.

Then, shortly, you'll be dancing, satin-shod,
Trailing your singing skirts about the room,
Lovlier than a daffodil in bloom;
And you will flirt with smile and frown and nod,
And play at love, and break a heart or two--
And I shall know that I am losing you--

And then--too suddenly the world will change--
And you will walk in tenderness and tears
Bravely and strong to meet the waiting years;
And I shall find it sad and sweet and strange
That you will grow, as women grow, quite wise
In mending socks and singing lullabies.

Yes, I shall lose you--for the days are swift,
We do not have the skill to check their flight--
Perhaps we would not, even if we might;
So I shall watch the spinning hours lift
Our lives apart--and still find strength to smile,
Knowing that you were mine this little while.

Sometimes a poem written a hundred years ago, while a tad sentimental, is just right for a cool and dafodilly April day. Though I must confess my hope that Anne Mary knew that her daughter would grow quite wise, period. Not merely in mending socks and lullabies. Anne Mary needed to complete her rhyme.

I'm struggling with potty training. Blink and your baby's gone isn't she? Urine is sterile, right? I'm like a parody of a Mommy Blog.

A Barf Conundrum

Ok all you experienced moms. And all you people who, on occasion, walk on sidewalks. Here is my question:

What is your obligation to the universe when your kid throws up on a sidewalk?

I guess you could extrapolate this to any public puking, really. But for the purposes of this question, let's take the circumstances as they happened, and go from there.

It was very cold on Wednesday. The Bean has been, as I have stated, coughing so hard that she spits up diluted juice. Well, on Wednesday I was determined to take her to the park (read: leave the apartment before I was compelled to shoot myself), after stopping at Starbucks for the most absurd drink ever invented ever ever (a decaf, tall, soy, skinny, cinnamon dolce latte - Fat Flush compliant for my money). But when we arrived at Starbucks, the line was out the door, so we reluctantly turned around and headed directly toward the park. At which point the Bean started hacking. And hacking. And hacking. And ultimately, regurgitating small amounts of juice. Okay, with a little particulate matter to be totally honest. Several small puddles. And here's the really insidious thing: the puddles were small enough that really, that you could walk down the street and totally not see them--until it was too late. But they were definitely big enough to do damage. No doubt at all about it. As I urged the Bean to breathe deeply and try to stop coughing, I knew that here was just no doubt those puddles were going to be targets. I could see it coming.

But there I was. On the street. No caution tape. No orange cones. No flares. No hose. No mop. No wipes even. Not cold enough that the puddles would freeze. Not hot enough that they would evaporate. And nary a rain cloud in sight.

And for the record, let me say that I clean up my messes. I am courteous to others on the subway. I always wait my turn in line. And I have even been known to pile up all my dishes on the table at a restaurant and pick the crumbs off the floor when our family has made what I consider to be a mess larger than any stranger should have to clean up. So this is not an easy moment for me...this moment coming up.

Did I have a choice?

I wiped the Bean's mouth and sleeve with a tissue and jammed it in my back pocket. And I walked away from those puddles on the street. Knowing for certain that some poor person was inevitably going to step in them and be grossed out beyond belief when she got home. And it would be entirely my fault.

This, my friends, is why everyone in New York City doffs their shoes the moment they walk in the door.

I am a Knee Jerk

So this last week or so I've been worried that I go through life saying "no" to the universe. I'm I'm totally honest with myself, my knee jerk reaction to most every suggestion, is really usually "no." No I don't want to go see that play, I just want to stay in and watch TV. No to this job. No to that event. No to this meeting. No to that social invitation.

I have really started to wonder what I'm hiding from...

Is it just that I'm a scaredy cat?

Is it that I'm truly lazy at heart?

Why do I look for the bad, and indeed expect the worst, from new situations or experiences?

Aren't I a little old to be afraid of everything? (And while I'm at it, aren't I a little old to worry so much about who I would eat lunch with?)

I am so adamant to Doc Hubby that we raise the Little Bean to expect the best from the world. To trust people. To be Anne Frank in post 9-11 NYC. I don't want her to get in the habit of making decisions based on fear. I want her to be adventurous.

My friend Sam's dad is an old British actor who has been around the block more than once in this business. One of his mottoes is "Just do the audition." Nike got wind of it and made a lot of money with that idea.

However, I have recently learned that his other motto is "Your career is not defined by the jobs you do. It is defined by the jobs you choose not to do."

