Category Archives: NYC What is it about you?

The Post I Never Wrote

Several weeks after I gave birth to my Truckster baby, I convinced myself that I had a prolapsed uterus. Something was coming out.  My midwife was so great. She squeezed me in between appointments to check me out.  In New York, this is a minor miracle.

I’d like to just say here, do NOT google “prolapsed uterus.”  That google image is lodged in my mind.  Just don’t.

Anyway, she said it was normal wear and tear, especially for a baby that size who came out so very fast.

I was embarrassed and felt like I overreacted.  I didn’t even blog about it.  And back then I blogged about everything every few minutes.

Here’s the part where I thank you guys.  I had just been sucking it up.  But I’m so glad I wrote that post-post-post etc. partum post, because I did have it checked out.  I don’t have a prolapsed uterus, but it is not normal wear and tear.  I don’t know what is going on exactly yet, or how they will attempt to fix it, but I do have an appointment with a uro-gynecologist.  My family doctor (it was her at the orchard) checked me out an referred me.

So thanks.  I just would have lived with it.  And that would have sucked.  But it also makes me feel for women everywhere who don’t have health care available like we do here; for women who don’t have a support group — internet or otherwise;  for women who are too embarrassed to ever talk about things like this to anyone.  I mean, as far as difficult conditions for women are concerned, this ranks pretty low.  But still.  I’m glad I don’t have to live with it.  I feel lucky.

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Filed under NYC What is it about you?, Post partum

Morning Sickness

No, I’m not pregnant (though I am experiencing several annoying pregnancy symptoms.)

I’m just sick of the morning.  5:23 am, to be exact.

Sometimes it is 4ish.  Once it was 3.

Trucker is a big fan of the sunrise.  He hasn’t missed one in what feels like a year.  And he’s just creeping up on 15 months old.

Sooooo.  Wait.  Have I neglected to blog about my new downstairs neighbors, Startle and Smokey? OMG.  I have not.  Well, our much beloved and quite deaf previous downstairs neighbor unfortunately passed away many months ago.  We loved her.  LOVED her.  May she rest in peace.  I contacted several friends with small kids and had them calling the management company asking about the apartment.  Who did they rent it to?  Who?  Smokey and Startle: a 30-something childless couple who somehow manage to smoke heavily enough that our entire apartment smells — especially our bedroom, not to mention the entire hallway of the fifth floor.  A couple who decided to not use the master bedroom with an attached bath as their bedroom, but have rather chosen the room under the bedroom of my two loud sons.  And they like to sleep in on the weekends.  This couple is in constant fear for their health, despite the offensive smoking habit.  Their health, it seems hinges on not being startled.  By noise.  Like, oh, the sound of a hulking one-year-old throwing his sippy cup to the floor.  Or moving furniture.  Or pulling the shopping cart down upon himself.  We are loud.  I would not like to live downstairs from myself, it is true. But I’m ready to take up tap dancing, I’m so over these people.  We’ve been breaking our backs trying to keep the noise down to a dull roar.  If Startle comes up here again (she has come up three times,) I’ve decided to tell her that her coming up does not make it quieter, it only makes me feel bad.  And to tell her that if she comes up again for noise, I won’t try to keep them quiet any more.    Then maybe she’ll appreciate the fact that my kids pretty much never play in their own room any more, and most of my energy is spent trying to get Trucker to at least throw things onto the carpet, not the slim strip of bare floor (coop rule of 80% floor coverage, check) where he prefers to throw things.

[breathe, ohm, breathe]

So, anyway, out of sheer good-neighborliness and coop rules, I can’t even put Trucker down on the floor until 6.  He’s loud.  And if he gets near something to throw or climb or topple, he will do it.  He’s a Truck. So if he gets up at five, it is a lot of heavy lifting. Or, I’ve found that the only way to not carry him that early is to lay on the couch, lay him on my belly, and turn on NY1.  I’m not proud.  But if I don’t he’ll sliver off of me and start eating the plants or climbing onto the dining room table or some such Trucker stunt.

