Artificially Sweetened

Is it really necessary to send me the same (strangely capitalized) “Now i Can GET EVERYTHING I NEED” brochure EVERY SINGLE TIME I order pump supplies?

I order my supplies online, so clearly I’m capable of getting information about your products without a 30 page high gloss paper brochure sent to me MONTHLY.

Why don’t you alleviate pain (to our environment) and extend the life (of our planet) by eliminating this brochure, which is headed straight for my recycling bin anyway.

Thanks,

AS

When:

Seeing a taxi pull up in the driveway next to yours (P’ito: Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!) is an event of almost orgasmic joy (almost, my friends, almost).

Your child picks his friend’s nose and vice versa, and the only comment you have is “You know I’m blogging this.”

And just because - cute pictures.

I’ve always wondered about that.

When MotherTalk offered up the chance to review Tricia Ashworth and Amy Nobile’s new book Dirty Little Secrets from Otherwise Perfect Moms, I jumped.

I envisioned Dirty Little Secrets as a “break glass in case of emergency” stash of those moments that remind you that you are not the worst mom in the world - or at least that the world is full of equally awful moms.

Along those lines, I will always treasure the memory of the time that the Good Mom at Daycare - y’know the one whose kid is never in the late room with P’ito and the other sniffling snuffling why-don’t-my-parents-love-me-enough-to-pick- me-up-on-time kids - confessed that she didn’t care if her son’s teeth rotted: his bedtime bottle of milk put him to sleep. Speaking of which… any tips for eliminating said bottle of milk and/or brushing the teeth of an almost 18 month old with FANGS would be much appreciated

And is there a parent alive who hasn’t seen a child howling in the supermarket and thought: “Thank g-d that’s not my kid.” Or: Oh shit. That IS my kid. (grab bagel from bakery section and shove in kid’s mouth. Endure look of scorn on cashier’s face as she rings up a sixpack of beer a gallon of milk, a package of wipes, a frozen pizza, and a well-masticated whole wheat bagel. Hey, it’s whole wheat…)

I think of the time that my colleague confessed that she sent her daughter to daycare on days when she didn’t have to go into work just to have time to catch up on stuff at home. And how she still feels a mixture of guilt and relief about having done that: SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER. And inside me a little window opened, a little breeze blew through me - it’s not just me.

In this book, Ashworth and Nobile set out to recapture that sensation of relief for moms everywhere. They write:

“Our goal is to puncture the overblown expectations we all have of ourselves to be “perfect,” and in the process make our generation of mothers feel less guilty, less burdened, more unified, and less alone.”

The book consists of pithy confessions from Real Live Moms - one per page. They range from the amusing - “We were in the grocery store and when we hit the wine aisle, she screamed, ‘That’s Mommy’s juice!’” - to the heart-wrenching “Sometimes I think my nanny does a better job than I do.” There were plenty of confessions that had me nodding my head in agreement and a few that had me shaking my head with irritation - the more dishes my husband does, the more likely he is to “get some” later? What does that have to do with making us feel less guilty or less burdened as moms? I hate the way my husband chews? Ditto, ditto, ditto.

Some of MotherTalk’s other reviewers think this book would be too scary for first time moms. As one, I beg to differ - I think that this is exactly when you need a book like this, because you will be utterly sleep deprived and a book like this, with just a sentence or two on each page, is the perfect antidote to the 16 partially read and utterly contradictory baby books on your nightstand. Plus, early motherhood is exactly when you need to know that

a) There is No Such Thing as the Perfect Mom,
b) It’s okay not to love your child every moment of every day, and um,
c) A bedtime bottle of milk at 18 months will not rot your child’s teeth out and if it does, they’re just baby teeth, righhhht?

And that’s why I will be passing this book along at a baby shower in a few weeks. If you’d like to win a copy for yourself - or an amazon gift card - check out the contest that MotherTalk is hosting.

p.s. On the subject of secrets dirty and clean. I have not done one of the following things. Can you guess which one it is?