So how do I listen to my gut about what not to do when my first impulse always seems to be to do nothing.

My friend Rebecca says that she thinks it's the jobs that make you want to cry that you should take. True. But I think that refers to the challenge of the role or the play itself, not the challenge of trying to arrange babysitting. The thing is, lately, I'm not sure if I can tell the difference.

Lately, I just feel like a Knee Jerk,.

Where's my friend God?

Conversation as I'm loading the Bean into her carseat on Sunday and leaving our mouse-infested, plumbing-free, mildew-ridden upstate fixer-upper.

Bean: Mama, can we go to the cabin?

Me: In a couple of months....I hope Poppop can hear you saying that.

Bean: Where's Poppop?

Me: He's in heaven with God.

Bean: Who's God?

Me: God is...God.

Bean: Where's my friend God?

Me: He's in heaven with Poppop.

Bean: Where is heaven?

Me: Up in the sky.

Bean:...in the sky...

Poppop died a little over a year ago. Hewould be so happy to know how excited the Bean is about going to the cabin. I hope he can hear her. Yet another reason we can't sell the cabin.

Why My Two Year Old Will Most Likely Be Rejected from Kindergarten

So I fancy myself a pretty responsible gal. I always handed my homework in on time. I took hot meals to shutins with my church youth group. I was a girl scout. I pay my bills on time and help old people get things from high shelves (no joke, I can't tell you how many times some old person in my apartment building has asked me to get something off a high shelf for them because I am ginormous).

But when it comes to my baby's medical care, I am so totally paralyzed by fear that I border on negligent. I guess it's fear. Maybe it's laziness. But I think the odds are a lot greater that it's fear.

I forgot her 18 month appointment. I guess...? I mean, honestly, I'm not sure I knew that she needed to have one. Did the doctor actually mention that at her 12 month appointment? Was I so preoccupied with our personal vaccine schedule that I didn't listen? Because usually, I'm pretty genius at listening when people give me instructions. I'm fairly certain the leading contender for my epitaph is currently "Follows Instructions Well." So how is it that I can't kinda get my shit together with getting medical things done for the baby at the right time?

I do, I must admit, lean on the fact that Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor. Part of me thinks that all of this stuff should just be his responsibility because he has seen the inside of a human body and understands things about it, and it just grosses me out. So despite the fact that "I'm the Mom" I want all that medical stuff to be his department. I don't think he even knows we have departments in this relationship. Except that he always makes the pancakes. And since he never reads my blog, the odds are not good that he is going to become aware of it any time soon.

The day of my daughter's one year doctors appointment (which, if I can read my own handwriting correctly, was well over a month after her first birthday...see what I mean? What is wrong with me?) we took her across the street to a house of vampires where some guy who claims to be a phlebotomist (yeah, that's the kinda vocab I can just toss around because Doc Hubby is in fact, a doctor, and I'd have to be an idiot not to pick up a thing or two over the course of 19 years)stabbed her repeatedly in the arm while she shrieked until finally I grabbed her and fled. Fast forward to a month ago when we happened to see Dr. McJerky in our Peds practice because our wonderful French doctor wasn't in. He managed to make me feel like a total ass because I had staggered my baby's vaccines (it was like he could see the baby slings and BPA free bottles and organic yogurt spewing from my mouth) and never got that blood draw. Which, he insisted, she'd absolutely need for kindergarten. What is with the City of New York? That I can't just enjoy my one year old without worrying about kindergarten. And, by the way, the place they sent us to have it done sucked. And, no one told me I needed it for kindergarten, though I can't say I would have been listening anyway.

So we had the one year blood draw today. Several days after the Bean's second birthday. She screamed bloody murder the entire time. Doc Hubby took one for the team and held her down while the excellent phlebotomist took baby girl's blood (Doc Hubby just had to point out that she did go too deep at first and then had to pull back to hit the vein and I could have lived my whole life and not known that). Then the Bean proceeded to sulk the entire time that Doc Hubby tried to show her off to all the nice people he works with.

Note to self, do not begin this whole path of allowing the Bean's behavior to reflect upon me. I am not responsible for her being two. Or having just been jabbed with a needle.

So Lonely...

My baby girl is so lonely. She is so starved for friendship. She is so aching for any kind of human contact besides Mama...that every day she stands in the living room and points to the window and says "Up in the 'indow? See peoples?"

Desperate.

Simply to catch a glimpse of another human being besides myself.