My point, and I do have one, is HEEEELLLP!  Do any of you wise women have any advice for getting the Truck to sleep longer?  We’ve pushed his bed time back about 30 minutes.  What else?  Anything?  Anything?

Thanks in advance,

oneofhismoms

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Filed under family, my second son, nothing at all, NYC What is it about you?, Trucker, ZzzzzzzzzzzzZZZzzZz

What I Have Given Away

The glider.

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I sat in it so many times with Trucker nursing.  Then taking him off.  Then gliding him to sleep.  We’d bought it when A was eight months pregnant with Cakie.  The woman who sold it to us lived in one of those highrises in Bay Ridge that you can see from the BQE.  It had an amazing view.  It had entirely too many toys in it.  And three adorable children. We both made a mental, later audible, note to never ever have that many toys in our house.  The woman wouldn’t even let A carry the ottoman down the stairs in her condition.  It fit in the back seat of our little sedan.  Then it was in our living room.  Then in Cakie’s room.  Eventually it landed in our bedroom between the bathroom door and the bedroom door.  It felt like you had to walk an extra fifty feet to get to the bathroom.  With great hesitation and a little bit of yearning, I posted it.

The man who bought it’s wife was due the next day.  He was skinny and cute and he seemed pleased to be doing this grand act of finally getting the glider before the baby was born.  I helped him carry it to the elevator. I asked him if they knew the baby’s gender yet.  He gave me a look and said, “Yes.  We did find out the sex.”  And I felt a little goofy that I had said gender because really, that’s for the baby to figure out no matter which sex organs it happens to have.  I smiled at the soon-to-be parent and told him I always get those terms confused.  And I felt kind of glad that my cushy-but-ugly furniture was going to him.

The clothes.

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(Please to tilt your head to the side.  I can’t figure out how to rotate the image.)

The first clothes we had for Cakie came from lesbian mom friends of friends who gave us three trash bags full of clothes.  They gave them to us at a party and I spent the whole party wishing I was at home looking at the little baby clothes.  When I did finally get to open the bags at home, I was amazed at how many blue items were in there.  I thought for sure the lesbian moms would have avoided pigeon-holing their son into blue rompers.  The dozens of little overalls thrilled me.  This was all before I realized that most of your baby’s wardrobe is given to you by other people.  And most of those people buy the clothes at places that are not over-priced boutiques.  At least in New York City, if it isn’t an over-priced boutique, it is hard to find baby clothes in colors other than pink, blue or yellow.  I remember putting the little outfits into piles according to size, and putting the sizes into different boxes, so I could just grab the next size up when I needed it.  Of course there were more clothes later.  We got clothes from the showers and birthdays.  When Cakie was born, we received a package a day for almost a month.  Each tiny shirt was a manifestation of someone else’s excitement for us.

As Cakie grew, and his clothes did not, I learned just how much clothing maintenance is involved in parenting.  There is all of the washing and drying —  those hot metal snaps burning your fingers as you reach into the dryer to take them out.  Once the long sleeves become three-quarter sleeves and the pants become capris, overnight it seemed, they get organized again and put away for the next baby.  The closet filled with too-small clothes in little boxes (less-organized now) by size and season, awaiting their second life on our second child.  But would we have a second child?  And what of the sex of that second child?  Would I actually keep the sea of blue if I had a girl the second time?  My blog filled up with worries and BFNs, my credit card filled up with sperm charges, and that closet filled and filled with those little clothes so filled with Cakie’s presence, it was hard to imagine them on another child.

Then he came.  And boy did Trucker come.  He weighed almost twice what Cakie weighed at birth and was born a month earlier.  I had thought they would wear the same clothes for the same season.  But where Cakie didn’t even fit into anything but a white kimono tee shirt when he got home from the hospital; Trucker bypassed entire boxes of clothes.  Though he did wear some of his brother’s hand-me-downs, we needed to actually shop for the lad.  In stores!  I sold two big bags of clothes on the listserve for $20.  I felt like a bandit.  Then, IVPers got pregnant.  And how happy is that?  Sending off a big bag of clothes, including my most favorite pair of plaid pants which only fit each boy for about a minute to the likes of Calli made me feel even better about essentially giving away historical family artifacts.  I sent the Morrissey shirt to England, where it rightfully belonged. And two (or was it three) garbage bags of baby pants (and other things) went to the babypantses.  Even though all three of the strapping young lads who received the little outfits have probably grown out of them, it makes me glad to know that they didn’t go somewhere random.  That those little things filled with the tiny spirits of my children are probably being worn by someone new and equally important.

