Brett Paesel's Angsty Memoir

Mommies Who Drink is Brett Paesel's 2006 memoir.  She's a TV writer who has written for shows on HBO, Comedy Central, Oxygen, etc..  As an actress, she has had insignificant roles in significant television programs like Six Feet Under, Curb Your Enthusiasm and Gilmore Girls.  She also writes for the New York Times...sometimes.  But these things aren't what initially drew me to her book, it was this awesome book jacket.  I bought Mommies Who Drink while I was pregnant; and I’m willing to admit here that I treated my pregnancy as an independent research project.  Perhaps I was inspired by that shiny, supple, slender woman with the lampshade head.

I had been feeling bombarded with people and literature (including, but not limited to, articles from The Bump) conveying to me variations of the following:  my new name will be ‘Poppy’s Mom’; I will no longer be interested in going to graduate school; I will never again have time to read the NY Times....ever. 

For me, this thing was unrealistic.  The alleged impending transformation was the unrealistic part.

This woman, Brett, offered a welcome contrast.  She doesn’t take things too seriously.  That isn’t to say that she shirks her motherly duties, quite the contrary.  She’s concerned about getting her child into good schools, and she’s a committed TV nazi (no non-educational programming for this lady’s offspring) but she doesn’t let the fact that she’s a mother take over her identity. 

The first half of the book talks a lot about people in groups:

‘Yes, I think, it’s something about groups. Something that dulls the active mind and subdues the eager heart.’  

This aversion doesn't stop Brett from attempting the occasional playdate in the chapter entitled ‘Mommy Groups and Me’.  Her playdate participation is in vain hope that the new mothers in attendance are in search of the same thing she is: adult conversation, a safe place for the baby to roam, and booze.

After a few attempts she ultimately describes her mommy peers as ‘sinking to their most boring common denominator’in the playdate setting.  I wouldn't know because I have yet to do the playdate thing with Poppy; and I imagine that playdates in California are different than playdates in Dallas.  But perhaps some relevance shines through.  To be determined-

The following summary of Brett’s chapter entitled ‘Parental Guru to the Stars’ illustrates one of the many reasons why I dislike California:

Brett is at a prenatal yoga class given by Cindy Crawford’s personal yoga guru.  The guru requests that the forty or so women share with the group their names, their doctor’s names, and where they are planning to give birth.  Whenever one of the women announces that she’s having a home birth (like Cindy did), the rest of the group turns to her en masse to convey hazy looks of endorsement while the guru mutters ‘Home Birth’ approvingly.  One of these pregnant women offers up her previous birthing plan gone right as motivation for her quasi-yogi peers: 'My last home birth, during which I was in labor for thirty-two hours, I managed the pain by chanting and making a gorgeous daisy chain that now encircles my garden.'

I have friends who are into this at-home drug-free birthing bit and I must say that I have yet to understand the appeal.  It's like they want the Girl Scout badge for ‘Most Painful Birth’.  I might understand this practice if the badge gave your child some extra IQ points, or if it gave you some sort of edge in parenting prowess.

I’ll leave you with this funny scene where Brett and her OBGYN are discussing the method of delivery for her second child (who's in the oven).  Having already had one C-section, Brett's doctor has just finished explaining some of the risks associated with trying for a vaginal delivery (VBAC):

Brett:  ‘That’s okay, I’ll take the C-section, I think.’

OBGYN:  ‘You’ll probably want to go over your options with Pat.’

Brett thinks to herself:  C-section is fine.

The OBGYN continues:  “If you decided on the C-section . . .’

Brett thinks to herself:  C-section, yes, that’s the one I want.

OBGYN:  ‘. . . we’d schedule it a week earlier than your due date.’

Brett:  “A week earlier...”

OBGYN:  “Yes.”

Brett:  “I’ll take the C-section.”

OBGYN:  ‘But, a lot of women really want to go for a vaginal birth. It’s important to them.  Me, I’m not really into vaginal heroics.’

Personally, I recommend the audiobook.  It’s read by the author whose voice reminds me of a comically apathetic cartoon character-

The Pop-Tart Doesn't Like Real Food

Poppy doesn't like real food. Of course, by 'real food' I mean puréed fruits and vegetables.  So not real real food, but we're getting closer.  Or at least we should be getting closer.  The problem is that when I try to feed Poppy anything non-liquid she makes her distinctive frowny face and closes her lips tightly.  So what should be mealtime turns into a messtime.  It's a bit discouraging, and I'm ashamed to admit that I have taken to just having the babysitters feed her her real-ish food.  Poppy only gets babysat about once per week these days, which means that she may be drinking formula until she's 12.

