How to feel like a SuperMom in 10 minutes

Since I’ve given up on being a SuperMom but will never give up on convincing myself that I am one, I offer to you, dear readers, tip number two on how to feel like a SuperMom in 10 minutes. Unlike my previous recommendation about dressing up for Halloween, this one has nothing to do with alleviating my own feelings of douchiness for wearing a foot-high wig and bedclothes as a dress.

HAVE A TEA PARTY

This idea comes from a real SuperMom who told me in passing that she has afternoon tea with her kids, with real, antique china and cloth napkins every day. I was like, “You do WHAT?” I loved the idea immediately for several reasons:

A. Tres continental! Since I can’t make it to Europe anymore, I can at the very least do as the British do, in Brooklyn. If there is one thing I am not, it is refined. But having afternoon tea means instant class.
B. I love, and I mean, looooove tea sandwiches. I discovered this in college, where there was an Elizabethan Club (there’s nothing dorky about it, thank you very much) which had afternoon tea every Friday featuring the most spectacular crust-less cucumber sandwiches known to man. Who would have ever thought a little cucumber and cream choose on some hard bread could make such magic? When I was in my first trimester with Primo and couldn’t keep anything down I went through a few weeks where the only thing that seemed at all appealing were cucumber sandwiches and buffalo wings. (Tip to the preggos out there: if you have severe morning sickness and want buffalo wings, designate someone to stop you from ordering them. Really, Trust me)
C. Since I never, not once, have had the patience to make cucumber sandwiches for tea time with my children, I serve them cookies. I like cookies, too, especially with tea. Also, children like cookies. And you don’t feel like such a bad mom giving them cookies when they are using china. Its like the positive force of fancy plates eradicates the negative force of the cookie.
D. There is no kind of play more innocent and wholesome, more nostalgic for days of yore, than a tea party.

There are, incidentally, real reasons to have a tea party with your children like the fact that its quality time you spend together in play, you can teach them social skills, and get kids to practice motor skills by pouring tiny pots into tiny cups. But really, all that pales in comparison with the fact that after you’ve done it, you will feel a terrific sense of self-satisfaction, a huge surge in confidence. You will want to tell everyone you see:

“I had a tea party with my children today, with china and crumpets and stuffed animals and everything! I’m an UBER-MOM!!!!!!’

And at the end of the day, that is really what its all about, isn’t it?

Under the Big Top

Saturday was the big day my kiddos have been waiting for – the Big . . . Apple . . . Ciiiiiiircus! (that’s me using my announcer voice, fyi. Its’ really much more impressive in person, no matter how annoying my children say it is. And while we’re on the subject, do are you agree that a two year-old should never be able to say ANYTHING is annoying, much less the well-intentioned attempts of her mother to bring her joy? Basically, the entire second year of life is one big annoyance with moments of cuteness and marvel sprinkled in).

So, the circus. It was Seconda’s very first circus ever, and so it was with a mixture of glee and trepidation that we entered the big top on Saturday, because if there is one thing my thrill-seeking, acrobatic daredevil of a daughter is cut out for, its running away with the circus. In our family she is voted Most Likely to Successfully Tame a Lion. But all went well, better than that, in fact – I’d say we had a bonafide Kodak moment with all four of our mouths agape and cotton candy on our fingers. I haven’t been to the circus since I was a young’un and being there with the kids made me recall two things:

The circus is a sticky place. I truly felt like we needed one of those showers they have in research labs for when you get a toxic chemical in your eye, the kind that douses you with 20 gallons of water in 2 seconds. It makes a movie theater look antiseptic.

The circus is one of these very rare events that you enjoy as much as your child. As a matter of fact, I think I might have enjoyed it more than my children because I, for one, know just how difficult it is to say, juggle five balls with your TONGUE.

Here were the highlights:

Flying Trapeze: The great thing about the trapeze is when the crowd starts exclaiming stuff like, “I can’t take it anymore!!!!!” and “Oh my God, she’s not going to MAKE IT!!!!” It’s this terrifically innocuous kind of mass hysteria. Of course, there’s a safety net so nothing awful’s going to happen but nonetheless you feel this queasy kind of thrill. And since I don’t do roller coasters or horror flicks, this is basically my only source of such a feeling.

Juggling: There’s juggling and then there Juggling. And the Big Apple Circus’ guy is a juggler with a capital J. I liked the mouth juggling, sure, but what really got my blood pumping was when he took some white dishes and basically hurtled them directly into the crowd with all his might. Gasp. Horror. Lawsuit? And before they can get close to anyone, the dishes just reverse direction and come flying right back into his palm. Wowza.

Wheel of Wonder: Take two huge hamster wheels, connect them with a Eiffel Tower-esque beam and start them spinning. Then put a person in each wheel and have them keep up. Oh, not exciting enough? Ok, take those people and put them on the OUTSIDE of the wheel. With no net. Primo and I could not get over it. It was mad and wild and – literally -- wonderful.

So, after giving the children such a beautiful night to remember, they were, of course. bubbling over with gratitude.