That she looks out our fifth floor window, waaaaaay down to the street below, and yells "baby!" every time a stroller rolls by.

When the babysitter arrives...any babysitter arrives...she immediately stands next to her, looks up at me, waves, and says "bye Mama!"

So either I have done something really right. Or I have done something dreadfully wrong.

Banana Cream Cheese Bread - Not the Recipe

So by rights, if the baby sticks her finger in the Banana Cream Cheese Bread while I'm waiting five hours for the people at the "we make your salad just like you want it" counter at the grocery store to make my salad, I have to buy it, right?

Honestly, I came this close to putting it back.

She poked her finger clear through the cellophane and into the bread. She made a hole. If I were a better blogger I would have taken a picture and posted it here.

But here's the thing. If it had been zucchini bread. Or nut bread of some kind. Carrot bread or lentil bread, I totally wouldn't have bought it.

So part of me thought, "yeah, whoever buys this and then gets it home and realizes someone stuck their finger in it is going to be super pissed and grossed out because they were having a bad day and the store was mobbed and they were also ordering their salad at the same time and never thought to check and see if someone put a finger in the bread, and they'll probably think it was a homeless person not my cute but honestly pretty crungy baby, and they will be really mad but not mad enough to take it back to the store so they'll just throw it away and what a waste of good Banana Cream Cheese Bread it will be because some homeless person truly could have eaten it."

And the other part of me thought" Wait a second is that Banana Cream Cheese Bread? Whaaaaaat? Why yes it is! And how have I lived this long without knowing that such a delicacy existed and what a shame the Bean put her finger through the cellophane so we'll just have to buy it, and yes I'd like no salad dressing cuz I'm on a diet because I'm going to be a big Broadway star now even though I have the smallest part in the play, but I do have a lot of stage time."

And by the way, I only looked for five minutes but it seems that the only place you can get this delectable bread is at my grocery store. All the recipes for Banana Cream Cheese Bread that I found online mix the cream cheese in with the butter but this one has the cream cheese in like a layer on the top in the middle like a cream cheese brownie. So I'm not offering the recipe.

Ethanol, Ticks and Swine Flu

We can't sell the cabin. We totally totally really truly can't sell the cabin.

It is the exact same age I am. It is falling apart in many ways. Which is totally hilarious and sad and somewhat insulting though I'm sure the cabin doesn't mean to point out how old I am by ceasing to function and getting moldy and heaving under the carpets.

My grandfather built the cabin as a fishing cabin. It is the only house I know that has remained with me my whole life. It has grown and changed, but while my family moved and my grandparents moved, the cabin has always been there on Folly Creek. It was never meant to be a beach house, though that is what we want it to be now. It has vinyl siding. Most rooms are wood paneled. The bathroom walls are covered with some kind of plastic substance that I'm sure does keep them from getting moldy but could no doubt simply be hosed down to clean. But they are hideous to say the least. Nearly every room was decorated in some variation of orange and brown.

All this notwithstanding, when I was a kid I thought the cabin was the most beautiful, most luxurious, best-smelling house in the entire world.

We totally can't sell the cabin.

So why am I perusing realtor.com?

How to accurately sum up last weekend. Let me see... in short, the boat crapped out, we were infested with ticks and Doc Hubby got swine flu. Any one of these things would have put a bit of a damper on the holiday. All three bordered on tragic. And each is interesting in its own way. I'm trying not to be too apocalyptic but here's the deal.

The cabin sits on a tidal creek on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. It is gloriously remote to this day. Part of what makes it so special is that while every field in my hometown is getting filled with McMansions and mini-McMansions, the Eastern Shore of Virginia remains virtually the same as it was in 1980. I mean, there are many more chain stores on the big route down the DelMarva, but once you turn off 13, it's country. And marsh grass. And towering pines. And barrier islands accessible only by boat with pristine and kinda wild beaches, littered with sea treasures (and I'm not kidding, my Dad saw a guy flip a gold piece out of the sand just while they sat and chatted). And big fields. But the fields have been farmed increasingly heavily in recent years. And agricultural run off and mud are filling up the creek. The dock has been extended twice to create boat slips. But the slips keep filling up with mud. This isn't why the boat isn't working, mind you. It's just context.

