An Impossible-to-believe-“Dirty Dancing”-Moment, THE SEQUEL!!!

You see, tonight, as I was cleaning up dinner and picking up after the hurricane formerly known as my daughter,

I put on “Be My Baby” by the Ronnettes, so that we could slow dance together.

And as I held her, swaying back and forth,

she grabbed my face and kissed me, right smack on the mouth.

With her angel lips.

Yumazing.

So we danced

(And yes, I, of course, let her be Baby. But just this time.)

and she walked around swinging her little skirt to the music,

and she swayed and swished right on over to the corner.

Of the kitchen.

And stood there.

In the corner.

Yes.

Say it with me, now:

“Nobody puts baby in the corner!”

Oh, this child of mine. So much to learn, has she.

If I don’t write, I will burst.

So, as you well know, I’ve been on a little wriatus. I’ve taken some time off the grid, and it’s been nice.

Certainly, I’ve missed chronicling my daily moments of wonder (from the quick photo snapped of a tiny tush in even tinier skinny jeans to a 2-year-old’s inventive original song lyrics to the foodshots of my many missed meals), but I’ve also been enjoying these things so much that I don’t think I will soon forget them (whether they are cyber-documented or not).

All that said, I thank you for tolerating my absence, and know that I was thinking of you. All the time. Seriously. And you look really nice tonight. I love that color on you.

In any case, I am just recovering from (reeling from. reliving. rejoicing in…) a weekend experience that was so special to me, so overflowing with happiness and emotion

that I could no longer contain myself.

This weekend, I visited my sister’s city, to both cheer her on for a big race and to help a dear friend to celebrate her special birthday.

And this weekend was SO important. Not only was it the first time that I left the baby and her daddy together,

but it was a real weekend away, during which I could feel like me again.

On my way to the train, I got a text from my dearest mama friend, and she told me this:

“Enjoy your Becca (not mommy Becca, not wife Becca, just you) time.”

I mean, come on. How lucky am I?

And so I took that advice and I ran with it. I ran with it in the kind of high wedge sandals that I could never wear while carrying my kid.

I let myself have a total girlie weekend

with my sisters (by both birth and by experience)

and it was so special.

So much about yesterday was wonderful; the bright red manicure my sister coaxed me into getting; the time we had to pour over the different styles of lace in a fancy lingerie shop; the snuggle session on my dear friend’s cozy couch, pouring our hearts out over kale chips and Prosecco; the fact that I had my TWO hands free, at the same time, for 24 hours straight; the moment I saw my sister cross the finish line at a sunrise half marathon, as she obliterated her previous race times; this weekend was so special and I will tell you more, I promise,

but for now,

all I can give you is a single snapshot:

My sister and I got to have lunch together, yesterday. Just the two of us. We were tucked into a small table in the far corner of the coolest little restaurant. We were enveloped in the music of Roy Orbison and The Ronnettes and the other amazing tunes that filled the air. And then there was the food. As I mentioned, my sister was preparing for a half-marathon, so we had to make sure our lunch was a feast (OBVIOUSLY I had to be there for moral support. No one can eat like that alone. I know. I’m a giver.) And so, we decided to order everything on the menu that appealed to us. We started with donuts. One for each of us, and we polished them off so quickly that I barely had time to bop along to the song from Dirty Dancing that swirled over our heads. And then, our table was soon covered in everything from blueberry buttermilk pancakes to perfectly runny eggs to homemade sourdough toast. And more. Lots more. And for two little girls, we put a real hurting on this meal. And by that, I mean we did not leave a single drop. Not a crumb. And this was not just because she needed to store up on resources before running over 13 miles; we ate because we were dining and we dined because we were lost in conversation; the kind of conversation that has become such a luxury for us. When I became a mom, my sister became an Aunt

(an AMAZING Aunt)

and so our conversations are now brief, and in between naps and bedtime, and usually with a chatty toddler chiming in in the background. We do our best to stay in constant (or at least consistent) contact, but it is hard.

But during this brunch, with our favorite songs playing

and our bellies full

we were able to talk. To really talk. We talked about future baby names and gave each other life advice and we planned things together and it was precious. So precious and it brought us

–us as the “us” we became 23 years ago when we became sisters–

back to life.