I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but giving away baby things for the final time hurts.  As a New Yorker, of course, one is glad for the space in one’s apartment when these things go out the door.  But as a mother, knowing that this is the last baby, it feels like I’m giving away something more than onsies.

Now that I’ve thought about it, though, that box of baby baby toys is calling my name.  Trucker got so many new toys for his birthday. We can’t go letting our house end up like that one in Bay Ridge.  Though I understand now, how the woman may have wanted to carry the chair down the hall for her own selfish reasons.  Though her youngest child was old enough to be walking with confidence, she maybe needed to carry that chair out of the building herself.  Just to hold it and then to let it go.

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Filed under baby gear, my second son, my son, NYC What is it about you?, Trucker, TTC

Tide and Turning Around the Car Seat

My baby is one.

It is bittersweet, I tell you.

I don’t even know how to feel.

The week leading up to his birthday, I was anxious and stressed and a tad angry at nothing in particular.

We had a lovely party with many babies and adults swarming about the apartment eating good cheese and my sorry-attempt-at-copying-Magnolia-icing cupcakes.  Later we walked to the other side of the park to enjoy the They Might Be Giants concert.  Sadly, my phone died right as we reached the gate of the band shell, so it is a minor miracle that I found anyone at all.  I did find the familyo and a few other friends.  Much dancing and clapping ensued.

That evening, Trucker, who had been happy and perky his whole birthday long, got a fever.  He still kind of has the fever.  A baby hangover of sorts, I suppose.  His doctor wasn’t at all surprised, saying that most babies either get sick the day after or the day before their first birthdays.  Harumph.  He’s been very clingy and needy and, well, babyish all week.  I guess maybe I need that right now.

I am very excited to have clean laundry that smells good again (no more perfume-free wimpy-a$$ stuff for us. Hello Tide!)  I’m happy to turn around his car seat and see his sweet face looking at me.  Yes, I did read the report that they should stay facing back until they turn two.  That’s fine if your child is not in the 95th percentile for height.  Mine is and his seat is facing forward, thank you very much.  He doesn’t need his toes in his ears.  I’m happy that he has lived so long and is so healthy and happy.  The fact that he is my last baby and my last baby’s baby year is over is astonishing to me.  I don’t even understand it one bit.  I feel like I gave birth yesterday.  Well, my lady parts don’t, thank goodness, but my heart does.

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Filed under my second son, NYC What is it about you?, Trucker

Pride and Provinciality

A kind reader wrote me a note asking why I didn’t write about Brooklyn Pride.  I was there with my family and my extended gay parent family, it is true.

I guess I didn’t write about it for a good reason: Pride is fun, but no longer the highlight of my year.  What I mean is, I am lucky enough to live in a place where hanging out with the gaybies and their folks is not an unusual event.

Recently, as we were planning our summer vacation trip, we had the idea of going to Family Week in Provincetown.  It seemed fun, though a little hectic.  Upon thinking of it more, I realized that we don’t really need to go to it.  Our motive would be to have a nice vacation around a bunch of other gay families.  We are always around a bunch of other gay families.  So why drive eight hours and pay a grand?  Well, maybe when the boys are old enough to understand it, it might be worth the effort.