"Is it nighttime?" Primo asked, as we stepped out of the tent into darkness.

"Yes," I said.

"But we didn't do ANYTHING today!" he complained, standing in front of the circus tent.

Speechless.

If you want to see the feats of wonder for yourself, you can score discount tickets with these codes which the good people at tee Big Apple Circus have passed along:

Online: http://bigapplecircus.org/mommy.aspx and submit the code MOMMY10 in the Promotional Codes box

By Phone: CALL 888-541-3750 and mention code MOMMY10

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AUTUMN!!!

Daylight Savings Time can suck my ---

Honestly, who thought this shit up? I mean, I know it has something to do with farmers and harvests and probably has some pretty good justification but here is my opinion, in case anyone who is in charge of daylight savings time decisions is reading:

Daylight savings time is raw sewage.

I blame it for running my week. That and a massive, prolonged episode of procrastination which left me in a sour mood. But mostly, it’s the daylight savings time. Because the time change does not mean that I go to sleep an hour earlier, since hey, I’ve got shit to do, but it DOES mean that my kids wake up an hour earlier.Children will use any reason to wake an hour earlier than normal, especially that of bright lights streaming into their flipping window. I don’t have an hour of sleep to spare.

I LIKE it when it’s dark in the morning. I have spent so many mornings waking before the dawn’s early light with my children that I am in no way perturbed by the darkness. And listen, take it form me, there’s not much to see in the AM. At 5pm on the other hand, I’d like to run my kids in the playground for another hour until they are so exhausted they can not mutter a word of protest and can barely collapse into a heap in their beds. THAT’S what I work towards in the late afternoon and this infernal time change has dashed my plans.

Plus, look at the poor guy in the picture. Look at what a whole lot of trouble he's going through to make the clock tell the right time. He looks like he's about to get into a serious ladder accident, in fact, and if he does, I think he should SUE daylight savings time.

No Milk Left Behind

Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I went to Mexico on a romantic getaway and spent the whole time pumping my breasts and talking in mangled Spanish about it? No??? Well, you're in luck because I told the readers of Parents magazine all about it, in a little essay I call

No Milk Left Behind

Check it out and tell me if you agree with my fellow Mommy blogger that I should reclaim the term lactivist or no.

Less might be more, but that doesn't make it easy

Enough about me and my kids, already! I think its time you get to hear someone else gripe for a change. Which is why I have a very exciting GUEST POST for you today from local fiction writer Kimberly McCreight.
She may write fiction but on a mom amok we only speak the truth, so here is her honest to blog reflections on how hard it is to just let go with your firstborn, even when you've mastered the skill with your youngest. I totally relate -- testimony of which is the fact that my daughter went on the balcony today in a halter dress while my son was wearing a hat. Parenting is baffling.


Less might be more, but that doesn't make it easy.
By Kimberly McCreight

“Why don’t we let her sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor of our room then?” My husband suggested calmly when, one day six months ago, our five year old daughter Harper suddenly refused to sleep alone anymore.

The problem really wasn’t just sleep. Harper wouldn’t be alone in her room period. And even if you sat there with her until she fell asleep, she’d pop awake in the middle of the night, every night, and demand you return. She wasn’t just being obstinate either. She was genuinely terrified, panicked even. I know what it looks like. She’s always been a child prone to fears, though—after months of dedicated Feberiz-ing and Weissbluth-ing back when she was an infant—she had always at least slept through the night.

“Well, how long do we let her sleep there?” I asked my husband. My heart was already speeding up.

He shrugged as he took off his work shirt. “Until she outgrows it.”

Outgrows it? Already, I had visions of Harper at sixteen still sleeping on our floor. I imagined her as a middle schooler, friendless because she couldn’t host or attend sleepovers. I thought of a marriage forever devoid of nighttime privacy.

“Like a couple months,” my husband added, probably in response to my open jaw. “She’ll get tired of sleeping there before long.”

My husband has always been that way, maddeningly unruffled by these child-rearing detours. I’ve come to see it as a malady.

Now, if this had been my younger daughter, Emerson, I’d have been able to take this no-sleeping, bedroom-phobia turn of events much more in stride too. Like Harper, Emerson has had more than her fair share of fears and sensitivities—loud noises, fire, men in general, and bearded ones in particular—and they’ve hit at almost the exact same ages they did for her older sister. But with Emerson, I have remained calm, nonplussed even, convinced that time heals all wounds or will eventually, at least, suggest a solution. With her, I’ve seen it all before. And, so far, it all turns out pretty much okay.

But for some reason with Harper, I am unable to generalize from her own history. Each new speed bump feels in need of direct and immediate smoothing. It must be confronted in all its ugly roughness and repaired, not simply circled around.

So instead of taking my husband’s advice about this sleeping bag nonsense—which was, in fact, gleaned from something I’d read—I tried to push back on Harper, to draw a line in the sand. After all, encouraging her to confront her other fears and move past them had so far been the most effective approach.

“No, you cannot sleep in our room,” I kept on repeating that first night for hours on end. “No, I will not sleep on your floor and no, you cannot sleep in our bed. Everyone sleeps in their own bed.”