And we both knew it.

Because, when it’s all said and done, she’s my sister. And I will have no other.

She’s the one who knew, an hour after brunch, that it would take me at least 15 minutes and 3 “false starts” before deciding on my nail polish color.

I’m the one who woke up with her every hour from 1am-3am to make sure she was OK before race day.

She’s the one who lit up and shouted in surprise and glee, her arms raised high over her head, as she saw us cheering for her at mile 9

and I’m the one who felt so grateful that I was there to cheer right back at her.

She’s the one who just called me, as I sat here typing these words about my adoration for her,

just to thank me for being so supportive of her and making her so happy.

And I’m the one who says,

I love you, too. More than you will ever know.

So, a snapshot of two sisters

who love each other more than they could ever express

and who,

no matter how many things they have going on in their own lives

will always make time for each other.

And for donuts.

 

Something New!

My sister and I, like any two people, have strengths and weaknesses. She is not great at cutting with scissors. I am terrible at parking.

Weak.

Yet,

She is a Journalism whiz kid and I am an expert at Dirty Dancing.

But, one thing that we are both really, really talented in is

Blog Stalking.

We are total blog-o-holics. In fact, it was my baby sister who first introduced me to the blogosphere, back when she was a Sophomore in college. I gave one blog one hit

and I was hooked.

We talk about bloggers like they’re are friends.

We text, feverishly, about bloggers’ baby names,

outfits,

and what they just ate for lunch.

For me (for us), Blogs give us great, always-accessible reading material,

and, most compellingly, they give us the ability to be total voyeurs.

I should mention that along with Sex and the City and Essie nail colors,

we are also experts at stalking.

We just love to stalk.

And that’s what blogging is. Relishing in every anecdote,

every outfit,

every meal.

And, also, you know…I blog.

And I Mommy Blog.

So, as we sat yesterday, tapping our freshly painted Essie nails and discussing the merits of a certain blogger’s recently posted snack choice, I got to thinking.

I love blogging.

I love food. And though I am no Top Chef, I cook dinner for my family every night.

So, if you come here because you like to commiserate,

or you come here because you like to be a voyeur into my little world,

or if you come here because you’re related to me,

I figure you might enjoy this little bit of New.

So, here goes. I am going to try out a new page, and on it I will share our nightly Family Dinners.

Nothing fancy, just quick snapshots of what I am cooking and what we are eating.

You can use it to get ideas,

or you can use it to be a stalker in my kitchen,

or you can use it to judge me.

And, if you find it boring, skip it. And, if you think I’m a terrible looking cook, send me tips.

But, I suspect you might like this new glimpse into our little Land.

At least I hope you will.

And so, without further ado, I will begin posting on our Family Dinners tonight.

If I can figure it out.

Because I may be good with coming up with healthy, filling family dinners on the fly,

but I am not good at computers and websites. I’ll do my best.

And, at the very least, I know I’ll have one dedicated dinner stalker.

Sister, I’m looking at you.

Blog Appetit.

 

About Mommy

Hey there!

Hi!

Thank you so much for stopping by.

You may been here before. Thanks so much for sticking around.

But, perhaps you’re new here. Perhaps you’ve wandered these parts before, but you’re not sure. Perhaps you need something to jog your memory. Perhaps you’re not a newbie, per se, but haven’t been here since the beginning.

I’m here to catch you up.

See that tab right over there?

Yeah. There —————————————>

That’s my little bio, but really, it’s a bit stale. Things have changed. Of course I’m still parenting a Princess Baby with my Prince Charming, and things are still wonderful,

and also sometimes scary,

but my little girl has grown up before my eyes. And now, she actually can have an intelligible conversation with me. And since I started this journey of writing from Land of Mom, my girl got glasses. And this new path allowed both of us to look at the world differently. So, I write about it.

And since I began chronicling my “Ever After”, I had a very important “promotion”; Not only am I a teacher at the most warm, wonderful, vibrant, colorful, amazing school, but I have now also become a parent there. It is the BEST.

So that’s me. That’s who I am and what I do. But, most importantly, I want thank you for taking this journey with me. Whether this is your first or four-hundredth visit, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being a part of my ever after.

And now, in order to get us all up to speed, here are my cliff notes; an abridged version of how I got here today.