I remember when Chicory of the late great blog An Accident of Hope posted pictures from the Utah Pride family tent, which she helped organize.  It looked like a theme park.  There were so many people and so much to do.  Our tent was on such a smaller scale.  We had some yummy food and an arts and crafts table.  Cake made a monster puppet and taped a third eyeball on himself and called himself an “Eyeclops.” We had frisbees.  It was great.  It was enough.  We played on the grass while gay friends from different arenas showed up.  The familyo was there.  My lovely readers/friends from way uptown surprised me by stopping by with Trucker’s sassy little girlfriend in tow.  A bunch of families from that crazy lesbian mom gathering I’d hosted in February showed up.  There were also some gay dads there, one of whom claimed that his partner was Angelina Jolie’s stylist — upon googling when I got home, I found that her stylist is a woman, so maybe he was her stylist’s assistant or something. We had a great time.

I guess my point is, I’m happy I live here.  I’m happy that blowing bubbles in the park with other gay parents is not just a once-a-year event.  I’m really grateful for the folks who set up our little family tent and taped an extra eyeball on my kid;  for the drag queens who were performing for about five people on the stage a few hundred feet away; and for the kid-less dykes who played air guitar with Cakie.  I’m grateful and proud.

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Filed under family, LGBT, NYC What is it about you?

June, House, Baby Steps

I feel like a very neglectful mom to this blog.  But once the real baby is up and about, there just isn’t much more suspense left.  The whole reality tv show aspect of the ttc blog is out the window. Which is what we all hope for, anyway.

So now the blog feels more like a state-of-the-family letter shoved in with the christmas card.

Here it is anyway.  As a teacher I always look forward to June because it is the last month of school.  And as much as I like my job, I love summer more.  However, I forget how very hectic June is for teachers.  We have report cards; cumulative records to update and pass on; assessments up the whoo ha; the need to pack away and clean and organize our rooms;  a room full of kids who are half sick of each other and half already missing each other, we have the emotional baggage of leaving our kids and our colleagues who are moving into retirement or other jobs, and end-term parties, and many margartias to drink.  It is rough.  Rough and almost over.

On Memorial Day we spent the day lounging in our friends’ new backyard.  For those of you who don’t live in NYC, a backyard is a novelty in these here parts for those of us who are not lawyers or bankers.  The next day a I got a text from my honey: I think I figured out a way we can afford a house next year. I love real estate.  And though I haven’t officially started obsessing, I am thinking about it.  I’m thinking about actually owning land in Brooklyn.  Land and a deck and a grill and a washer and a dryer (Yes, my suburban readers, that is another novelty.  How do we live?  I don’t know.)  There is one old wreck of a house for sale I pass on my way to work each day.  It has seven bedrooms.  And a broken window in the attic.  And water stains down the side of the needs-a-paint-job siding.  I know we probably couldn’t afford to heat it.  But I really want to see the inside.  You know.  Just to see it.

Trucker can walk.  He doesn’t really fully comprehend this yet.  But he can.  He’s done it every day.  And he just turned 11 months today.  Which means he walked at 10 months.  Which is just… what is that? I’m not sure.  But it is cute.  And unbelievable.  In one month he will be a year old.  I just don’t understand that.  Yet, most of his life thus far has involved me sitting back, mouth open, in awe.

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Filed under blogitty blog blog, my second son, NYC What is it about you?, teaching

What I’ve Been Doing

I haven’t been blogging. Except for this.

Want to know what I’ve been doing?

Checking my email.

I’m waiting to hear possible news about (I’ll be vague to avoid some kind of jinx) our book.  This wait could take another three weeks.

I’m also waiting to hear if Cakie got into any public Pre-K programs.  That wait is actually supposed to end “the week of May 18.”  Which is this week.  In fact, if there is any chance I will find out before Tuesday, it needs to happen in the next hour.  I don’t really feel positive about hearing from them before Tuesday or about him getting in anywhere.  Which would mean he spends another year in daycare.  It wouldn’t be the end of the world.  But I feel as a teacher, especially, that I want him to go to a real school.  We are not going to pay NYC prices for a NYC pre-school, either.

On a lighter note, Trucker has come up with the best trick ever.  This is the kind of trick that attaches a mother to her son for all eternity.  Trucker has decided to clap when he finishes nursing.  Bravo!  Go mom!  Great milk!  Encore.  Gosh I love that kid.

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Filed under b00b food, My Book, my second son, my son, NYC What is it about you?, teaching