'me only eat bottles'

Socially Acceptable Staring

It is socially acceptable to stare at a baby.  Have you noticed this?  One may, for whatever reason, stare at a baby in a restaurant or store with rabid curiosity and without fear of reproach.  Maybe it's that the baby in question is cute, ugly, loud, quiet.  Or maybe it's the baby's mode of transportation that caught your eye - it's in one of those shopping carts that doubles as a race car, or in one of those endearingly human chest slings.  Or maybe you're staring at Baby X because you've been considering getting into the reproduction game yourself and its mom has the same hair color and skin tone as you.  Whatever the reason may be, it doesn't really matter because: it's socially acceptable to stare at babies, even if these babies belong to neither you nor anyone you know.  

It's rarely even necessary to qualify your gaze with a 'how old?' or a 'your boy looks just like my nephew'.  (Well, maybe some type of justification would be called for if the starer is a priest or has a mustache, but we'll just ignore these two demographics for the time being). 


As a matter of fact...I was blatantly staring at a baby just last Sunday:

Towards the beginning of our late afternoon meal, a waiter passed by our table carrying a little pink cake with 1 candle on it.  The mother and daughter to whom this cake belongs are walking back from their trip to the ladies room.  The one year old has impressive motor skills but still wobbles a bit.  She pauses at our booth mid-wobble (probably because I had been staring at her).  I had been staring at her for a few irrelevant reasons:

• She was wearing the same little winter dress from Baby Gap that I had considered purchasing for Poppy O..
• She and Poppy are close in age.
• Her mom was thin and seemed cool.

Permissible baby staring makes it easier to scope out the baby's mother at the same time.  This reality is liberating because it allows mothers to engage in clandestine comparisons.  

I am shamelessly and endlessly curious about the lives of other mothers.  Does she seem drained and confused or confident and fulfilled?  My curiosity increases whenever a mother in my vicinity falls into any of the following subcategories:

• her baby and Poppy appear to be close in age
• her age appears to be close to my age
• she isn't wearing mom jeans

The mother I met on Sunday was fun and bouncy and stuff.  We chatted about how Europeans are more relaxed about wine consumption while breastfeeding...which may simply be a coping mechanism for high taxes.

Aspiring To Be An Inspiring Mommy

I am trying to prepare myself to be an inspiring mother-

But how does one do that?

Lucia van der Post

Isn't she lovely?
Whenever I come across a confident, intelligent,

well-put-together older women I usually consider asking
her to come home with me and teach me things. 

books are the ultimate consolation prize-

Well, I thought that I'd start by being the kind of mother who knows some of the secrets.  It seems that Lucia van der Post, the woman who wrote Things I Wish My Mother Had Told Me, knows a lot of the secrets.

This woman has an enviable amount of conviction about how to behave - from the trivial, to the logistical, to the genuinely important.  Her book offers guidance from all three of these categories.  Much (but not all) of what she wrote resonated with me, so I'll start with that which addresses the importance of family mealtime:

'Families that sit around tables enjoying evening suppers that have been properly cooked and served tend to be closer and warmer than those who sit perched in front of the television set with fast food or takeout, not talking, not communicating.  Families gathered around a table build up memories of intimacy and warmth that last throughout one's life.'

In the evening, perhaps as I'm arranging the to-go food or the dining-in meal onto proper plates, I'll ask Matt the following question:  Are we going to be civil or American tonight?

We end up choosing to be American about 65% of the time.  Yep, if you were to come over to the house on an American evening you'd find us eating dinner in bed while starring at the TV. 

Lucia van der Post says that her children still remember when the family began eating at the table together on a regular basis.   When this became her family's routine 'the end of the day was transformed as the children spent some real time with their parents.'

So the new goal is to be civilized 90% of the time by the time Poppy's cognitive skills are blooming. 

Lucia van der Postis a longtime journalist and author.  For the past 20 years or so she has been a sort of style guru for the Financial Times.

http://howtospendit.ft.com/lucia-van-der-post

Why Bad Outfits Shouldn't Happen To Good Babies

'A little girl the minute she is born is already the woman she will be.  So to empower a little girl is to empower the woman she will become.'                                            -Diane Von Furstenburg

A couple months ago while my parents were taking care of Poppy for the weekend I stumbled upon the following photo on facebook:

'there has clearly been a lapse in judgement here' said poppy.

I looked, but could find no caption saying something to the effect of 'Poppy just put on a skit for us in which she played Molly Ringwald circa Pretty In Pink'.

When I saw that Poppy was wearing this outfit, I began to panic.  I knew that I was being irrational and yet I was still genuinely bothered.

To me, you see, this outfit is spectacularly bad.  To begin with, the hat is reminiscent of a prohibition era flapper girl.  Not a desirable look.  Secondly, I might have been okay with mixing the tulle fabric with a zebra print...that juxtaposition is kind of interesting.  But then one can't help but notice the large, anachronistic pink bow in the middle of the outfit.  I've seen pictures of myself as a little girl in the late 80s/early 90s wearing these types of bows.  Judging by my facial expressions in these pictures, it seems that I didn't find them attractive then either.  As a matter of fact, I'd say that my expressions were similar to Poppy's expression in this photo.

