NEWSFLASH: Parenting is hard.

Is it just me, or are there a lot of articles out there these days that sound like this. Or this.

I'm going to be perfectly honest here. When I see these headlines, my very first instinctual reaction is: Tell me about it. Then, of course, I feel guilty and think about how much I love my kid and how lucky I am and all that yadda yadda that people do when they're afraid they've revealed their true inner monster.

Today I got to thinking...what is it about our generation that is so terribly ambivalent about parenthood? The obvious answer is that roles have changed over the years, and you now have women with careers and men with more paternal responsibility, and it's only natural that living in our "want it all" culture leads us to inevitable disappointment and frustration when we can't have it all.

But then I started thinking more (I had 2 1/2 hours of alone time today. My brain surprised me with all kinds of thoughtful thinking.) and it struck me that people probably haven't changed all that much over time. Fifty years ago when women were almost exclusively in the home, running a household and raising children, I don't really think that every single one of them felt completely fulfilled and at peace with their lives. Or anyone else for that matter. I think that from the beginning of time, people have been frustrated by their situations and longed for better circumstances. In fact, I'd say that's the only way a species can advance.

Sooo...(Seriously, my brain hasn't had this much exercise in...a long time), why do you suppose that we hear so much more about parental dissatisfaction these days? The moms and dads from my childhood, including my own, seemed happy enough, and by all accounts our grandparents were the picture of domesticity and hard work. So what happened to us? I'll tell you. We're whiners.

Yes. You. Me. We complain to our friends, we complain on Facebook and on our blogs, we complain to our children and to our bosses. We complain to our mothers and fathers, we complain in books and newspaper articles. We are obsessed with venting every feeling and frustration we experience in an effort to a) gain sympathy and b) be reassured that we are not alone in our self-pity.

Our parents didn't do that. Okay, maybe they did it a little, but they didn't have the internet to fan the flames. I'm fairly certain our grandparents didn't do that. Who had the time, with ten children and no washer and dryer? I'm quite confident that from the beginning of time, moms and dads have felt put upon and underappreciated for their own, unique familial roles, regardless of how those roles have changed. But we are just now becoming comfortable voicing our displeasure and feeling justified in our malcontent. We feel that we should be happy all the time, and when we aren't we need a scapegoat. Those damn kids. If I wasn't saddled with them I'd...I'd...

Well, guess what? The childless are unhappy too. As are the employed, the unemployed, the wealthy, the poor, the blondes, the brunettes...you get the idea. Maybe if we all stopped buying into this mass pity party, we could take that energy and focus it on improving our situations. Who's with me?

Maybe I'm being alienating here, and it's not my intention to be, but I also think that people need to form opinions and not be afraid to state them at the risk of offending others' sensibilities. There's tolerance, there's respect, and I'm all for both of those things. But there's also two sides to every story, or perhaps more, and a whole lot of perspectives to consider. I'm just sayin'...

Naptime Poetry

I remember you
From another time
Freshly inked with independence
Full of plans that had no time to be made

I saw you then
As I see so many others
Glamorized, idolized
With a place for me somewhere in the fallacy

I hoped, I chased
I put on a show for you
You bought a ticket
You didn't leave when the curtain fell

But I forgot to take off my mask

I remember things
You
Trying
Saying the right things

I remember hearing them
Too late

It was all a show
And when it ended, I didn't notice
The lights turned on
The audience left
And I stood there
Looking at you

Big Sister, Little Sister

I think Elle is going to be a wonderful big sister. Someday. (Relax, mom and dad, that wasn't an announcement.) What I know she won't be is a little sister. That's just how it works when you're the first. But she gets to play the role whenever she visits her wonderful friend Gracie. Gracie is expecting her new little sister in the next couple of months, and I can't think of a luckier spot to be in than to be Gracie's little sister. This girl was born to be a big sister. She's kind, she's gentle, she's patient, and whenever my daughter sees her, her whole body lights up. E doesn't generally like to be told what to do, or to get help with something unless she asks for it. Unless it's Gracie. Gracie's mom is pretty special too. I'm going to miss these two something awful.

Best sushi I've ever tasted

Ki Sushi, Brooklyn


Ki roll: tuna, salmon, yellowtail inside, topped with spicy crunch king crab, avocado, caviar and gold leaf

One Great Week

Last summer, the DeWagners came to visit us in Brooklyn. Okay, it wasn't just us. Apparently NYC is a pretty big draw for reasons other than it being where we live. Anyhoo...we spent some time with them and it was fun. Really fun. They're fun people.

Since then, we've been intending to get together again. We were supposed to visit when we went back to Canada...didn't happen. They were supposed to come after Christmas...didn't happen. I've been holding out hope that we can visit them when we move back to Canada this summer. But then...

