. . . to me at night. And the weirdest part is I suspect that I am the culprit. I went to bed last night with my watch on and woke up this morning with a bare wrist. The watch was under my pillow.
(You can’t see me but as I write this, I am raising my eyebrows, communicating suspicion and consternation). In other words: WTF?
Is someone slipping me AmbienCR without my knowing it? And, in addition to making me remove my wrist jewelry and hide it from myself, are the meds also making me eat while not awake, while you will recall from my prior post is a potential side-effect? If so, that could explain why I never lose weight despite the fact that I honestly don’t seem to eat that much and do the kind of hard, manual labor that would keep Rosanne Barr svelte.
So the key element to successful air travel with young children, the missing puzzle piece, the thing you cannot do without is. . . BULKHEAD. Ah, bulk-head. I love the tough, no-shit, slightly dirty sound of it. I. Always. Get. Bulkhead. Do I sound defiant? Challenging? That’s because I am. I DEFY you to take my bulkhead away from me. It’s not going to happen. That bulkhead is rightfully mine and I always get it.
Now, it’s not always easy because sometimes other people want the bulkhead.
Occasionally these people are also parents with a few little critters in tow and in these cases, when they’ve gotten to the bulkhead before me, well, fair is fair and there’s not much I can do, except try to squeeze into whatever remaining seats there are. But that, I find, is rare.
Usually the people who beat me to the bulkhead are just big old lazybones. Honestly, I can’t even tell you why someone without children or another kind of handicap would even want the bulkhead – I had never even heard the word “bulkhead” before Primo was born. But these people have heard of bulkhead. They’ve heard of it and they want it – maybe because it has more leg room, maybe just because it’s special – and since they are totally unencumbered, having no children or handicaps, they get to the gate before us and they get the bulkhead.
Do not think for a second that bulkhead is something that can’t be taken BACK. Getting bulkhead is not some irreversible process, like when a meter maid starts writing out a ticket and just can’t stop. So these non-parent, non-handicapped bulkhead-hoggers may reserve the bulkhead but they don’t have a hope in hell of keeping it when they’ve got me on the plane. I am indefatigable. Like a goddamn bulldog.
“Sorry, the bulkhead is taken,” the airline rep at the gate informs me.
“All of it?” I reply.
She nods.
“Well, is there any way you could move the people sitting there?” I ask as sweetly as possible, “You see, I have two young children, and it is really helpful for us to sit in bulkhead, not just for us, but for everyone on the plane. Trust me, the kids will be much less of a bother if you can just get us the bulkhead.”
Sometimes this works. But sometimes I have to take it to the next level. Sometimes the airline rep says she can’t do anything about it but that if the people sitting there want to switch me with, they certainly can.
That’s when things get nasty.
“Its OK Nik,” David pleads as we ready to board, “We don’t need the bulkhead, “Its fine.”
What he’s really saying is, “Please don’t make a scene.” And he can forget it.
“It is NOT fine,” I reply, “We DO need the bulkhead so Seconda won’t kick the back of someone’s seat or stand up and pull the hair of the person in front of her, and it also really helps her to sit on the floor in front and play with her dolls and lie down or whatever, We need it AND we deserve it.”
In this one specific circumstance, I feel totally, one hundred percent entitled. That bulkhead belongs to parents the way highchairs at restaurants belong to us and changing tables in bathrooms belong to us. People without kids have EVERYTHING ELSE to enjoy – such as a flight uninterrupted by whining, nagging, and tantrums. They can read their books and magazines and have illuminating conversation and meet new people and join the mile high club or just sleep. Sleep, for God’s sake! I think its just plain greedy to want the bulkhead on top of that.
So we get on board and I very politely ask the bulkhead-hoggers, often tall, skinny twenty-something guys traveling alone or else middle-aged couples who have a lot of bags and seem nervous about flying, if they wouldn’t mind switching seats with us since I have these young children and it would really help us out to have a little more room to entertain them. Often this simple plea works. But on the rare occasions when it doesn’t, I have to get nasty. I just do.
That’s when David takes the kids and moves down the aisle while I rip the bulkhead-hoggers a new asshole, calling them rude and selfish and telling them they are gonna regret it when my kids scream and yell and puke on them for two hours straight.
This is how I always get bulkhead. It may not win me any popularity contests but I have to say it makes the temporary relocation of me and my family seem a little more like a vacation. It really does.
This post is coming to you directly from East Tennessee, folks, the heart of the Smoky Mountains. David, the kids and I are on what you might call a family vacation.