Much love and baby kisses,

Mommy Becca

Mommy, Ever After; The Cliff Notes:

I was born. I know, spoiler alert, right?! Read about Baby Becca.

I lived, I loved, yada yada yada….I met my husband.

The Story Of Us

The Story of Us–Chapter 1

The Story of Us–Chapter 2

The Story of Us–Chapter 3

He liked it, so he put a ring on it.

The Proposal Story

The Proposal, Part Une

The Proposal, Part Deux

The Proposal, Part Trois

The Proposal, Part Quatre

The Proposal, Part Forever

And we got married and decided to grow a baby. And she had to come out, somehow.

The Birth Story (Caution: Not for the Faint of Heart)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5–A Happy Ending

(Spoiler Alert:) It’s a girl!

A girlie girl.

She was named for a Superhero.

Oh, and I breastfed her for 17 3/4 months.

Also, you should probably know that

I am obsessed with feathers, and this is why.

(read more about my feather obsession here. ) And I always keep an eye out for pennies.

In my house, we have nightly dance parties,

obsessions with Sex and the City, Dirty Dancing and Top Chef

and absolutely no boundaries.

I sing.

I have an incredibly tight family.

And we always save room for dessert.

There you have it. A small glimpse into the highlights of this land I call home.

I hope you stick around. I hope you enjoy.

I know that you won’t believe me when I tell you this,

but the baby and I are currently watching Dirty Dancing,

and, at just the right moment

my baby

(not to be confused with Baby Houseman)

pulled herself up,

pinned herself up to the back of her crib

and did a dip.

Just. Like. This.

(thank you to the beautiful Without Melissa for this image, as her site was the only place I could find it on these internets!)

I’m not kidding.

My baby did THE Baby.

I knew she was mine!

So, I called my dad.

And, he told me what I already knew.

“Nobody puts baby in the corner.”

True, dad.

So, so true.

 

How To Install a Convertible Carseat

You know, I don’t consider myself an expert on many things

(besides, you know, Sex and the City and Dirty Dancing, and Disney Princesses.)

and therefore don’t write many “How To” guides.

However, this one, I’ve got in the bag.

How to Install a Convertible Carseat:

Step 1: Buy a cute carseat once your baby has grown out of her infant seat. (I mean, it may be called a Snugride, but once you’re unable to buckle the straps over her faux fur coat, you know you need to upgrade.)

Step 2: Wait, patiently for the new, cute carseat you’ve ordered to arrive on your doorstep.

Step 3: Race to the door once you hear the thud from the delivery man and tear open the giant, cardboard box with glee.

Step 4: Pout once you realize that the big brown box was actually your diaper order.

Step 5: Repeat Step 3.

Step 6: Jump up and down when the adorable new convertible seat does arrive, and get ready to begin installation.

Step 7: Tell husband that it is time to install the new carseat. Send him outside, during the blizzard, to do so.

Step 8: Wait 6 minutes before tapping on the front door to signal your husband and once you get his attention, tap your watch and shrug your shoulders, as if to say “Are you DONE yet?!”

Step 9: Go into the kitchen to refuel with some graham crackers.

Step 10: Peak out the dining room window to gauge the progress.

Step 11: Repeat Steps 8-10.

Step 12: Ask Questions. Suggestions include: “What’s taking so long?” and “Is this more difficult than the other carseat or something?”

Step 13: Repeat Step 9.

Step 14: ( And this is very important) Remember to brush the graham cracker crumbs off of your face and clothes before your husband comes back inside to tell you that he’s finished the installation, and that he continues to be the handiest Jewish man in the world. You must hide the evidence, as you’ve told your husband that you were busy working on “very important matters” inside and therefore were unable to help him in the car. Husbands don’t think that graham crackers are “very important matters”.

Step 15: Dress baby as a Disney Princess and take her for a joyride in her adorable, huge, safe new seat, while singing “I’ve Had the Time of my Life” and sipping on Mocktail Cosmopolitans.

Step 16: Just kidding

Step 17: But only about the Mocktails.

nobody puts daddy in the corner

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?

I know that in my house growing up, it meant many things.

My dad grew up with 3 sisters. He then had 2 daughters and a female dog. He was a life-long swimmer in the estrogen pond, so to speak.

