Caffeine. Parenting. Wine. Chaos.
I’m sort of back in business on the technical front. But only at work, which is not a great solution since I have the day job and all.
At home, the news is not good.
Trojan Horse Criminal Ring: 1, Fordeville: 0
Punks.
P is still working on it but is warming to the idea that we need to bring in some professionals. Or maybe get a new computer.
It’s so badly named — maybe that’s why I initially dismissed the notion of FestiFall. Maybe it sounds too much like Festivus (“It’s time for the airing of the grievances!”). I also had no idea the scale of this thing, this street fair on steroids that occuppied our suburban downtown last Sunday.
I hated street fairs when I lived in the city. They were annoying — rerouting us in our car to go around the street closures, slowing us down on foot trying to navigate the crowds. People loved the food but it grossed me out (the Street Meat most of all). People, apparently, also loved to buy socks and underwear off the street and get chair massages in the middle of Amsterdam Avenue. Me, not so much.
But there we were, checking out FestiFall and, for reasons I can’t quite pinpoint, it didn’t bother me at all. Well, except the name.
First, it never hurts when you find something that a three year-old loves. My son was beside himself with excitement over the train ride. The driver looked like he may have just made bail, but no matter — father and son had a great time circling the bank parking lot.
And the baby kicked back, remaining a total trooper, despite us totally disrespecting her nap time so as not to sacrifice our killer FestiFall parking spot. Priorities.
Our son then surprised both of us by scaling the forboding “Tree House” — you know, those massive inflatable slides that defy inertia and gravity. He’s kind of skittish about a lot of things, so we were totally skeptical that his “I want to go on the slide” would actually result in a trip down to completion. Score one for the three year-old…he was a champ, though I was convinced by his face that he had that moment of inertia and gravity doubt on the way down. I’m sure he must have envisioned himself launching off the slide into the middle of Elm St.
Here’s his moment of truth. See him way up there?
On the shopping front, no underwear or socks for sale. No chair massages. Lots of home improvement companies — general contractors, landscapers, masons. So there was my husband, comparison shopping for a finished basement in the middle of a street fair. But I managed to pick up some great photographs of Spain and Portugal from a local artist that I think may be the missing links to pull the family room together. I’ve looked high and low — who knew to scour the FestiFall (ugh, the name) for home decor?
And, last but not least, if you’ve never had a deep fried Oreo, you’re really missing out.
Yeah, I know it looks like fried calamari here but it was damn good. Maybe Street Meat is not too far in my future after all.
Our home computer has been taken over by some nasty virus. It is totally and completely blank, empty, out of commission. Also, my company revoked access to personal email last week. And now, today, for some reason, I can’t access all of blogland’s glory on WordPress while at work either — they are blocking the site. I’m feeling very disconnected (as I beg, borrow and steal 5 minutes on P’s work laptop that he brought home). So, I’m on a blog siesta for a while, I guess, until P outwits the Trojan virus dudes or we (gulp) agree to voluntarily wipe out the contents of the computer and rebuild it. I’m a digital hoarder — that option kills me. But I’m also a (mostly) good backer-upper, so it should be (mostly) ok. I think.
In the meantime, bear with me and say a little prayer for hacker justice. Oh and if weird shit starts coming through the blog, you’ll know the virus crooks got my WordPress password and decided to have some fun. Jerks.
We got engaged six years ago today. That means six years ago right now I was falling for what was, in retrospect, an elaborate ruse to get me to the location for the big event (our favorite bar, for the record).
The ruse involved a series of emails from two friends, Heather and Marc — something about a belated birthday drink for Heather and having Marc stop by with his newborn (in a bar — how did I not find this strange? Pre-mom-days, I guess this seemed acceptable). Because Marc just happened to be in the neighborhood.
Before you wonder if I am, in fact, that stupid, I remember being slammed at work and not having the mental capacity or attention span to deal with the frenzy of details about this meet up. Plus, who was I to ever pass up a night at Divine Bar?
