The Boy/Girl Bedroom

I keep meaning to post some beautifully set-dressed and well-photographed evidence of our new home. “Look at that sun-washed room with the casual vase of peonies just so, and that teacup which I hardly notice but which lends the whole image a subliminal coziness!” You would exclaim. But I don’t have time for any of this. I’m revising the novel in every spare instant and chasing Ollie down off the ceiling in every unspare instant. Anyway, so for now some iPhone pics of the kiddo room. I just think it’s a really cute little room, with its wacky, mostly accidental mix of patterns and the well-hung (snicker snicker) artwork arranged by professional art handler, Uncle Doug. Harper loves it, though she doesn’t understand why they can’t have bunk beds yet. (Because I’m mean, pretty much.) And the other day she got all teary, missing the silver stars in her tiny old closet of a room. Recreating those stars is actually on my to-do list. Number 947. Getting there.

I think we probably still count as a tiny kids’ room, though to us it feels huge. To have room to play! In the bedroom! How novel! They even have a closet, half of which is dedicated to clothes and books. We are living the life over here, people. Don’t even get me started on the elevator. Or the parking garage. Park Whope? Anyway. So behold: the room: as it actually is every day. (Imagine the sunlight, flowers, and achingly lovely photography. And tidiness, imagine some tidiness too.)

PS I wrote this post on my phone while kind of supervising Harper taking a bath. I’m such a good mom!

Spring Festivities and a First Birthday.

A year ago at this time I was basking in the unique glow of motherhood, swathed in the womb-like confines of a shared room at NYU Tisch Medical Center, toasting my new son with the endless ice waters the rosy-cheeked nurses kept bringing me. And/or, I was sitting in a paper dress all stunned, like, WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED? After miserable weeks of sort-of-labor, after reaching that too-pregnant psychosis where you start believe the baby is just staying in forever, after passing the due date and sailing on to the next week and infinity beyond, actual labor was so fast the kid was almost born in a taxi cab. And not to wallow in cliche here, but I can’t believe Alton King turns one today.

Ollie.

Likes: Harper, cheese, drinking from a glass, throwing a ball, walking around, slapping things.

Dislikes: clementines.

Skills: Walking, running, falling, getting up, climbing, falling, getting up. Can say Mama, Dada, Hapa, that, and cake.

Goals: Getting bigger than Harper by age 2.

We celebrated by chasing Ollie, as he has somehow come to be known, around various locales and pulling him down off stools, chairs, and tables. First, an adorable Easter egg hunt in the backyard of our new building. This building has just been charming me to death. All the kids! The shoeless playdates! Look at this shit:

Okay, so that was cute. At promptly 1 pm, both of my young combusted, so we went home (all the way upstairs) for naps, and then in the afternoon headed into Prospect Park. Harper had suggested some weeks ago that we go to the carousel by the zoo on Ollie’s first birthday and that she would make sure he didn’t get scared. So we did, and she did. She forgot, however, to make sure that she didn’t get scared. But she played through the panic and then afterward walked away uncertainly, saying, “Maybe that’s for when I’m older,” and “The brave ones get treats.” (?!) Ollie: completely unfazed.

And then some park frolicking, and a long stroll home, and then, of course: cake.

The 2-for-1-Special Springtime Birthday

One thing you have to admit for our family planning, we are really going to save money on birthday parties. Man, have we beat the system!

Last year I was convinced Alton was going to be born on Harper’s birthday, and so we had her tiny tea party a little early, but he had the good manners/laziness to be born weeks later. That was fun! I’m kidding, it was miserable! Anyway. So their birthdays ended up being two weeks apart, in different months even so they each get their own little sector of spring, but close enough that for the next few years anyway we can force them let them share a birthday party.

I decided a spring theme made sense, which meant some fake cherry blossom sprigs, some springy bunting, and two cake-foods. For the Harper side of things, dainty pink cupcakes with gum paste cherry blossoms that I lovingly crafted by hand. Come on, my kids eat nuggets every night. I ordered those suckers online. And for the Alton side of things, a chocolate cake that looked like mud, which is to say, slathered in chocolate pudding and crumbled cookies and gummy worms and slugs. For some reason, some of the guests found this to be off-putting. There was pin-the-tail-on-the-robin, but more importantly, tons of balloons. And that was it. We played records. We gave the grownups mimosas and bagels. Alton wandered around like a puppy, climbing into people’s laps and stealing their food. Harper occasionally reminded her guests not to take home her presents. Murray got shy at the last minute and stayed home with all his cats in Paris. It was really so much fun, and we felt so thankful to all the friends and new neighbors who came by, and very house-warmed and heart-warmed.