It didn’t work, at all. Unless, of course, my objective had been to make Harper panic more. Because that, she did do. She rushed from her room and refused to return. She cried, she yelled. She kicked. My voice got louder. Not firmer either, just madder, as I stood there in her doorway with my arms crossed.

But more than anything, I was worried. Worried that this new bedtime/bedroom/sleep fear might finally be the one she wouldn’t overcome. Harper, of course, mistook my fear for disapproval. Self-recriminations quickly followed.

“I am the most terrible girl in the world,” she whimpered the twelfth time she refused to budge from her spot in the hall where she was splayed like a small animal frantically gripping onto an ice patch.

It made my toes curl.

Less than a minute later the sleeping bag was out on our floor. And Harper came to our room to sleep in it in the middle of that first night. She slept there quietly and happily every night thereafter for six long months. It went on, much to my dismay, until it came time to transition Emerson into a toddler bed in Harper’s bedroom. Now, that they have each other, Harper’s bedroom fears are a distant memory. She’s been sleeping through the night in her own bed ever since.

I’d liked to think I’ve learned something from this. That I now know that the only way to solve some of Harper’s problems will be to wait until time or circumstance allows them to pass into the ether. I hope that I understand now that I will not be able to fix everything she feels.

And, who knows, maybe I even do. Whether I’ll remember it the next time Harper decides to surprise me, well now, that’s a different question altogether.

HALLOWEEN!

Halloween began with Primo up at 5:45 am, and by “up” I mean bouncing off the walls and raring to go.

“Let’s go trick of treating RIGHT NOW!!!!” he shouted.

I took two Tylenol and put on the television.

By 10:30am we were all in costume, in agreement with Primo’s Grand Plan of Halloween 2009

Primo – Count Dracula in black velveteen cape, burgundy vest, purple medallion, vampire wig and several variety of fangs. This is the first year he got a store-bought costume and I have to say, I think we could have bought four costumes for the price of this get-up.

Daddy – Frankenstein, with green stitches that Primo drew on his cheeks with my eyeliner (the could could work at a makeup counter) and bolts applied to his neck with Bandaids

Mommy – Bride of Frankenstein, with a show-stopping wig and bridal gown made from one old white sheet and three dozen safety pins (Project Runway, here I come!)

Seconda – Max, from Where the Wild Things Are. Primo’s original plan had her as a werewolf, which she was jazzed for, but when we couldn’t find faux fur and my grandmother unearthed Primo’s old Max costume, we shuffled things around a bit and went from werewolf to boy in a wolf suit. Timed rather well with the recent release of the film, no? Besides, I’ve never seen any child in a costume that better suited their personality. My daughter should always wear the wolf suit. Every time we turned around, she had peeled off the hood part, taken off her shoes and socks and was getting into some new naughtiness with a huge, impish grin on her face.

It took us approximately four hours to get into costume but the great thing about waking up before 6am is even when it takes four hours to get into costume you are still fully by 10am when all other normal people are just squinting their eyes open on Saturday morning.

Once costumed, we walked over to Boo at the Zoo. Or should I say, began the un-ending trek which left me feeling like we were in some weird Halloween-version of Grapes of Wrath. Turns out the zoo, which was a do-able, if tiring, walk from our old apartment in North Slope is now impossibly far away. So far away that no matter how long we walked, we never got appreciably closer. It was like being on a tread mill -- with a five year old riding piggyback. But we Joads weren’t going to give up – couldn’t really, since we were meeting friends there -- so we just slung the tired children over our bodies, shedding wigs and extraneous costume parts as we went along. And by noon we had made it to the zoo.

The zoo was about as much fun as it can be to a grown-up whose been there four zillion times this year. Haunted barn was a high point. Kids loved the spooky carousel although the combination of hearing “WHO YOU GONNA CALL? GHOSTBUSTERS!!!!” on repeat play at excruciating decibel levels while being whipped around in circles made me dangerously close to upchucking.

By 3:30pm, we were home – just in time to start Halloween for real.

Thought I felt like the only candy that could help me was the variety celebs put into their nose, I rallied and we all went bravely into that good night of trick-or-treating.

And a good night it was, indeed. Primo ran from stoop to stoop, shouting over his shoulder to me, ‘I ASKED THEM FOR CANDY AND IT REALLY WORKED!!!! THEY GAVE IT TO ME!!!!” with so much wonder and marvel that I couldn’t help but smile, old Halloween-Scrooge that I am. Seconda didn’t waste time saying anything, she just ripped open candy packages as fast as she could, cramming the chocolate into her mouth.

The parade was amazing, with bagpipes and huge, towering puppets and an amazing stroller decked out like R2D2 and a girl dressed as a toilet bowl and all sorts of cleverness. Then Primo said, “Can we be in the parade, too?” so we all jumped into the stream of people walking and waved to the crowd.

By 8:30, the children had retired their still-bulging candy bags and were slumbering soundly. Running around begging strangers for candy tires a person out, it would appear.

Halloween highlights, readers? Great costumes? Moments to remember?