After work, I rushed to buy Heather a gift (I still remember it was a very cute bag, if I do say so myself), went home to feed the dog and jumped back in a cab to head to Divine. I called my dear friend Nicolette from the cab to sanity check the “baby in the bar” bit and even cautiously said something to her voice mail about “I wonder if this is something else…” And then I noticed that I didn’t especially like what I was wearing and wouldn’t it be a shame *if* we were getting engaged, to not have liked my outfit for any photo ops?
To appreciate this whole story, you have to know that this engagement was a long, long time coming. Almost five years, to be specific. Five years of roller coaster blissful make ups and terrible break ups, of “I’m not ready” (I won’t say who — OK it was him), of limbo and all kinds of craziness. But we had just moved in together, finally, under the strict condition that this engagement was forthcoming. So to have ended up caught off guard, almost, was quite a feat on behalf of the cast of characters involved.
We loved Divine Bar for the history we had there. For the amount of time we spent there, we were practically owed a financial stake in its profits, as far as I’m concerned. The good mix of bad (until you’re slightly drunk) 80s and 90s music, the fun decor tucked away in an old brownstone, the big big wine list and the familiarity of going there so many times — first with colleagues for office happy hour, then on endless dates, and then separately all those times when we weren’t dating for weeks or months.
And there in Divine Bar on that particular night was not my dear friend Heather to receive her cute bag, nor my dear friend Marc with a bar-hopping infant. There was P, at a table, with two glasses of our favorite Pouilly Fuisse (#38 on the menu), which we had ordered a billion times before. I knew then what was going to happen but my nervousness had me pacing, looking for Heather and Marc, checking my phone, leaving them messages — until, finally, P said the thing that made it all really sink in.
“They’re not coming.”
And out came that little box and all the wonderful words that followed and me, with my head in my hands, in disbelief that this moment had come. And a “yes,” and applause from everyone watching and, on cue, champagne out of nowhere from the knowing staff. And just a rush of dizziness and bliss that you get only so many times in your life.
Truly divine.
Well, we pulled it off. Three days away, kidless. By “pulled it off,” I mean barely and not without huge favors, but off we went. And it was great.
I won’t even get into the logistics entailed to ensure our children and dog had their basic needs met for three days. I owe some people huge — I’ll say that much — and I’m grateful for their kindness. But we were getting in that car come hell or high water (cue high water).
Once the last item was stricken from the to-do list and we were on our way, it took me a few hours to decompress. I liked being in the car (mainly because I did little driving) and I had envisioned some great “talk time” for P and me to discuss the big ticket items in our life right now — endless potty training, aligning on a better discplinary approach for our son, prioritizing the home improvement list, etc. But we clearly both needed just to think about a whole not of nothing. It was enough to surf the satellite radio and make decisions about what music we wanted to hear (I lost — see: “I did little driving”). I checked my work Blackberry less and less as the day went on, and finally felt myself checking out by the time we reached the Vermont state line.
Vermont is gorgeous. I’d been before, skiing over the years, but it had been a while. It really feels worlds away and it just oozes charm.
Even the rest stops are charming
As much as the impetus for our trip was a friend’s wedding, we tacked on an extra night beforehand to spend on our own. This was a great decision. Months ago, I had asked a colleague in Vermont for some advice about where to stay for this pre-wedding side trip and she totally came through with great ideas. Hello, Woodstock Inn.
What a beautiful place. Totally charming (down to its address on “The Green” and its in-room fireplace) and also modernized (complete with 17 day-old spa, which we visited promptly, and bathrooms right out of Restoration Hardware). I’d go back in a heartbeat.
We hit up nearby Simon Pearce for browsing and dinner, both equally great. I wish I had bought something — their pieces are so gorgeous — but I was short on time to make our dinner reservation. It was over dinner we were finally able to unwind and start to sort out that home improvement priority list, other happenings and just fun nonsense. Very low key and really lovely.