Here are some photos Adam took. And you can also get a peek at our new place, which we are semi-settled into. So without further ado, here is why is my novel revisions are not into my editor yet:

McMe-Time With Fries

They made me do it.

I am writing this blog post on my phone, in my parked car, having just participated in one of the most salacious, shameful activities in my mom-repetoire, so embarrassing that I feel compelled to immediately share with the world. It involves… sleeping children. And… fast food.

But before I dive in, let me just provide some context– after an exciting morning of having a cavity filled (honestly, the most restful moment of the day), I spent an hour getting the kids ready to go to the doctor. This had me a little anxious already; last time we went to the doctor’s Harper distinguished herself by shouting,  “I’m not listening to you! I’m going to escape!” and running out of the room. This morning she is being especially contrary, vetoing the sweater I offer, turning down the suggested boots with disgust, really wanting Special Baby to go in the car seat instead of Ollie. (How do you argue with something like that?) Getting downstairs takes cajoling, getting across the street to where the car is parked takes threats, by the time I’m trying to get her in the car seat she’s kicking at my face (“I want to do everything all by myself on my own!”) while Ollie watches the show, and I’m yelling at her there on the avenue for all to see. “Stop kicking me!” I add as I shut the door, just in case any disapproving eavesdropper needs to know why I’m spewing venom at a sweet-faced little blonde clutching her dolly.

So. Then, the doctor’s office, where Harper repeats her trickery despite not being the one being examined at all, pushing at the doctor’s chair experimentally and whispering, “No doctor for me OR Ollie.” One shot and one screaming baby later, we are headed home. “I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up!” Harper announces as we get back in the car.

Now, we don’t drive often. This used to be because, hello, we live in New York City which is where people live when they are superior beings who walk places and frequent local shops. Now I admit, it’s mostly because finding parking in our neighborhood is an exercise in futility, so that my outings are all coordinated with alternate side parking, when the streets miraculously clear for the street sweepers, only to have every spot filled the instant it’s legal again. So driving is a little bit of a novelty for the kids, and for me, and so I am unused to this weird phenomenon of the kids both falling asleep in their car seats on our way back from anywhere.

Car naps used to disturb me because I used to care about “junk sleep” and “nap schedules.” Then I had another baby. Now I take what I can get. And when both kids are asleep at the same time, it’s like a spa vacation. In my car. So you know what I do?

I drive to McDonalds. I do. And I go through the drive-through. I do! McDonalds is so evil and disgusting! I, who used to be a vegan who lectured people on how supporting companies like McDonalds was destroying the earth and making angels cry! And… “Ah, can I get an iced coffee? And, like, a grilled chicken sandwich? Do you have something like that? A grilled chicken sandwich?”

“A McChicken?”

“Um, is that grilled?” I hear how ridiculous this sounds and correct myself, “Yes, please.” (It is not. It is a big chicken finger covered in greenish ribbons imitating lettuce and something like mayonnaise.) (It is DELICIOUS.) “Is the chicken organic?” I’m kidding, I don’t ask that. But I do think it. Oh, and can I just say that the sandwich, coffee, and fruit thingy that I get all cost $5? Do people know about this? That’s amazing!

And then, there I am, parked on a tree-lined Park Slope street, my kids snoozing away in neck-kinking slumps, sipping a McDonalds iced coffee (the medium is large enough to kill a horse — what is wrong with this country?! — oh, and delicious), and you know what? It’s the second-most relaxing moment of my day. After having my cavity filled.

PS Read more about how deeply, embarrassingly imperfect of a mother I am over at an even-more public forum here!

The Read Balloon: Playtime Peekaboo board book

And now for the first ever Read Balloon post inspired by a favorite book of The New Guy, Mr. Ollie Baby Himself. At 8 months or so (who can know for sure?), the boy formerly known as Boombox is starting to express some quite sophisticated tastes in literature. To wit, this week’s pick, DK Publishing’s Playtime Peekaboo, author unknown.

I’m trying to get through this post without writing anything disparaging about this board book. Let’s just say I’m not the one whose soul is stirred by Playtime Peekaboo’s sturdy pages, stock photographs of happy babies, and various textures.  But Ollie really really really loves this book. He literally squeals with delight as he lifts the flaps and discovers, all over again, the fuzzy little bear. And we all know that audible squeals are the best reviews any book can hope for. If his reaction is any indication, for babies, Playtime Peekaboo is a delight for the senses. Apparently, it even tastes really good.