The boat isn't working because of ethanol. No joke. Up and down the East Coast of these United States, people are sitting sullenly in their stalled out boats because the carburetors are full of corn syrup. Because the gas that sat in their engines all winter...or in gas cans in their garages, or that just didn't get totally cleaned when winterized...has separated, leaving essentially a layer of corn syrup in the bottom to gunk up carburetors and stall boats. Ours among them. So we had no boat to use to get out to the island to the beach or to go fishing.

So okay, we'll just hang around the house.... Except that with the increase in all that mud, and the growth of tons more marsh grass, and (dare I say it) the increasingly less hard winter frosts, we are infested with ticks. Infested. How best can I express how infested we are? My Dad, who spent one afternoon carefully pruning the azaleas, had seven ticks. I had two embedded and one crawling across my foot. Ticks gross me the heck out. So much worse than mosquitoes. So insidious and flat and creepy and plague-bearing and ick.

So okay, we'll just spend time indoors together playing games and singing songs and telling stories.... Cough cough. Snarfle snarfle. And Doc Hubby, who works at a hospital where there have been no less than 288 cases of swine flu to date, has quarantined himself on the glass and screened-in porch. For days. He takes this seriously. Plagues and the like. I'm a germaphobe and all, but he peed in the bushes and we handed in plates of food to him and he totally didn't come out. So when the time came for us to make the six hour drive back to New York City, we went through this ridiculous comedy of errors that involved many clorox bleach wipes, a trip to Baltimore, and a rented Sebring Convertible (which, Doc Hubby has confirmed, is a piece of crap car but it's still a convertible and I think he had fun driving it home anyway even with the top down because it also rained most of the weekend). We get home to the city. He returns the rental car, and promptly drives upstate for three days to continue the CDC mandated quarantine. FOR A HEAD COLD most likely. But who am I to quarrel with epidemiologists.

So the night we get home and he leaves to go upstate, we eat waffles for dinner. I give the baby a bath hoping for a calm, quiet, lovely evening together. I rinse her pretty little curls, go to wash behind her sweet elfin ears...and there's a TICK! Embedded behind her ear! At this point I am fairly rabid. I can't, in good conscience, call any of the women I know in the building to help me with the tick removal, because we both could be carrying SWINE FLU! So I swaddle the baby in a towel, lay her on the living room floor, all the while she's howling "All done! All done, Mama!" at the top of her sweet lungs, SIT on her, and grope around her ear with sharp tweezers until I remove the tick. Which I place in a ziploc bag to keep to hand over to said CDC in the event she develops LYME'S DISEASE.

And here's where I risk the whole apocalypic thing...I'm no conspiracy theorist but what is up with these whack ass plagues? Lyme's disease? If rats were causing this public health crisis no one would think twice about taking major action against the carriers. So because the bugs live on Bambi we're not doing a thing? I'm not saying I want to go out there and shoot them, but really? The choice is to do nothing? You can't play in your yard anywhere in the East Coast without worrying about this nasty and weird and totally creepy disease that started on an island off the coast of Connecticut. And now swine flu???? Where did this come from again? Some kid in Mexico and a pig? Sounds really fishy to me but what do I know? I'm just high on all the carbs I've been eating to make it through the last week with some shred of sanity remaining. Pass the brownies.

So Doc Hubby is back now. He's cursing in the kitchen chasing a "wiley" roach around. I am trying not to throw up over the concept of bugs hanging out on my fridge where this guy was spotted, and at this point I'd like to live in a tupperware container for a few days. Maybe if I did my skin would look as lustrous as Bernadette Peters' does.

I digress. All this said...we really totally can't sell the cabin, right? I mean, right?

The Germaphobe's Worst Nightmare. Or One of Them.

I have a nasty headcold.

I should have known better than to share penne with someone who said they had a "tickle" in their chest. Now I have that and much more.

My nose dripped into my baby's clean laundry this afternoon when I was folding it. Or rather, when I was folding it and putting it on the glider and she was cackling and throwing it back in the hamper which did not amuse me at all even though she is very cute.

I have no idea which item of clothing it dripped on.

I put all the laundry away in her drawers.

She can't get sick from one drop of snot, right?

The Schwartzman Quartet's Biggest Fans

Conversation upon the ending of DVR-ed Season Finale of "Friday Night Lights." Time: 11:02 p.m.

Show ends. Wipe away tears. Erase episode. Noggin blares loudly through living room. It's the opening theme song of "Jack's Big Music Show."

Me: Let's see how long it takes for me to identify what episode this is.