Oh and we got 8 uninterrupted hours of sleep — I don’t think I’ve had that since our son was born in 2007.
The town of Woodstock was just, as P would say, out of a Chamber of Commerce brochure. Picturesque, quaint, welcoming. Add the blue skies and perfect fall weather, and I’ll tell you, it was exactly the idyllic New England day I had hoped for in my head. Here’s a few scenic shots, though they’re always better in person.
If you want to know what's happening in town...of course check the blackboard
And here I was feeling all “Bridges of Madison County” (yeah, I know, Iowa, not Vermont — but come on — this is pretty damn close).
Anyway, it was a great day. I felt relaxed, truly.
Then we were off to the main event in Killington — the wedding. It was the perfect day for an outdoor wedding in September. The bride and groom were thrilled, as they should be.
Logistically, we were a crew of 40 under one roof (literally, we were all staying overnight at the inn where the wedding was held — a whole lotta togetherness). So it was a little different but really suited the whole event.
More wine, more relaxation.
And I got 7 more hours of uninterrupted sleep. But right before I did, this was the mental image I was left with.
The shotski. A big Vermont tradition. Who knew?
Anyway, the drive home was sort of a drag — I’ve always had trouble transitioning on Sundays back to the work week mindset ahead. It’s always worse when you leave behind a great weekend. We made the rounds and picked up the dog, our son and then relieved my aunt from her truly generous (and sort of not what she signed up for) weekend with the baby.
Back to reality. But it was a long-overdue, great break and I do feel recharged (or at least refocused, or perhaps just less annoyed/exhausted).
This is what happens when you tell a 3 year-old that he can choose one treat in the store. It’s my own fault. And, really, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Thankfully he was distracted by an airplane greeting card…
One thing I didn’t notice until I uploaded the photo was the price. That couldn’t have been for the M&M fellow himself, right? It *must* have been for the candies inside. If not, I’m going back.
It never ceases to amaze me how much prep work it entails to get out of town. This time (cue angels singing), P and I will escape sans kids. It’s been about 18 months since we’ve had a night away by ourselves (oh, unless you count my colleague’s wedding last year when I spent more time with my breast pump — the baby was 4 months old — than my husband in a NJ hotel room). This getaway will, God willing, be two nights — though the plan is hanging by a thread. Still, I remain determined to be in the car this time tomorrow, headed north.
Specifically, we’re off to Vermont for a wedding. In my head, I have this vision of an idyllic fall weekend in New England — gorgeous scenery, some nice shopping, delicious food and the swank inn (w/spa treatments) that I booked us in the night before the wedding. And then of course the wedding itself — fun with friends, drinks, drinks, fun, friends. All good.
I booked my mom for this huge babysitting favor months ago and she was game, God bless her. Now, today, she sits in a hospital in Manhattan with my stepfather, who has just come out of surgery for prostate cancer. Thankfully, all went very well and his prognosis is excellent. He should even come home today (robotic surgery). But of course it shifted what she could take on this weekend, understandably.
This did not deter me. I had nothing but resolve (albeit selfish resolve) to get out of Dodge and for the full two nights, damnit. I need a break from the all-consuming potty training, the terrorist negotiations with a 3 year old and the non-stop climbing of a 1 year-old. Just a quick break, just two nights, please, and I think I’ll be as good as new.
I have never done this but I called my sister-in-law and begged her to take our son for the weekend. Our nephew is 4 and they would have a blast (the kids, I mean — I can’t say the same for the parents). My SIL and BIL have 4 children, ages 12 to almost 3. They don’t sweat the small stuff. They have a great time and — thank you God — they were more than willing to take on a 5th kid for the weekend (they were actually game to take both of our kids, but even my selfish motives couldn’t overcome the guilt associated with that big of a favor). Our son and his cousin will be as thick as thieves all weekend. Who knows — maybe the potty trained 4 year-old will rub off on our son.
