Sound-Off Sunday

That's right folks--it's already time for another installment of Sound-Off Sunday!  As I have mentioned, Sound-Off Sunday is an exciting, weekly post wherein I voice a common issue that drives many of us crazy.  Well, crazier, anyway.  Please let me know if you have a topic that you would like to see torn apart here.  I do not judge.  Publicly, anyway.

So, this week's Sound-Off involves the recent bane of my existence: day care.  I have been incredibly blessed over the past ten and a half months because my saint of a mother put her own life on hold in order to come to Chicago and watch my son during the day.  Having lived alone for the past decade, and as it had been 15 years since I had lived with my mom, I wasn't sure how things were going to go.  But now, near the end of her enlistment, I can honestly say that I could not have survived a single minute without her.  Sadly, however, it is nearing time for her to return to the life she put on hold for her daughter and her grandson.  Almost as sadly, this means I have to figure out what the heck to do with my kid during the day.

Seems simple enough, right?  Well, I have been looking, off and on, at day care options since before the baby was born.  In the city there are about a million choices--shockingly few of which are "acceptable."  There are Montessori schools, eco-friendly schools (where little Bobby gets to eat sprouts and spend 10 minute "Earth heal" reflection periods; I wish I were kidding), in-home day care centers and nannies.  The one common thread of these options is that they cost roughly what I paid for a year of college (yay State schools).  Per month.  And that's after you have weeded out "schools" where there are 45 children per angry teacher, the schools where you have to drive 2 hours to get the kid there, and the schools where their punishment policy is to send them out for Jimmy Johns.  Plus, when you do find a decent one, the admission is about twice as difficult to achieve than getting into Wisconson (the school, not the state--if you don't know how to get into the state, perhaps you are better suited for politics).  I now see why people say it's cheaper to have one parent stay home.  I'd be all for it, except for that no income thing. 

So my choices are to spend the next several weeks begging a decent day care center where pretentions are higher than my last law firm to watch my kid for a few hours a day, or to pay the very nice prostitute who approaches cars on Irving at 5:00 on a Tuesday to watch him.  What's a girl to do?  No, seriously, what's a girl to do?  Anyone?   

One of the most important lessons parents teach is how to get along with others--how to play nice; how to include everyone; how to help out others in need.  Unfortunately, this lesson is often met with a sorry fact of life--the clique.  Even more unfortunately, I am talking about among parents.

When I was pregnant, I immediately jumped onto the information superhighway in an effort to find other moms just like me.  I was really excited to finally be a part of an established group--we were all going through the same kinds of things, and many of us had even more in common.  So I jumped onto a popular "Motherhood Superior" type website and introduced myself.  I excitedly checked for the hundreds of comments that would welcome me with open arms into the community.  But even by day 5...nothing.  Huh.  Well, perhaps I could try a different site.  Still nothing.  Well, perhaps I could comment about a specific topic on which I happened to be experienced.  Not one word.  I was shunned by a community of women who didn't even know me.  Bitches.

So, I chalked it up to the fact that the instinctively knew I was more fun than they (what else could it be?) and moved along with life and impending motherhood.  But unfortunately, the minute I had the baby I saw that not only were parent cliques even more menacing in real-time, they were even more necessary.  Rival gangs of mom meetings throng my neighborhood, each vying for prime coffee house real estate for meetings and each presenting its own case for its superiority.  There's the over 30 group, the baby yoga group, the stroller walker group...you get the picture.  But sadly there was no group for the older, single, working, never-before-been-around-a-baby, excited and terrified mothers.  There was no group for me.  Once again, I was 15 and the designated driver for my much cooler friends.

Until recently.  A few nights ago, as I stepped out of my car with 3 bags, two boxes, one child, and countless pieces of garbage, a woman stopped to ask if I needed help.  God, yes.  Oh, with this stuff?  No, thanks.  She started to walk away, then suddenly stopped and asked if we had met before.  Yes, I think we have.  She lived a few doors down and I had always admired her seemingly perfect house, children and husband.  My son (a born flirt) smiled coyly at her and giggled, and that's all it took.  Oh, my goodness, how old is my baby?  Her eyes got big and she became excited.  Did I want advice on schools?  Was I looking for a nanny?  Was I interested in their weekly mom's night?  My brain struggled to keep up with her excitement--and mine.  This was it.  I was finally "in." 