You might call it that but I’d urge you not to. Using the word “vacation” to describe the temporary relocation of oneself and one’s progeny in pursuit of diversion is a little misleading. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a real vacation with the kids. We’ve had lots of adventures against many different backdrops. We’ve licked gelatos in front of the Pantheon, we’ve whizzed over the Golden Gate Bridge, we’ve frolicked on beaches and mountainsides and crooned in rental cars and played tag in airports in many a city across this country. But was it a vacation? No, my readers, it was not.
A vacation is anything you do without the children. Like, for instance, when David and I went to get our teeth cleaned and sat in examination rooms that were across the hall from each other, that was a vacation. We got to chat a bit on the walk over, made provocative gestures across the hall to each other before the dental hygienists arrived and then we kissed with clean, slightly-sore mouths afterwards, and compared the sample mouthwashes we’d received. That was a vacation. Taking two kids under four on an airplane is no vacation. Period.
And listen, David and I are pros at air travel with the kids, because we’ve been doing this trip to Tennessee a few times a year since Primo was a few months old. So we know what we’re doing. I pack enough snacks to keep a small village fed for a week, including a secret stash of lollipops in case we run into unexpected delays or mishaps. I pack little presents purchased from the dollar bins at Target and wrapped in magazine pages, which prolongs the enjoyment of each item by a good minute. Coloring books, regular books, Play doh, magnets, stickers – my carry on is like a carnival of fun for toddlers and preschoolers.
I also have one other very important but challenging trick up my sleeve when we travel on planes with the kids. It is the most critical, the key element to successful air travel, the missing puzzle piece, the thing you cannot do without. It is . . . .
The first-ever mom amok cliffhanger! I warned you I was getting into some tantric shit. To find out, dear readers, you will have to tune in tomorrow. Or if you’d like, feel free to guess in the comments section. I will award whoever guesses the correct answer with one perfectly fresh New York bagel, type of your choosing, sent directly to your home. Cream cheese and lox to be added on your own.
Primo was drawing a picture this morning and I innocently asked what he was drawing. This was his reply:
“It is the movie I'm going to make about angels, about how all the angels are sad because God blew out the sun and all the buildings fell down with a crash and it was the end of the world. But don’t worry -- all the people on earth were already in heaven. The only problem was, God didn’t want to make any more people because he was tired of it. Do you know how many people God has made? Like, a thousand. So he was tired of making people and that’s why the angels were sad. The end.”
This is one of those moments in parenting where you think, “Holy shit, did I birth a prophet? Is my kid TOUCHED?” I advise you not to think about it too much. Kids say craaaaazy shit. Consider this post by finslippy, whose slightly-older son went off on a similar rampage of terrifying, genius clarity.
Perhaps it is his Roman Catholic background that predisposes Primo to such celestial musings. He did bring a vial of holy water in the shape of the Virgin Mary to his first day of school, when all the other kids brought Elmos. Regardless, the thing to do, I think, is exploit these gifted ones who can channel the power of the cosmos. Sort of like the plot of the Eddie Murphy movie I saw a preview of a few weekends ago, the one where he takes stock tips from his little girl. I think I should write this angel movie Primo has thought up, pitch it to Steven Spielberg and see how we do. Keep your fingers crossed.
My kids hate me lately. This comes as something of a surprise to me since I happen to love them to a stupefying degree and happen to express that love with what I think is impressive frequency. I am constantly hugging them, kissing them, holding their hands, caressing their heads and showering them with all kinds of glowing praise and terms of ridiculous endearment. At pickup time, teachers have overheard me exclaim at the sight of my son, “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?” It is not uncommon for me to address my daughter as “the light of my life.” And I mean it, too, I am really nuts for these children.
But, as its panning on, this love is pretty unrequited.
Last night Primo got a hold of two M & Ms and I asked if he might want to share one with me, as he often does:
“Um, no,” he replied apologetically, “I am going to give one to my Daddy because I love him more.”
I don’t know where my son got the idea that he had to rate his love for me and his father but he does, all the time. And David is always in the lead. Always
:”Oh, I love you so much Daddy!” he’ll exclaim especially at bedtime, “I love you more than the sky and the moon. When I grow up, I’m going to marry you, Daddy!”
David is always grateful for the attention but he also knows what a petty, jealous, unhinged woman I am, so he’ll laugh nervously and say, “What about Mommy, don’t you love Mommy too?”
“Oh, not as much as I love you Daddy,” responds Primo, positively swooning, “I love Mommy just a little but I love you so much I think my heart is going to explode!”