One kid down, one to go. The baby — the precious 14 month old who looks like an angel but has the devil in her eye. It’s that phase of nonstop exploration (translation = danger at every turn). My husband has our son calling her “The Destructor.” So cute, so curious — sooooo hands on. For her, I have devised a revolving door of caregivers, which consist of our nanny working overtime, my aunt and maybe my mom, depending on how my stepfather is doing. It’s kind of a precarious series of hand-offs and I feel slightly bad about it. But did I mention I’m getting in that car and going tomorrow?
Oh and the poor sweet pug, Senor. His weekend whereabouts are tbd, depending largely on a matrix of events that involve my mom, stepfather, aunt and possibly SIL. But he’s a good boy and very flexible about where he lands. As long as there are ample treats.
So, with all of that in play (breathe in, breathe out), it’s time to get to the to-do list:
Did I mention I have a dinner tonight that I committed to ages ago (add to list: Make appetizer for the dinner)? Oh and I need a manicure (badly). And I’m at work all day today (let’s not even get into that list).
But I’m getting out of town tomorrow. Somehow. Wish me luck.
Glad to report that everything went as well as it could have. For me, that meant no tantrums, no potty accidents and the inclusion of a train table in the classroom. Score.
I was nervous about this transition, only because it’s one of many that we’ve thrown at my son over the last few months . Along with the move itself came the last new school, a nanny in our house for the baby, etc. And he’s just not great with change. This is a kid who has been in full-time day care since the age of 4 months, so the anxiety wasn’t about him being away from home during the day. It was having to explain that this was “a different new school” after he was still getting used to the day care place we had used for the last 5 months since our move to the burbs. And that was my struggle — I just didn’t love that last place but wondered if we should move him again and have him deal with another transition. Financially, it was just ridiculous to go on paying for full time day care *and* a nanny (for our 1 year old) — but it was where we could place him at the time we moved and I didn’t want him just sitting home all day. The boy needs to burn his energy with other like-minded 3 year old maniacs. Dirt. Trains. Running. Running faster. Spitting. More trains. All that good stuff. So, anyway, the day care was fine for a few months until the school year started — and that bought us more time to potty train for pre-school…in theory…let’s file that under “ongoing challenges that I’m told one day will pass.”
So there was a lot of chat in the house for the last week or so about the new school. We drove him past it a few times, let him see the nice flag outside with the teddy bear (he liked that). We read the letter together from his teachers last week, letting him know how excited they were to meet him (indifference). We went shopping for a new lunch bag but, always late to the game on these things, found only barren shelves in the Back to School section of Target. Oops. (But I did get some other great items that day…)
And then yesterday, I worked from home so that I could bring him for the big first day. I kept talking it up but the kid is on to me, kind of mentally raising one eyebrow at my over the top enthusiasm, as if to say “Lady, take it down a notch. You’re not fooling anyone.”
He got a little dressed up for the occasion. I kind of thought he looked like he was off to work (maybe at some hip web developer internship or something).
I left my usual 5 minutes to arrive somewhere that is 5 minutes away. Not smart. Let’s just say I vastly underestimated the flashmob that “First Day of Preschool” means in our new town. The kids were really decked out. They all had sweet looking backpacks (Oops — do we need one? He’s only 3. I guess I’ll repurpose the Thomas one at home that is used for train storage). They all had both parents with them (Shit. Called P — we both felt bad — and then quickly justified with “Yeah but he’s been going to day care forever — this isn’t his first time off to school.”). Oh and some had grandparents there too for the big event. Lots of pictures everywhere (Check. At least I brought my camera.) — we waited in line to take the requisite shot in front of the pre-school sign.