I get an email from June, announcing that they will arrive in Brooklyn in two days! For a whole week! I was pretty excited. E and Zoey, their little ball of good times, are only six days apart in age and similar in a lot of ways. They got along great when they first met last year, and the idea of getting them together again, now that they've blossomed into full-blown toddlerhood, was extremely enticing.

From the first day of their visit, when they came for dinner and E demanded that they sit together, it was just one giant fun-filled photo op. Days after they had left, E was still calling J and I "Brian and June", and referring to herself as Zoey. A week later, I was still waking up to "June! My clock is yellow!" Just like last time, the DeWagners left us wanting more, reminding us that sometimes long distance friendships are just as satisfying as the ones we get to enjoy every day.

Sorry, Bobby.

Today I told my daughter that Bobby McFerrin is dead. The conversation was all kinds of weird and probably not my best parenting moment for lots of reasons, but mostly because it started with a lie. An inadvertent lie, but a lie all the same. Are you as confused as I am?

E: Agh! I dropped my toast!
M: Don't worry, babe. Just pick it up. No big deal.
E: Don't worry.
M: Don't worry, be ____
E: Happy!
M: Remember that song?
E: Yes. Who sings that song, mama?
M: Bobby McFerrin.
E: Bobby McFerrin. Where is Bobby McFerrin?
M: He died. (I swear I thought he was dead. I have no idea where I got that from.)
E: What did he die to?
M: I'm not sure, a heart attack I think.
E: What is heart attack?
M: It's when your heart stops. You know how the heart goes "lub-dup"? Well, when it stops doing that, you die.
E: When my heart stops, I get another one. It will be yellow.
M: Don't worry babe. Your heart won't stop.
E: WHEN it stops, mama. WHEN it stops, I get another one.
M: Okay, that sounds good.
E: What did that man die to?
M: What man?
E: Bobby McFerrin.
M: Let me check. (Google, Wikipedia...wait a tic...still alive!) Oh, I lied. He's still alive! He didn't die, babe.
E: He didn't die. You lied.
M: Sorry about that.

Now that we're entering the dizzying phase of "How many questions can I ask in one day?", I think I'm going to have to hone my skills a little bit. Both in factual accuracy and delivery. I guess the moral of this story is...when your child asks you a question, just Google it. Or, if you're going to make something up, maybe don't start by killing people off.

Naptime Existentialism

One person.
There is never just one person. Alone. With no ties to another person. Everyone is someone's child. It might not go any further than that - sisters and brothers, friends, husbands and wives - these relationships are not foregone conclusions. But each person here today and who came before and who will come, they are all someone's children. It is a bond we all share, a connection to another human being, no matter how fragile or fractured, no matter how distant or damaged. It makes each of us a tangible part of a thing that is greater than our own lives. Humanity. Earth. Universe. Part of it. Undeniably.
Not alone.

Happy 1st Birthday, Ruby Mae!!!

These are my nieces. Is it just me, or are they the two cutest little redheads you've ever seen? Ruby Mae is one year old today, and my wish for her is that she gets to meet the coolest aunt on the planet before she's another year older. Selfish, yes. But I imagine it would work out well for both of us. I also hope that she gets lots of hugs and kisses today, and some chocolate. It is possible to love someone you've never met. This I know for a fact.

Aayla Moon and Ruby Mae, you are the sweetest nieces a girl could hope for.

Love,
Auntie M.

Red-headed Clown: 1, Mom: 0

I knew this day would come. After years of proclaiming that my future children would *never* eat fast food, or at least until they could go out and buy it for themselves, followed by a pregnancy that tempered my resolution to the more *realistic* notion that my children would be at least 5 years old when we first introduced them to a fast food restaurant, to the inevitable first visit to McDonald's when my daughter was about 10 months old and I peeled the breading from the McNuggets and chose apple slices and milk over french fries and pop...to now. To this conversation:

E: Mama, I want a booger.

M: You want a booger?

E: A buuuuurrrrr-ger.

M: Oh. Okay, maybe I'll make burgers tonight.

E: No, I want one from the rest-a-ront.

M: Well, maybe we'll go to a restaurant for a burger then.

E: I want milk with my booger.

M: I'm sure the restaurant will have milk.

E: I want milk from the bottle that has Ronald McDonald on it with my booger. At the rest-a-ront.

M: Ohhhhh...(*dangit!*)

Of course, in my endless quest to make myself feel better for my transgressions, I take foolish pride in the fact that she doesn't know that it's called "McDonald's", and she didn't mention fries. She also didn't get to go, so I can tell myself that I'm not a slave to my toddler's demands.

This is the closest thing I have to a diary. It represents the longest and most detailed record I've ever managed to keep of the goings on in my life and the life of my little family, and it makes me happy. So I do it.

I am mom to a truly extraordinary toddler, wife to a devastatingly handsome, brilliant husband and purveyor of food and walks to a tirelessly enthusiastic dog.

I am unfailingly fond of eating with, dancing with, and writing about, family and friends.

This is my story.