Doc Hubby: The music sounds better when it's going through the Bose.

Pause. Episode Starts. Two seconds later.

Me: Yeah, it's the one where Mel gets hit in the head and thinks he's a cat. (Verifies this on the DVR episode info guide). Yup. It's a good one. Have you seen it?

Doc Hubby: (Shakes head no)

And the thing is, we both briefly pondered watching the entire episode. When the Schwartzman Quartet sings "Meow Meow Meow goes the dog Mel, his meows are super swell. Some dogs bark or bow wow wow. Mel the dog just says meow," it's kind of brilliant.

Addendum: When I do a Google search of "Schwartzman Quartet" that youtube video of them singing "Mel the Dog" is the first thing that comes up. See, I'm not alone in this way of thinking.

P.S. Holy-Crapola Here I Come

So there are two articles in the Times today about public schooling your kids in NYC. My baby isn't two yet, but I'm kinda already having palpitations about it.

The first one is The Sudden Charm of Public School. This article makes the point that given the economic downturn, lots of parents who were sending their kids to swanky NYC private schools, or who were planning to send their kids to swanky NYC private schools, are now trying to get them into public schools. And the high-demand, best-performing public schools now have a glut of applications and not enough slots necessarily, even for kids who live in the zones. And here's where it gets icky...people are even faking that they live in these zones to get preference. Either renting apartments there that they don't necessarily live in or "moving in" with family. Borrowing addresses. I knew all this was coming but....really??? YUCK!

The second article, Don't Move Until the School Secretary Says It's O.K. discusses many of the same topics, with the focus on making the choice to move into a zone that contains a highly ranked school. Resources offered for researching schools include other parents and the independent website InsideSchools.org. Also talks about people without kids choosing to buy in zones with good schools to up the resale values of their homes.

Now may I say, when we moved into this apartment we were planning to have children. But it never even crossed our minds to look into the school district. Let me repeat: never even crossed our minds. Can I have a rousing: Duh? DUH!

Not that it would have made that much difference. This apartment is great. We would have taken it no matter what. The neighborhood is great. The parks are great. There's a Starbucks within spitting distance. Really good bagels. But the neighborhood school is less than great.

What I realize basically, is that I am at the beginning of a big long journey. And if we choose to stay here in NYC (which for the time being seems likely) I am going to be taking on the full time job of my baby's school agent. Oh I can hire someone to do it for me. This is New York after all. But I'm pretty sure that's not gonna happen. Ok P.S. 1-2-Holy-Crap-What-Are-We-Getting-Into...here I come.

My Top Ten List So Far

So I've been doing this blogging thing over a year now. I started at Babies Gotta Have It, but then I just got the yen to come here and write some of this stuff that 's going on in my life. I would actually like to write a book, but that's not something I seem to have the discipline to do during naps.

I've been reading a lot of blogs lately. Some of them are good. Really surprisingly good. Some are interesting and some are educational and some are funny. Really surprisingly funny. Like laugh out loud funny when you've been out to dinner with friends and you had that really strong mojito and you're really a teetotaler and you come home and your baby and husband are sleeping in nearby rooms and your apartment is really small but you're laughing in bursts through your nose like you've got the giggles up in the balcony in church kind of funny.

So this gal over at Piece o' Coconut Cake had the idea to create a top ten list of her favorite posts for her readers to check out while she's visiting her family in Guatemala. Let me just say, why doesn't my family live somewhere tropical and lush instead of somewhere that Puritans and farmers decided to remove rocks from and endure. Anyway, when you're up late reading blogs and eating thin mints and you want to meet some new bloggers, check out her list and the links at the end of her post.

I haven't actually written all that much in the last ten months. But I do have more than ten entries. So I went back through and scanned them and reread them. Here are the ten I like the best today.

1. My Apology to the Girl at the Cruise Lines Audition My first post. Why and how I got into all this.
2. What Does It Mean to Eat Your Children The post I wrote the day I stopped breastfeeding.
3. Left Wing Butterflies Baby's First Birthday Post.
4. Taking the A Train With My Baby New York, motherhood, and avoiding the culture of fear.
5. Pole Dancing and Drag Shows That's just how I roll.
6. The Apocalypse The Mayans and the end of the world.
7. Lock Up Your Craft Scissors What happened when I cut my baby's hair. This became a weekly series.
8. Pa Ingalls and My Responsibility Project When littering meets Halloween.
9. Yes We Did. The video I took of people celebrating election night in the streets of New York.
10. The Bouncing Remote, Baby TV and Why Doesn't My 17 Month Old Walk
    
    
    And as an extra bonus. A Conversation Late Last Night. This is short. It speaks for itself.
    