Like high school, it took the attention of an adorable boy for the rest of the world to include me.  But it was worth it.  But as horribly infantile as cliques may be, maybe they can also be a necessary boost in our lives.  Just knowing that I have the option has meant the world to me.  I feel like I have this entire support group (in addition to my incredible support group of friends and family, of course) behind me.  I feel like I can take on the other moms because I have a gang at my back.  I feel like I should probably not admit any of this to my kid.

Martha Help Me...

Recently, I found myself doing something wholly offensive.  Well, not as offensive as the things you are undoubtedly thinking--this is a family blog, folks.  No, I found myself perusing Consumer Reports.  While this, alone, would be offensive to me 5 years ago (as you who know me are well aware), it gets worse.  I was looking at the reviews for...wait for it...sewing machines.

Yes, I--the woman who for the past decade refused to purchase any article of clothing unless it had a pretty, well-known label sewn in the back--was looking to purchase a sewing machine.  This fact would have caused my late grandmother to rise in a state of bliss.  From the time I was little, she was constantly trying to get me to do two "girl" things:  cook and sew.  And while I eventually gave into the cooking (hey, some guys think it's hot, so I went with it), I have steadfastly refused to even consider the latter.  It's gross.  Not the act, of course--sewing is not only highly practical, it is admittedly a kind of cool art form.  But it's the sheer girliness of the act.  Sewing connotes a kind of basic housekeeping skill that is the type that I have shunned for the entirety of my adult existence.  It is a terminal sin to be thought of as a woman in a law firm.  You can look like a woman (in fact, such is preferred), you may occasionally act like a woman (though free cards on this one are limited), but under no circumstances are you to actually be a woman.  It's the kiss of death.  And therefore it is a rule by which I have lived not only my work life, but my home life as well.

So why, may you ask, am I now straying from this rule?  Because I want to make my kid a blankie.  That's it.  Nothing life-changing or sinister or earth shattering.  I simply want to make a comfy lovie for my kid and I can't do that without a sewing machine.  WHO AM I???  It's crazy--such an impulse would never have crossed my brain prior to having a child.  So what is the difference?  Is it hormones?  Let's just leave that one at, I don't think so.  Is it necessity?  Nope, the kid has a million blankets.  Or is it (gasp) biology?  Have such urges always been underneath the surface, just waiting for the chance to escape?  Who knows.  All I know is that the thought of it made me vomit slightly in my mouth, before I cyber-ran, screaming, to view the Gucci spring collection.  Don't get me wrong--I will ultimately purchase the damn machine.  And I will make the stupid blanket.  But I won't like it.  Some things, no matter how ingrained, must be fought.

Routine: friend or foe?

I have alwas been a creature of habit.  Ok, that's putting it nicely.  I'm a bit...extreme.  I LOVE my routines.  For example, upon entering a hotel room in which I will be staying, I promptly put all of my things away.  Everything.  In its place.  I can't go eat first, I can't sleep first--everything must be in its spot.  Ok, that sounds strange now that I put it in writing.  But you get the idea.  I LOVE my routines.

Hangin on Tough to my routine.

With a child, routines become even more necessary.  When he eats, when he sleeps, whether he sleeps, I should say--all of these things necessarily affect daily life.  And when his routine gets messed up, the day gets crazy.  Ask any of my friends--when I am off of his routine, both he and I let the world know it.  The problem is that life (especially my life) doesn't often fit the routine perfectly.  Things come up: meetings, dinners, New Kids on the Block concerts.  All of these activities (ok, not really the last one) have the potential to create upheaval that lasts for days (ok, fine, the last one too).  So I stick to our routine to the very best of my ability.  Sure, it's not always convenient, but the trade-off is that I sleep and he sleeps and we are both relatively pleasant individuals.  It's comfortable and it makes the day work for us.

But the problem, of course, is the total destruction that comes with not following the routine, once it is...well, routine.  Not only does going off of the routine throw me for a loop, it sends me into such a state of panic, I can't function.  If it's a big routine-buster, such as a vacation or work trip or the like, the result is such a huge sense of freak-out, it takes me days to recover.  The end result is missing out on the fun things, and expanding my world even on the not so fun things, that may throw a wrench into my daily life.