In some ways, my dad is the consummate guy’s guy; he is an athlete, an avid sports fan, and he’s exceptionally good at math. Did I stereotype enough for you, there?

However, he is also the ultimate girl’s dad.

For him, being a daddy to two little girls meant dressing up as Miss America for Halloween. Let me tell you, a 6’2”, cobalt, lacy nightgown clad Miss America is not exactly inconspicuous.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant making up secret languages and games, like letting me hide in his small closet, over and over again, only so that he could find me and “throw me out like a sack of potatoes”. I must have played this with him for hours on end, each time believing that I would be able to go undiscovered in that tiny 2ftX2ft square of darkness.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant letting us do his makeup, forcing him to do ours, and becoming skilled at picking out which shoes go with which pants.

Being a daddy to two girls meant knowing when to hand over the telephone to our mom. (This happened to me just today, in fact.)

Being a daddy to two little girls meant helping me to pick out my Rolling Stones wedding song before I was out of elementary school.

Being a daddy to two little girls meant that in middle school, my dad made homemade milkshakes and chocolate chip cookies for us every.single.night before bed.

Being a daddy to two little girls means that my dad can school any of you in Dirty Dancing trivia. It means that instead of referring to Craig Bierko as Max Baer in Cinderella Man, my dad refers to him as Ray King, “Jazz Man” in Sex and the City.

My dad may be the ultimate man’s man, but he’s also the supreme girl’s daddy, and he has the pink shirts to prove it.

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?

In my house it means many things.

It means that my husband has now purchased more than one two tutus.

It means that he now knows the difference between Aurora, Tiana, Jasmine and Ariel.

It means navigating through seas of pink and lace and tiaras and eyelashes and crazy, unimaginable love.

And, just today, it meant that I walked into the baby’s room to find my husband filing my daughter’s nails.

“So,” he began, as he leaned over the baby’s long, delicate fingers. “Time to gossip! That’s what ladies do when they get their nails done.”

That is what it means to be the daddy to a little girl,

and a very, very good one at that.

 

What does it mean to be the daddy of a little girl?
Let me tell you,

it means the world.

A Date Night

Tonight, my man and I went on a date.

A real, honest to goodness date.

We traded our ripped jeans and converse sneaks, time constraints and rushed conversations

for a dim, cozy seat in a corner booth. And heels. High heels.

We went to this place.

We sat upstairs at the bar, and together we read every item on the menu, taking in each ingredient and each moment.

Now, ordinarily I’d post my dinner shots over there (up there, to the right. You got it, now?) in my Family Dinner spot. But this dinner deserves more. This dinner was something special.

We started with the Toro Tartare.

(Yes, I was the loon taking pictures of my food (not the only one, might I add) and yes, I was embarrassed, but hey. I did it for you. Don’t ever say I don’t love you.)

Let me just say, this was one of the best bites of food I’ve eaten. This dish was serious. It came with instructions.

Take your little spoon, add some coarse wasabi, take a scoop of the Toro with a bit of caviar, and then slide it into the Mirin and Dashi broth, and eat it all at once.

Ridiculously delicious.

And it came with these little Japanese pitted berries to eat afterwards as a palate cleanser.

And let me just tell you,

the snozberries tasted like snozberries. Magic.

  Next came the chef’s selection of sushi. A surprise! One of my favorite surprises ever.

Each bite was better than the last.

And I treated myself to one of these bad boys.

Ikura is not only my favorite piece of sushi, but it also has a special place in my heart.

And not because they look like Nemo.

Ikura was my very first taste of sushi.

I was in fourth grade, down the shore with my Nanny and Poppy. We walked the Ocean City boardwalk, and they decided to cool off with a sushi lunch. Although the idea of boardwalk sushi on a hot, summer day is somewhat repulsive, I fell in love with the delicacy that day, and will never, ever forget it.

Oh, so yeah, this Ikura tonight was badass. Almost as good as the one from the dirty boardwalk stand. Almost.

Next, we shared the duck. Oh, the duck. While I forget the actual description, I can tell you that it was an incredible duck breast, with a side of duck confit fried rice, topped with a duck egg. And let me tell you, when we broke into that duck egg and all of the gooey yoke spread through the rich, savory rice, it felt, to me, how I imagine kids feel on Christmas morning. Pure bliss.