• Ignored stench of post-breakfast po-po in order to get out of the house and get child to daycare. Lied and told teacher that he went in the car on the way to school…
• Served the same thing for breakfast (waffles and banana) four days in a row because a) he’ll eat it, and b) it doesn’t make (too much of a) mess when thrown on the floor
• Ignored the fact that he is eating an apple dropped on the ground at the playground. By someone else.
• Told my partner: “Don’t smile at him, he’s evil.”

P’ito has now lived with us longer than he lived in Guatemala.

I feel so completely his mama. I know the warm soft spot between his cheek and his neck, his delighted giggle when I spin him around, the sweet baby shampoo scent of his hair. I know the difference between a squawk of momentary discomfort and a howl of distress. And he knows the sound of our voices, the garlic-onion-mustard seed-tomato smell of our home, the rhythm of Pili’s steps coming up the stairs.

But then I look at our pictures of him in Guatemala, the flowers and colors and unique and wonderful sensations of that place. The scent of corn tortillas warming for a late afternoon lunch. The bouncing of tuk-tuks on cobblestones. The dust rising off the road as a brightly colored bus speeds by. And I wish he could know those sensations in his blood the way the smell of tar in the NYC subway will always smell like home to me.

He may not be able to articulate his memories, but I know that they are there. When we first brought him home, we quickly realized that he knew that los pollitos meant time to fall asleep. That he was gobble gobble gobble, “mi gordito” as his niñera proudly told us.

So I think about today with very mixed emotions, knowing that each day that brings him closer to us, brings him further from those first connections and associations that are part of the wonderful, exuberant, inquisitive boy I love so very much today (and everyday).

The best he can say about 4000 U.S. soldiers dead (and untold Iraqis) is “they volunteered?”

Um, “stop-loss” much, Dick?

Time to find myself a good 1/20/09 countdown ticker.

… who’s ever done this…

thought: hmmm, my site itches

damn, just changed it this morning. Shouldn’t be itching already. Stoooopid Disease.

Wait. Put in thigh site this morning. Itches on stomach.

[bangs head on wall] Put in new site. Connected, primed. Never took out old one. ARGH.

(Enter right, neosporin)

Oh, and a random cute kid picture. First Professional Haircut.

Kitty Cat from Art Sweet on Vimeo.

Baths are for Wimps from Art Sweet on Vimeo.

Because I use P’ito’s Real Name in these clips, and because there is some nekkid baby tush in them, these videos are password-protected. It’s the same password as I used before; if you’ve lost it or don’t have it, leave me a comment with your email and I’ll send it to you if you don’t seem like a creepy child pornographer.

If I don’t send it right away, it’s probably not because I think you’re creepy, I’m just busy.

On that note, back to grant applications I should have done a month ago.

I looked directly into these eyes for the first time.

And touched these hands for the first time.

Pili brought cakemix, eggs, and oil to Guatemala so that she could bake me a cake. But this was - and is - still the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.

Exactly one year later.

I decided that was a better title than: “And now I forgive you for hitting me square in the face with ravioli (from three feet away.)”

Scene: I am putting a sleepy P’ito down in his crib.  I rub his back, give him a kiss (and then steal another one, because his hair is Just So Soft) and he curls up on his belly with Blankie.  At the door, I blow him one more kiss.   He rolls over, brings his hand up to his lips, and goes “Mmmwah!” right back at me.

p.s. My computer is back! Hooray! Only $100 and a new keyboard later…

Part I:

I sneezed at work this morning. With a mouthful of coffee. Which came out my nose (ow). All over my (personal) laptop.

First the keyboard stopped working, then the whole thing started making an ominous beeping noise.

It’s at the computer doctor now. I told him about the coffee, but not about the nose part.

Part II:

Memo to self: Your almost 16-month old son does not have the manual dexterity to feed himself spaghetti in red sauce. He will get very frustrated, resulting in spaghetti and sauce all over you and all over the kitchen. It’s three hours later and I still haven’t mustered the energy to clean up the kitchen, which looks like the set of a slasher movie.