So the question is, should I try to create more, smaller changes to the routine so that I may wean myself from its comforts?  Or should I simply give in and never again vary from the constant of daily life so that such chaos is kept at bay?  I ask you, dear readers, for your thoughts on this one.  Are you slaves to your daily life?  Do you vary it at all?  Are you running families and does this affect things?  Are you even out there?  Did you vote today?

Sound-off Sunday

Welcome to our weekly special that I like to call "Sound-off Sunday."  Basically, it's me griping about a topic that recently hit me--so essentially the same as any other day, except, you know, on Sunday.  Please feel free to flay me in the comments section if you disagree with my sound-offs.  I enjoy the attention.

I'll start this week's session with a question that is much harder than it sounds:  why do we have children?  Obviously if you ask this question of a million people you will get a million different answers.  But what originally prompted the question was a situation in which my friend "Rebecca" finds herself.  Rebecca's current position is that she is not planning on having any.  My response to this is: awesome.  The response she most often receives to this is: that is incredibly selfish.  Wait, what?  Not having kids is selfish?  Interesting.  I'm not sure how in a world so overpopulated we do not have enough food, jobs or safe housing for everyone, choosing not to have a kid is the selfish choice.  I am primarily certain of this because I have never in my life made a decision that wasn't 100% selfish.  And I adore my little contribution to overpopulation.  So I am fascinated by this response.

But what really prompted today's post is a show I happened to watch yesterday.  Ok, let's get this out of the way--it was on the E! channel.  When you are brain dead most of the day due to exhaustion, trust me, E! is about the most you can digest.  Anyway, the show was called "My Kid is Going to be Famous."  It was a "reality" show in which parents who put their kids in a constant parade of talent and/or beauty contests are tailed.  And it was painful.  There are many variations of this show out there, and every one makes my head and my heart hurt.  The parents are frequently either ambivalent or defiant as to the fact that they are pushing their children into events solely for the purpose of re-doing their own childhood.  The kids are frequently doing it either for their parents' love and attention or out of fear.  As I said, it's painful.  But this post is not about my judgment of other parents.  It's about not judging those who aren't.

While these kids may enjoy the activities, and while I have no doubts that they have developed precious skills as a result, I can't in good faith believe that the parents began the process for an reasons but their own.  And as I hinted above, I have yet to come up with a "public good" argument for having children.  But, again, not having kids is what is considered selfish.  So my point, dear readers, on this beautiful Sunday morning is let he among us without sin be the first to condemn (from the Rent version of The Bible).  Whether your friends, relatives, neighbors, grocers, etc. choose to or not to have children--it is his or her decision.  I advise respecting it because mirrors can be harsh.  Now please excuse me, as my son has infant golf lessons to attend.

Nat Geo-mboree Wild

Saturdays are for Gymboree.  Gymboree, for those of you unacquainted with the rituals of the city parent, are indoor playgrounds where you get the privilege of paying a country-club type fee in order to get out of the house with your children and not fear little Tommy or Susie learning the new word "glock."  You will undoubtedly hear plenty of Gymboree stories, should you choose to bear with me on this parenthood project.  Today's thoughts are regarding the National Geographic special that should be made about those wild animals that freely roam the halls.  Seriously--it would make a great documentary to examine the different species of beasts that attend every weekend.  I am, of course, talking about Gymboree Parents.

At Gymboree there are all manner of stereotypical parents who attend.  Below I go into the specific creatures that I have found in my extensive, two-weeks of study.  Watching the parents is, in a word, fascinating.  They cautiously circle one another, trying to determine whether each is friend or foe.  They mentally beat their chests to show their ferocity--"Did you know little Banjo was walking at six weeks?"  And, sadly, they sing their animal songs at the direction of a 20 year old Gymboree leader which is painful.  So what types of creatures do we see in the wilds of Gymboree?  We see:

• The single working parent.  This creature (me) wanders after its child in a constant state of guilt.  Is he having fun?  I was at work longer this week--is he taking it out on that little boy he just closelined on the way to the slide?  Did he just stare that that daddy with a sense of longing?  Oh, God, maybe I should cultivate a five o'clock shadow so that he doesn't feel like he's missing anything....
• The solo dad.  This species tends to come in one of two types.  The first is the wholly present dad.  A timid creature, this animal is particularly terrified of the other parents.  Responding to all friendly overtures with mere smiles, this dad tends to stick close to his offspring.  When he does speak in the wild, he voices his concern for Timmy's development.  Is he as advanced as the other kids?  Is he as smart?  As cute?  The wholly present dad is a friendly creature, but don't get too close.  He's not one to be seen for extended periods in the wild. 
• The second type is the cell phone talker dad.  This guy is the stuff of legends and sadly can be seen throughout playgrounds across the US.  The cell phone talker dad ignores the giant "no cell phones" signs because--you guessed it--he's too important for those to apply to him.  Permanently attached to his leg is a child--typically the same one your little angel felt the need to tackle due to his rather abrasive personality (cell dad's kid--not yours, of course).  Cell dad and his kid are both of the more well-known variety of creature and sadly your child and you will come across them frequently in your lives.  Especially if one or both of you is a lawyer.
• Then there is the lesbian couple.  These creatures travel in pairs and one or both can always be seen with a camera.  Typically keeping to themselves, the lesbian couple species tends to have the child or children with the most interesting names. 

• Next comes the couple who clearly hate one another.  On the whole, this pack is generally rather varied.  The female of the duo is frequently pretty, clad in a designer sweatsuit, and her claws are well-manicured.  The male frequently ranges from rather toolish to foolish in appearance.  Really, the only way to spot this particular twosome is to watch how they interact in the wild--both clearly wanting to be somewhere else, with someone else, and both making up for this fact by trying to get the child to love him or her more.  I highly recommend that, upon spotting the couple who clearly hate one another, you sit for a while and observe.  Hours of entertainment and self-gratification come from the exercise.
• Finally is the perfectly nice and unnaturally beautiful, bi-racial couple.  This couple can be seen toting infants and toddlers who can only be described as stunning.  While possibly intimidating at first, this couple is generally happy looking in the wild and is an excellent choice for friend when you find yourself alone in the jungle.  At a minimum, when you are seated next to them in the lesbian couple's photos, at least you know you look good.

And there, dear readers, is your quick guide to the National Geo-mboree animal planet.  Until next episode, watch for fangs, tread lightly through the untamed wild, and at all costs try to enjoy the safari.  If for no other reason than the kid does.

Fear Factor

Things I feared two years ago:  being bored at my job, bad TV, running through the limit on my charge card, the Bears never winning another Super Bowl.
Things I fear now: losing my job, Joan Rivers, making the minimum payment on my charge card, the Bears never winning another Super Bowl, spiders, lightening, crazy people, sane people, glass falling out of skyscrapers, ice, the evening news, the guy in the car next to me....  You get the idea.

Seriously--even this photo scares me

A friend and I were just discussing how irrational we have become now that we are each parents.  Well, ok fine--how much more irrational we have become.  She mentioned that she absolutely hates flying.  A key part of her career, she used to be fine jetting from one location to another for work.  But now that she has a beautiful little girl, she is impaired to the point of tears on all outbound flights.  I, in turn, shared my even crazier phobia:  during thunder storms, I hover over my son's crib in an effort to stop any stray lightening bolts from coming through the roof and venturing even within feet of him.  I apparently fashion myself akin to the mother of Harry Potter--able to throw myself in front of the evil danger that lurks toward my child (and if I just gave away any part of Harry Potter to one of you who has not read it, my bad and welcome to the year 2000).  In sum, I am a now a great big scaredy cat. 

These crazy fears, while inconveniently irrational and occasionally debilitating, are (I hope) signs of growth.  I now give a crap whether I exist or not.  This primordial urge to survive in order to protect my offspring is pretty damn terrifying--and pretty damn cool.  Am I more prepared for life?  I doubt it.  In fact, I am fairly certain it prevents me from making decisions and taking the necessary, sure steps that were so easy for me in my former life.  I now watch where I go, constantly looking for the monsters that lurk in our daily existence.  But do I feel more like a badass?  Absolutely.  So bring it on, Voldemort.  Bring.  It.  On.