“Gag,” I snort, like I am 14 again. Then I storm off to pity myself for a while, despite the fact that I fully understand how insane it is to consider my husband a rival in the contest for my children’s hearts. I mean, I love my husband, and I’m glad the kids love him – they should love him, they should be crazy for him, because he’s the crème de la crème of fathers, a totally selfless, patient, loving, attentive, generous man. In fact, I don’t really care if they, in their heart of hearts, love him more than me, but for God’s sake do they have to keep telling me about it, over and over again, in very undiplomatic ways?
“NO MOMMY, YOU CAN”T HUG ME!” Seconda likes to yell if I-- God forbid – feel a maternal surge of love and try to express it. “I WANT MY DADDY! IS DADDY HOME YET? I MISS MY DADDY!”
If I try to dress her or change her diaper or brush her teeth, she screams that she wants her Daddy to do it even if Daddy is not currently in the borough of Brooklyn. If I try to read her books at bedtime, while David is reading to Primo, she will bawl so hard she doesn’t even make sound. When she gets her breath back she shouts, “GO AWAY MOMMY! I WANT MY DAAAAADDDDY!” Finally, last night, I could take no more.
“Fine!” I yelled, “I am never reading you books EVER AGAIN! You can all go with your precious Daddy since you love him so much and I’m leaving!”
The kids were nonplussed, looking at me with blank faces like, “Ok, whatever, sounds great. Now can you stop yelling crazy lady, because our wonderful, flawless pater familias is trying to read us s story.”
Oh, Lear, you were right. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.
But then, this morning, my husband let me sleep ‘til 9 and take a hot shower immediately upon waking, which is a luxury I get about 3 times a year. And then, when I was adequately rested, and groomed to my satisfaction, only then did I step into the kitchen to face what was sure to be a long list of problems, conundrums and stand-offs.
But instead, I found a hot pot of coffee and a cheerful son, who exclaimed, “Oh Mommy! You’re awake! This is the moment I have been waiting for!”
And just like that, we’re back in love, all of us, in perfect balance and sweet harmony.
One of the great perks of being a mother of young children is that once or twice a year you get to taste astronaut ice cream again. I am positively stunned by how NASA or its frozen-delicacy-preserving subdivision is able to make that dried-up shit taste so damn creamy. Guys, it tastes just like real ice cream, the good stuff too. So the next time you doubt that our great country’s ability to do the impossible, just remember, we not only put man of the moon, we gave him astronaut ice cream on the way.
I thought I was leaving the movies behind when I moved out of LA. But I have this sneaking suspicion Hollywood is following me.
I have walked past, through or into more film shoots on the block where I live in Park Slope than I ever did in Los Angeles. Today, for instance, I am not nestled into my usual table at Ozzie’s, the reason for that being that Jason Schwartzman is shooting an HBO pilot, Bored to Death, at my neighborhood coffee shop.
This is constantly happening. A few months ago, Meryl Streep was shooting this Julia Child movie at the restaurant on our corner, so our street was filled with vintage automobile. Scorcese shot the communion scene in The Departed at the church on our other corner, where David and I got married and the kids got baptized. And a few years ago, it was The Squid and the Whale team filming, literally, in front of our apartment.
And just wait ‘til they start shooting that Darren Star Slope in the City series – I won’t be able to push my stroller in between all the craft services tables jamming the sidewalks.
Despite the inconvenience, I love this shit. I think its because although I’ve retired my headshots, as it were, I still have this fantasy that one day I’ll be leaving my house, yelling at the kids not to push each other down the stairs or they’ll break their necks, battling with the double stroller, dropping my diaper bag down the stoop steps so all the contents spill out, you know, just another day in paradise until --- I go to retrieve the tube of Desitin that has fallen on the sidewalk and another set of hands is there, picking up the diaper rash cream and handing it to me. It is Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen who are shooting a movie in front of my house. They look at each other and look at me, and look at my kids and look at each other again, and Apatow says, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” and Rogan says, “You guys oughta be in the movies.”
And just like that, me and my crazy, beautiful, unmanageable children, are discovered. And Primo never has to cry at drop-off again, because he never has to go to school, he’ll be tutored on set, and I will have a team of three Italian au pairs devoted exclusively to the task of insuring that Seconda does not put anything in her mouth that isn’t food. We will hire people to wake up with the children at night and I will sleep 8, 9 hours at a time. I will take bubble baths and get a full head of highlights. David will quit his day job and just write all day, wildly successful literary fiction that reinvigorates the dying world of publishing. And we all live happily ever after.
And the best part is, we won’t ever have to leave Brooklyn, because Park Slope is the new Hollywood.
Nicole is a parenting writer who contributes essays and articles for magazines like Parenting, Parents, American Baby and Babble. She lives in Brooklyn with three children, one husband and a morbidly obese goldfish.
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