Harper also loved this book when she was this age, the age of peekaboo, and I remember appreciating that this book has flaps that are actually sturdy enough to survive the enthusiastic grip of a semi-coordinated baby fist. It’s not the prettiest board book  in the world, but it is exactly what it needs to be. If you have a baby, I will guarantee you that baby will really love this book. I bet you…my copy of this book.

And don't miss the exciting sequel, Bedtime Peekaboo. Harper used to kiss every page goodnight before bed. Oh, babies!

Fall in Prospect Park

Every once in a while someone who doesn’t live in New York expresses concern about the strange practice of raising children in the city, and I realize they don’t know about the park. The park! We are obsessed with the park. Or I am. Harper has probably spent 60% of her life in the park. The playground, the meadows, the zoo, the botanic gardens, the carousel, the other playground, the other other playground, the tot lot. Oh the park. It’s true about city dwellers and parks being our yards. And we don’t even have to mow. It obligingly glows in Autumn. This is good because we are too lazy to drive out of the city in order to enjoy fall color. Which is good because we live near the park. Oh the park.

“I’m going to dream of Halloween”

I guess I’ve got a chip on my shoulder when it comes to kid Halloween. Every year I get annoyed that there are scary, inexplicable decorations everywhere, spooking Harper. (The other day at the children’s museum — “Why there’s a hand there, Mama?” “Oh, you know. Just a really fun severed hand floating in some fake formaldehyde as a hilarious joke. Whee!”) She also hates masks and face paint, although she did manage gather up the bravery today at playschool to get her nose painted pink. Then there’s the candy situation. Why would I want strangers to give my kid a bunch of terrible junk food I don’t really want her to eat at all? Why? And let’s not forget the costume situation, which just reminds me of what a non-crafty mama I really am. Maybe it’s the deep-seated costume-wariness of a bespectacled person. Glasses really make costumes impossible. I’m probably the only person in the world or at least Park Slope who wants Sarah Palin to jump into the Republican primary race — just because she’s a good costume for me, people, that’s it.

Still, over the course of the day I admit that my Halloween grinchiness was melted away. Harper was delighted with the morning’s costumes, invented by her: Charlie and Lola.

I was proud of her for this costume idea. First of all, it’s literary and almost entirely unrecognizable by the general public, and thus, my kind of costume. Second of all, it included her brother, which melted my Halloweeny heart. Third of all, it was easily thrown together, consisting of normal and rewearable clothes. I mean, am I an unfun Mom or what.

This costume was perfect for the morning at school — after all, it’s just clothes. And Harper really really liked pretending to be Lola all day. She demanded a lot of pink milk, addressed me as Marv or sometimes Minnie, and got into zany mishaps with an invisible Lotta. Good times!

But a few weeks ago a desire to also be a fairy princess was expressed. What IS a fairy princess? How does she know about them? I don’t know. All I know is, I placed an order with the brilliant Halloween seamstress that is my mother and a few days later a sweet, diaphanous, sparkly fairy dress arrived in the mail. Tiara, wings, and wand were obtained. Alton was squeezed into Harper’s old monkey costume.Costumes #2 were in full effect for evening.

Harper of course refused to wear the fairy princess getup. At trick-or-treating time we made our way out onto the street, Harper dressed as a cranky 2 year old who needed a nap. (A very convincing ensemble, I have to say.) But the magic smoke bubbles at the bakery across the street and hordes of costumed kids changed her mind, as did our accidental trick-or-treating on the way to her friend’s house. “Why he is giving me candy?” Harper kept demanding.

Finally we met up with Malka, her parents, and Adam. As usual, Malka and Harper whipped each other into a frenzy of giddiness, and soon Harper was racing around in her fairy princess costume which was good so I didn’t have to freak out on her about demanding it. The girls loved trick-or-treating, monkey-Alton fell asleep in the carrier, and the grownups got to feel charmed by brownstone Brooklyn in all its neighborhoody glory.
In conclusion… tiara+lollipops=really impressively tangled hair.

The Read Balloon: Peter’s Chair

“Harper, what’s your favorite book right now?”

“Peter!”

“Really? Peter’s Chair, the children’s classic by Ezra Jack Keats, who innovatively used collage and introduced multiculturalism into children’s literature?” *paraphrased

“Yeah.”