Full and happy, we scanned the dessert menu, only to find the perfect love child between the two of our palates: A tres leches cake (husband’s favorite) made with green tea, red beans and a honey butter ice cream (all me).

Yes, please.

And it was perfect.

But, the truth is, although our dinner was sensationally delicious, it didn’t really matter.

We were on a date. We talked about ourselves. We caught up. We kissed between bites. I had no one to feed but myself. And my husband.

I was able to give my husband advice on some projects he is working on. He was able to give me a hard time for over-sharing to our waitress.

It was lovely. It was delicious.

And while we love our little girl oh so much,

we knew she was in good hands.

She was busy dancing with Bubbie to her favorite song;

Having her nails painted hot pink by her Zeydie;

And having her Great-Aunt help her tuck Abby Cadabby into her new crib.

And by the time we came to pick her up, still on high from the wonder of our meal,

it was a bit late, and time to get her home, into the bath, jammies and bed.

But, as we were getting ready to head out, my baby’s Uncles showed up at the back door,

smiling ear to ear.

They decided to stop by on their way out on the town, just to give us all quick hellos and big hugs.

And somehow, those quick hellos turned into an hour of talking and laughing,

as we all ended up crowding into my parents’ bedroom, half of us snuggled up in their bed,

trying on clothing, howling at how silly we looked, reminiscing, taking pictures, telling stories and laughing at our inside jokes.

And it was delicious.

***

So, we got home late.

Way past all of our bedtimes.

But, a night out with the one I love,

followed by a night in with the ones we adore,

that is sweet, irreplaceable time

and the honey butter icing

on the green tea tres leches cake.

A case of the crazy.

Today, I took my daughter to the to the post office. As we stood in line waiting to buy our stamps, I noticed the guy behind me. He was fidgeting. He kept putting his hands in his pockets. What is he doing?  Does this man have a gun? Is he going to hold up the place? Isn’t there something about post offices and hostage situations? What’s my exit route? Will I be able to get out in time? I grabbed my phone and held it between my thumb and forefinger, keeping it close, in case I needed to secretly dial 911. I held my breath until we had finished our transaction and I was out the door and at a safe distance from the shop. The man behind me bought his stamps and went on his way.

***

Having a baby changes every single morsel of life; every single centimeter of who you once were and who you will become. It’s as if you become a parent and someone takes a hammer and shatters your self-portrait, and then you put it back together so that it kind of looks like you, but everything is slightly different than it once was, as things fit differently, shapes are shifted and cracks and fissures form where it was once smooth and pristine. But, I say this in the best possible way. Becoming a mother was the absolute, no question about it, best thing I have ever done. Being a mother is the peace in my heart and the joy in my life.

I cherish every single second with my daughter. I love her so much it knocks the wind out of me. She surprises me with new, amazing things nearly every hour. I am completely enveloped by my love and affection for her.

But, what happens when that all consuming love becomes a smothering, shattering, choking kind of feeling? What happens when you love your kid so much that it literally hurts?

***

When I began this journal, I did it to chronicle my memories, to share my funny anecdotes and, most of all, to speak honestly about the things that the other new mothers around me couldn’t bear to admit. I promised myself, and my readers, that I would share it all; I’ve shared my bliss, my excitement, my joy; I’ve shared my disappointments and my losses; I’ve shared so much. It wouldn’t be fair to stop now; I won’t hold back.

***

I’ve shared before the feelings I’ve had about motherhood making me feel a bit crazy at times. After all, the combination of sleep deprivation, surging hormones and a new, warm body to clothe/feed/change/love can be overwhelming. So overwhelming.

So new parents are stressed. And tired. And sometimes feel a bit loopy. Or loony. Or lost.

I sure did.

And then la la la, time goes on, things change, your baby develops her blood-brain-barrier and you no longer have to fear fevers and you’re ok again. You almost feel human again.

Almost.

Except, what happens when a little piece of that fear

of the cray cray crazy

lurks within you

and then returns, over a year after the postpartum hormones have waned, and many months after the breastfeeding hormones have dissipated….

For me, my fears have ebbed and flowed. They’ve grown with the questions I’ve feared asking my pediatrician, and faded with my daughter’s newest developments and the trust I’ve been able to place in her strength and solidity.