Why does it bother me so much when one of the grandparents dresses Poppy up in an aesthetically unappealing outfit?  (Well, to be fair, the outfit in this particular episode was a few steps beyond aesthetically appealing.)  Matt says that it's because 'I have a lot of pride wrapped up in this baby'.  I guess that's true, and it reminded me of the theme of the Diane Von Furstenburg for Gap Kids commercial that I saw in this past Spring:

DVF talking to a little girl on the set:  'Give them a little attitude....that is chic, don't you think?'

the little girl nods, pretending to know what 'chic' means

DVF talking to the camera:  'A little girl the minute she is born is already the woman she will be.  So to empower a little girl is to empower the woman she will become.'

Matt thought that this was a ridiculous statement.  Admittedly, I'm not sure that the logic here is completely sound.  But as I think about this idea again, now that I actually have a little girl, I do understand what Diane meant here.  I might even add that empowering the little girl empowers the mother as well.

By the way, I'm not sure that Baby Gap gets enough street cred*.  Here are a some of their excellent (and inexpensive) clothes that I've recently bought for Poppy.  I must say that she is looking chic this season-

this really keeps her warm-

i got her this, except with navy cables down the middle.
very wimbledon.  

i have a military sweater like this in blue.  
i try to put something pink on her when she
wears this so that she doesn't look androgynous.
it looks nike with pink pants. 

i bought this in 12-18 months so she can wear it in the Spring-

when i put this on her head, it doesn't really look right.
the only reason I bought it was so people
might stop mistaking her for a boy.  

(I would never say 'do they make this in my size?', but I will say that Baby Gap clothes are way more hip and interesting than Big Girl Gap clothes.)

http://www.gap.com/browse/category.do?cid=14249#department=165

*While I was still pregnant I decided that it would be a good idea to get Matt slightly tipsy at Shin-Sei (that excellent Asian restaurant on Lovers Lane), and then take him baby clothes shopping at the Baby Gap just across the street.  It was indeed a good idea because Poppy ended up with many outfits from the DVF for Gap Kids line.

The Pop-Tart Has A Cold, But Everything Will Be Okay

i should really buy one of these artery thermometers-

The Pop-Tart has a cold.  It was scary at first.  Yesterday (Saturday) morning, when she was coughing a lot and looking uncharacteristically bummed out, I decided to take her temperature again.  It was 96.something, but I'm never sure that I'm taking her temperature correctly.   The nurses went the armpit route when Poppy was in the NICU.  I saw these qualified ladies do the taking of the temperature many, many times.  They even let me do it a few times in an attempt to make me feel included and less helpless.  As it turns out, I could have had more faith in my temperature taking abilities on Saturday.

At 7:45am, I call Poppy's pediatrician's office.  It's called The Pediatric Associates of Dallas – these people are organized, they have a fancy website, and they have a whole heap of Pediatricians (some of whom come in on Saturdays).

ring ring, ring ring

a chipper nurse:  'Good Morning, Pediatric Associates of Dallas.'

me:  'Hello.  Um, my baby is sick.'

the chipper nurse:  'Alright.  Dr. Hubbard has an opening at 9:45 this morning.  What's your child's name?'

me:  'Perfect.  My daughter is already a patient with you guys.  Her name is Poppy Darrah.  Poppy, P-O-P-P-Y.  Darrah, D-A-R-R-A-H.'

the chipper nurse:  'Okay, see you at 9:45.'

Her little eyes are red, and the phlegm in her chest is audible.  Very audible – I can hear it doing activities in her lungs.  She looks drowsy and sick.  It's maybe 8:15am now, and she is laying on her back in my bed and dozing off.  I am watching her little chest more intently than I would a new episode of Mad Men.  For some reason, I think that she may quit breathing.  I call The Pediatric Associates of Dallas again.

ring ring, ring ring

the chipper nurse:  'Good Morning, Pediatric Associates of Dallas.'

me:  'Hi, um, I already have an appointment for 9:45, but is there anything any earlier?  You see, my baby has never been sick before and she is coughing a lot and breathing heavily...'

the chipper nurse, who has clearly heard the neurotic mommy racket before, replies with a courteous:  'The doctors don't normally get in until 9:00, or 9:30, but you can go ahead and come on in.'

me, sounding relieved:  'Great.  Thanks.'

I then herd Matt, Poppy to the car.  I drive very quickly to the pediatricians' office.  Matt is making smallish talk that I ignore because all I'm thinking is:
'Must get Poppy to doctor.  Must get Poppy to doctor.  No talk.  Doctor.'