So, because all of town was there, and all in their large SUVs, the place was crazy. No parking anywhere. Swarms of families. A total zoo. My nanny was in the passenger seat checking out the routine and kept saying nervously “Please tell me it’s not like this all the time,” undoubtedly imagining herself toting my 1 year-old through this exercise twice a day.
We went inside, my son’s hand in mine, and he was fine — covered his ears a bit, which is his new nervous response to any uncertain situation — but seemed genuinely curious. We found the appointed Teddy Bear room (Really? Do we have to do this as parents? “Oh my son is in AM Teddy Bears.” So awkward. How about Room 202?)
The moment I saw the train table in the classroom, I knew he’d be fine. Amen.
He refused to wear his name tag around his neck (no surprise there) but, being the day care veteran that he is, immediately demanded an inspection of his cubby’s location. We checked it out and he approved. Back to the train table. I watched from afar and wondered how long it was going to take for him to move from happy about this to annoyed that it did not have all of his preferred engines in place. It took about 2 minutes (“But they don’t even have Percy. Where are all of the engines and their coal tenders?”).
But he was fine and off I went (after showing him again where the potty is, praying that he would not have an accident on Day One). They only kept him an hour (this will be the case all week) in the morning — so we went home, had lunch, talked about his new friends and more commentary on the lackluster train table — then went back for an hour of the afternoon session. All the while, I had medium-sized fires popping up at the office and was begging my assistant to find a way to move a call I’m hosting across 4 countries — “Just buy me 15 minutes so I can pick up my son” — so that I can be there for the end of the school day. My Blackberry was buzzing, ringing and smoking as I walked into the afternoon classroom (the PM Kittens — again, really?). And I just wanted so badly, in that moment, to be a stay at home mom who could focus on this one important thing for my son without feeling the possible early warning signs of a stroke as I shuffled work “priorities.” (More on the SAHM pangs another time).
But it all worked out, even if I aged 3 years over the course of the day from the running around. Turned out my son also loved the resident guinea pigs in the classroom. He asked me where their mommy is and I speculated that maybe she lives in another classroom. He gave me the “mentally my eyebrow is up” look again and said: “No. I don’t fink so. I fink she’s at work.” Hm. My first reaction was how cute that was. Then I was proud that he thinks of women as working role models (so progressive — oh please, justify much?). And then I was just plain sad that was his first thought about where someone’s mommy would be. It bothered me, though the blow was lessened by what he said next: “But she’ll come see the babies later. Mommy always comes back.”
And then he dragged me back in the classroom (now empty) to show me the defects of the train table in detail.
One more required photo outside (now he’s losing steam) and back home to give the baby a full recap.
Glad to report that neither my son nor my husband disliked the parent-child swim class that I signed them up for as much as I had anticipated. It was 50/50 as to who was going to be more annoyed with me for this, but they had a great time.
I did it to avoid a repeat of last winter, which felt both endless and claustrophobic. This was largely because we had a total lack of foresight and planned no structured activities for a highly energetic toddler. That was sort of a bad equation, especially in what was then our 700 square foot apartment with an infant too. So, anyway, I figured a weekly Sunday morning class of sorts would get us all up and out for a while. In my head, I had this great plan to tie in a nice family breakfast out in town, but let’s just say that was total disillusionment for a variety of reasons. Maybe next week.
So this was our first trip to the local Y in town. Very nice, if not a bit overwhelming with the amount of stuff you can sign up for. It was pre-caffeine for me, so I didn’t trust my clouded judgement and decided to forego any other enrollment for now.
No photos to show of the big first swim class but not for lack of trying. As I started to take out my camera, some obnoxious mother walked up to me and pointed right to a sign that gently reminded me no photography is allowed inside the Y. Um, OK — are you the Hall Monitor or just frustrated with the apparent lack of authority in your life? So, no shots to share, except for my son’s first membership card. Three shots later (not out of vanity but a combination of technical error and closed eyes), he got his plastic. We are now his guests for admission (we’re not members), which is sort of how life with kids feels anyway.