    Thanks for reading. Want to get a coffee?
    

Pa Ingalls and My Responsibility Project

So there's this thing going on at right now called The Responsibility Project. Spurred by a Liberty Mutual commercial of all things, the site features a bunch of short films about personal responsibility. And I'm so on about that.

I hate it when I see kids litter in the subway. I saw a teenage boy hand a half-full can of grape soda to another kid right before getting off the train. The other kid, a girl, didn't want it, yelled loudly in response, and held the soda can very briefly like it was a dead animal. I'm pretty sure the boy had a crush on her and thought handing her his garbage was a good way to show it. Have I mentioned I didn't have a high school boyfriend? In retrospect, maybe not so bad. Anyway, the girl then put the can on the floor under a seat and got off at the next stop.

Not surprisingly, within minutes the can overturned, and a narrow, shallow, sticky river of grape soda began to run the length of the subway car. I watched it all happen, and I was so mad about it. Mad when I watched people having to step around the mess. Mad when I saw people step right in it. Mad when a diverging stream ran into the open-toed shoes of someone innocently reading a newspaper, not noticing.

Finally a woman picked the can up and exited the subway with it. And I wanted to get her email address and send her a thank you note. That woman exercised the kind of personal responsibility that germaphobic me was not willing to do (Pick up some kid's yucky, germy, discarded soda can after it rolled around on the subway floor? No thank you. I will just sit, watch it obsessively, and steam).

So will my baby girl leave half empty cans of soda on the subway when she's a teenager? Gulp.

As a parent, my inherent, goody-two-shoes, nerdy to a fault, Presbyterian, "follows-directions-well-ness" has kind of exploded. The sense of responsibility I feel towards this small person is kind of staggering. I think this feeling is probably why I have obsessively posted videos and photos about cutting her bangs too short--for an entire MONTH. She was fine. Then I took scissors to her and mangled her hair. Fairly harmless in the grand scheme of things. A spilled can of grape soda on a subway train. But when it comes to...you name it. Making medical decisions. Protecting her financial future. Keeping her from hurting herself. Even teaching her not to litter. Am I indiscriminately wielding craft scissors?

So, Liberty Mutual (and I am so not selling anything for them or getting paid by them...I just watched this movie after the link was sent to me) is sponsoring this film project to get people talking about individual responsibility. And I find it so refreshing. In this age--heck in this election month--where many are passing the buck, many are blaming our problems on everyone else, here's a company using film to raise the issue of individuals choosing to stop the buck.

Here's the movie I watched. It's called "Tony." I watched the whole 13 minutes of it, which is rare for me, and actually found it kind of touching. I'm a new mom so I guess that's not too surprising. I'm not sure about the end...but I've only been a parent for 14 months. Talk to me in a couple of years. And did the boy need to be sick to make the story work? I'm actually not sure about that either. Maybe yes. Again, talk to me in a few years.

But all this is really about me of course, and my penance for hacking the baby's bangs. My crazy sense of responsibility which is hitting me so hard that I feel the need to post photos for a month featuring very blatantly "the bad thing I did." So here's the latest, and let me say also the final, one.



And here's a sneak peek of the little bean in her Halloween costume. She's going to be Laura Ingalls (before the "Wilder" when she was still "Half Pint"). So how did Ma and Pa teach those kids to be so darned responsible? I guess they had no other choice. Everyone pitched in or they wouldn't have anything to eat after Plum Creek froze in November. Minnesota winters in a poorly insulated homestead slap some responsibility into you pretty quickly, I guess.



None the worse for the wear. Still the biggest responsibility project I've ever undertaken. And I love her.

Bangs Week 1

Well since I hacked the baby's bangs off...not much has changed. They still look horrible. I've just become somewhat numb to it. I almost can't remember how they looked when they were long, wispy and adorable. Before I got out the craft scissors.

And I've been using product to keep them swept over to the side. She looks like a little 1950s baby when I do that. And I ignore what the gel is probably doing to her sweet skin. For the record, I barely use any at all. But to continue to do my own penance, I must, weekly, return to the scene of the crime, brush the bangs straight down, photograph her, and atone. So that I never ever ever try to cut her hair again.