But lately, if I’m being honest,

I am feeling scared.

I love my daughter so much that I am scared that something bad will happen to us. To her.

I live in fear.

***

Last week, on vacation to my  happy place, I was able to live freely. It was wonderful.

The schedules that I so strictly adhere to seemed to wash away in the waves.

My daughter napped on the beach, and ate out for almost every meal and did not (GASP!) use a high chair cover or place mat.

And, miraculously, she was well rested and happy, flexible and wonderful, and she did not contract Ebola from a dirty high chair.

At least, I don’t think she did. I haven’t noticed any symptoms. Yet.

For the first time in a long time I was able to go with the flow. I was able to breathe.

But, although so many of my scary voices were quieted by the sounds of the sea,

they still haunted me. They crept up on me, sometimes so loudly that it was hard to hear anything else.

Like on our flight home, when the plane rocked back and forth in a bout of turbulence, and I felt so scared that I was literally shaking, teeth chattering and unable to move.

I was so scared of something bad happening. I felt so out of control. My instinct to protect my daughter was swallowing me whole, and I could barely breathe. I felt so guilty for putting her in harm’s way, so powerless and so afraid. In hindsight, I can see that by taking her on this vacation I gave her so, so much. I gave her sunshine and freedom and the ocean. But, in that moment on the airplane, I felt nothing but terror.

***

Today, I took my daughter to the post office. Today, I felt scared. Yesterday, I took her to have photos printed. I felt scared there, too. Why is that man looking at us? Does it want to kidnap her? Where is the exit door? Will I make it in time? What if he has a weapon?

And no, I am not exaggerating.

And no, it does not make me proud to share this with you. In fact, this is probably the most vulnerable I’ve felt in all of the hundreds and hundreds of posts I’ve shared. It’s one thing to joke about being crazy, but it’s another to feel, truly, as if my anxiety is taking control.

I know I am a great mother to my daughter. I just don’t want that to mean I have to be a scared mother.

So, my question is, how can I love her this much,

with the kind of love that gives me goosebumps, and overtakes me, so viscerally, that it’s as if I am experiencing life and adoration on a whole new plane of existence? Seriously, though. That is how I feel. Every single day.

I feel this incredible love for her when I hear her talking to her doll babies,

when she sings,

when she gives me eskimo kisses,

when she counts to ten and leaves out the number nine,

when she says “please” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome” to strangers,

when she gives bear hugs,

when she plays her cute jokes that only I know about,

when she moves,

when she smiles,

when she breathes air.

Even now, I want to cry just writing about my love for her.

I want my love for her to consume me. I just don’t want it to choke me.

Most of all, I don’t want to teach her to be scared. I want her to continue to be the fearless spirit that she is,

chasing iguanas, dancing in public, defying me when even I can admit that she is right.

It is going to take all of my strength to overcome this.

Thank goodness I have a pretty darn good motivation.

***

Tomorrow, I will take my daughter out. I will try not to be scared. I will try to look at the smiles of strangers and know that they are admiring my sweet girl. I will try not to look for the scary. Or for the exit door.

I will try to overcome this one part of my parenting that does not make me proud. I’m hoping that writing about this problem so candidly will help me to be accountable, so that I can really work on changing. I know I can change for the better. I already have.

***

So my self-portrait does look a bit different than it once did. Perhaps my pieces are not put back together in the right order, but I am more right than I have ever been before in my life. In my crevasses are my stories, the things that I have overcome, the changes I have made and how much I have grown.

And as my portrait continues to morph and evolve, I hope that I can take a way a few worry lines,

add a few more sizes to my heart

and continue to wear the overwhelming love for my daughter right on my sleeve.

Wish me luck.

“My sweet baby…”

Tonight, as we headed up to baby’s bed time,

she crawled up the stairs, as I crawled, trailing one step behind her,

this song came on the radio station that filled our house.

So yes,

we were crawling,

on the floor,

and we were not exactlydancing,

but with a face smeared with dark chocolate,

my girl was certainly dirty.

While it may not have lived up to my very favorite scene in my favorite movie,

I must say,

it wasn’t half bad.

In fact, you could even say I had the time of my life.