I'm driving fast because I want answers, I want medicine, and I want them now now.

We find the office, and I sign in with the nurse at 8:55am.  I choose to park our little posse in the alternative waiting room.  You know the one I mean – the smaller waiting room reserved for contagious babies who have fevers and tropical diseases.

We've waited for about 10 minutes when I decide that it's a good idea to go loiter around the partition whilst holding Poppy.  Maybe nurses will see how sick my baby is and get the ball rolling here.  This plan doesn't seem to be working, so I switch to a more direct strategy.

me:  'Hi, could someone go ahead and take my baby's temperature?'

one of the other chipper nurses:  'Sure!  Let's go ahead and get you into a room.'

The three of us shuffle into a tiny but brightly decorated examination room that seems even smaller once my crew and my anxiety are in there.  The nurse takes Poppy's temperature and oxygen levels, both of which are normal.

We then wait in this room for about 20 minutes.  I am nervous and listening through the thin walls, trying to determine if any doctors have arrived yet.

Dr. Hubbard opens the door.  I had never met Dr. Hubbard before.  She's an attractive, energetic lady who is perhaps in her late fifties.  She is wearing leopard print flats and skinny jeans under her white lab coat.  I assume that the getup is part of this casual Saturday protocol.

Dr. Hubbard:  'Hello there!'

She swiftly begins examining Poppy while she is still in Matt's arms.  She checks out Poppy's ears, which are of course, perfect.  She then puts Poppy on the crinkly paper and puts the wooden stick in her mouth.  Poppy likes this wooden stick and is allowed to keep it.

During the time Dr. Hubbard is examining Poppy she is also talking.  Her speech is delivered with the informality you'd expect from an old college roommate – approachable and charming.  She tells us to wash our hands and Poppy's hands diligently, and that we should watch Poppy's chest because that's how we can tell if she needs to come in.  If it's going up and down in a easy, rhythmic fashion (as it was while Dr. Hubbard was giving us this information), and if she doesn't have a fever - then Poppy is fine.

me:  'So what's wrong with her?  She really is sick, she seemed sicker at home...'

Dr. Hubbard:  'She just has a cold.  Every kid has a cold right now.  I would say that it'd be weird if she didn't have a cold.  She'll probably have a cold until May.  Here, take my card.'

She hands Matt her bright orange card:  Sue Hubbard, MD.  The Kid's Doctor Extraordinaire*.


Dr. Hubbard:  'I have a website and a radio show.....'

She says some other things but I am confused at this point, so it's a bit of a blur.

me:  'So she doesn't need any medicine?'

Dr. Hubbard:  'Nope, no medicine.  Get a humidifier and wash her hands a lot.'

And then she whisks away in her leopard print flats.


It turns out that I was taking Poppy's temperature correctly – she just didn't have a fever.  So this story circles back to what I always say yet only occasionally believe, which is:  The kid will be fine.




http://kidsdr.com/
http://paddallas.com/


* I added the 'extraordinaire' part.

Teenage Bedrooms

Our apartment is clean, and clutter-free.  While growing up, my room was only clean some of the time.  It was clean maybe 20% of the time.  I remember saying things like 'why do you care if my room is clean if door is shut?'

I came across the following article NY Times this week:

Teenage Bedroom as Battleground:
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/01/garden/teenage-bedroom-as-battleground.html?pagewanted=all

The NY Times article says that one of the reasons that parents nag their kids keep their rooms clean is because they are 'embarrassed...they wonder whether it represents their lack of parenting control.'  Does a messy room mean that the parents have poorly prepared their children to care for themselves?

The article goes through several examples of teenagers who have epically messy rooms, and whose parents simply try to ignore it.  These parents deal with the fore-mentioned parental anxieties by reminding themselves that their kid makes straight As and is heavily active in one activities circuit or another.  

I wish that my parents had taken a more hands-off approach regarding my bedroom's level of cleanliness.  Instead, it was a perpetually angsty battle with no clear winner.

At the moment, Poppy's room is pristine and beautiful (this can be attributed to my uninterrupted saga of apartment tidying).  When she is older, will I resort to threats and bribery to get her to keep her room clean?  Frankly, I can't imagine that I will ever care that much.


So, after some reflexion on this topic, I have come to the following conclusion:  Poppy will probably keep her room clean and neat all on her own.  She will probably have this innate desire to impress Matt and I with her domestic organizational skills.

In the event that she does have a messy bedroom, I have no intention of nagging her.  Personally, I've never enjoyed being nagged; nor do I enjoy doing the nagging.  This is a pre-emptive boycott of the nagging.  Poppy will be allowed to keep her room in whichever state of cleanliness she finds appealing, as long as she picks up after herself in the rest of the house.

'poppy, will your room been in a state of anarchy when you're a teenager?  
will i let it go, or will i nag you about it for years?'