“What’s your favorite part?”

“I like when he reaches up.” (On the first page, Peter is building a very awesome block tower.)

“What else?”

“I like when his mama looks out the window. What’s he doing? There’s the picture of him as a bigger baby.”

“Yes. Pretty cool book. It’s about having a new baby in the house. We have a new baby, don’t we?”

No response.

“His new baby Susie is kind of like our Ollie!”

“Read it again. “

And there you have it.

Did everyone else know that Ezra Jack Keats was a Jewish white guy from Brooklyn? I didn't.

Little Brother is the Woman of The World

Little brother: "Gee! Thanks for the black eye! It was cool that you were paying attention to me!" Big brother: "Oh god. Just stop talking."

Growing up I was convinced that my parents would never really get how difficult I, the older sister, had it. They were both youngests, and thus, inevitably, spoiled rotten. And it’s true, they seemed pretty unsympathetic to my complaints that my brother wanted to do deeply annoying things like “hang out with me” and “love me.” Uuuuuuhhhhhhh! Annoyinggggg!

Suddenly, I have a different perspective.

"Hey Harper! Hey! Harper! Whatcha doin? Hey Harper, I'm sitting! Hey! Check it out! Hey! Harper?"

Sometimes when Harper comes over to him to play or steal a toy, Alton literally quivers with excitement. He ADORES her. He has this hysterical laugh that is only for her. He will just sit in his exersaucer and watch her bounce around the room. The poor kid can’t even talk, and already it’s clear that he thinks his sister is amazing.

As his mother, of course I’m like, Aw! He’s so cute and lovable and nicely damp with drool at all times! Lucky Harper to have this devoted new buddy! What fun!

Don’t get me wrong.  Harper is very sweet towards her brother. When she’s in a situation that’s making her anxious, she grabs his hand, to “make him feel better.” She talks about how she can’t wait to be 18 so that she can splash him in the pool. (We said they needed to be older, and she assigned the age of 18 as an appropriate time for splashing. Also, chewing gum.) She is occasionally possessed by what we call love attacks, where she grits her teeth and makes pinchy hands at him and says, “I just want to touch him!”

New best friend, or horrible contagion?

But also, it’s no secret that she’s just slightly annoyed that he exists. Let’s face it, her life was pretty baller before this. We hung out all day, did really elaborate art projects, played long and complex games together. As my mother put it, You’re told you’re getting this new playmate and it sounds like it’s going to be fun, but then the baby arrives and you realize it just means you have to wait. And thus, no matter what any little brother ever does, no matter how awesome he is, no matter how much he adores and worships his older sibling, his entire life there is someone who is just sort annoyed that he exists.  And then when the older siblings tries to victimize this deserving whelp, the parents get all touchy and then feel sorry for the new guy and then are even nicer to him, which is infuriating to the older one. What a vicious cycle!

I really never got it until now. Poor youngers! Sure, you’re spoiled by your parents. Sure, we olders have to spend our childhoods wearing down our parents so that you can eat Doritos and never have a curfew. You’re welcome for that.  As it turns out, parents actually really love these second kids, and need to protect them from their older siblings’ scary-sweet love attacks, and just want everyone to get along, and don’t see how annoying the youngers are in part because dudes, the annoyingness is sometimes not visible to the naked/non-sibling eye. To the rest of the world, these youngers are JUST KIDS.  Who knew?

In the words of Harper: “Just put him down!”

Or in the (reported) words of me, to my mother, when my brother was born: “Maybe you should have had just one kid.”

Can you imagine having THIS around, wanting to PLAY with you? Ugh!

So I just want to say, to all the younger siblings of the world: Stop being so annoying. Oops, I mean: Sorry. We love you, we really do.

Rockaway Beach: The Mini-Montauk.

For a few years now, we’ve celebrated the Amy Shearn Birthday Week of Tribute by going to Montauk, a sleepy little fishing town known only to locals and us. In October, that is. This year when Adam suggested it, I shuddered. I love Montauk. I love my birthday weekend trip. But traveling with two wee people, as cute as the photos turn out, is just so much work. What I really wanted was a morning with a cappuccino and newspaper and then perhaps a professional haircut from an elderly poolshark (both of which have been accomplished today, thank goodness).

Luckily Adam came up with a brilliant solution: a day trip to the Rockaways. For free, after only a 30 minute drive, we got our sunny, abandoned beach, our wild waves, our feeling of being out of the city, and we were home in time for Ollie’s nap. Heaven.