Kinder-crisis

So I just read a stoy in the Chicago Tribune, and let's just say it made me nauseous (link to article below).  For once, it's not my incessant need to judge others that caused the upchuck reflex, but it's how sad the facts in the article are.  It's about how the Chicago Public Schools ("CPS") system has 500 spots available for gifted and talented kindergarteners, and over 3,300 applicants for the spots.  Let's ignore for the moment the fact that all kindergarteners are gifted and talented.  That is an insane number of applicants for an insanely small number of spots.  Keep in mind, also, that these are for CPS spots--those Chicago kids whose parents can afford private or choose parochial schools aren't included.  Nor are the countless kids whose parents dragged them to the suburbs before they could have a say (kidding, 95% of my friends).  3,300 kids; kids whose futures are being debated by strangers, based on their potential at 5 years old.  It's mind-blowing.  So what's a parent to do?  According to the article, hire a tutor.  Excellent. 

To say that navigating the schooling dilemma when you live in a city is difficult is like saying Lindsey Lohan has a few selfish tendancies--it's an understatement.  But what is a parent to do?  If you're hiring tutors (many for thousands of dollars) to teach someone who thinks boogers should be named, isn't that money better spent on tuition at a school in which you don't have to have any qualifying credentials apart from an American Express?  Do you just take your chances on the regular CPS classes, and actually have money to buy such extravagant things as dinner or rent?  But then again, is it fair to chance your kid getting lost in a CPS system so big, it dwarfs the entire population of my home state of Montana?  Or does it make a difference?

What are your thoughts, dear readers?  Are the contents of this article rational?  Are there solutions?  I'd love to hear what you think....
Chicago Tribune Article

Baby Furniture Shopping

When I found out I was pregnant, I was most excited about the prospect of shopping for baby furniture (as you can see, I really thought this one through).  The idea of putting together a nursery from scratch was thrilling.  What style did I want?  What theme?  What wood grain?  So many delightful questions and an entire 9 (well, 10, really) months to answer them.  Heaven!

I now have a friend, Mindy*, who is expecting her first child this spring.  Mindy also lives in Chicago and has the same shopping mentality as I--if it's too over-the-top, too expensive and/or too beautiful, buy without question.  Which is perhaps why we're both broke.  But recently, while shopping online for her nursery furniture, Mindy came up with a brilliant suggestion for furniture shopping in the city.  This suggestion will require a background story, however, for those of you living in more...hospitable...places than Chicago. 

         *Names have been changed to protect the fact that she has never been "innocent" a day in her life.

You see, when Chicago has winter storms with large amounts of snow, a ritual takes place among city-dwellers who are sans-garages.  Before leaving their snowed-in street parking, these urban miners must first dig themselves out of the snow bank in which the car is encased.  Mind you, it's an often-grueling, time-consuming process.  Where the story gets interesting is when such locals then feel a certain "bond" with their spot.  They feel that the fact that they put so much effort into a parking space entitles them to the space, forever.  No, really.  Oftentimes in such situations, you will see Mr./ Ms. Snowblower place in the soon vacant parking spot an item of furniture.  You see where I am going with this.  Such items are frequently of the lawn-chair persuasion.  Occasionally, however, you will get a nice CD tower or even a table. 

As you have likely guessed, Mindy's brilliant idea is to prowl the streets for nursery furniture.  Sure, you may have to mix-and-match when it comes to the style and design.  But for the price, it can't be beat.  Plus it instills in our children both a thriftiness and a love for recycling when we tell them the story of that Miami Dolphins lamp shade and how it came to be theirs.  Helping the environment and helping ourselves--just a day in the life of a city parent.

V-Day

So yesterday was Valentine's Day.  V-Day tends to be either Yay! or Boo!--depending on your general state of mind, your relationship status, and whether Chad McLeod gave you a "love" or "like" valentine in fifth grade.  For me, it was my first V-Day as a parent.  Many of you are thinking "so?," and you're right to.  But I was surprised at my difference of opinion on this blessed occasion, from just a few short years ago.  You see, V-Day in the city can be a picture-perfect event, if you do it right.  I just didn't understand before now that I had never figured out how to do it right.

Picture, if you will (but not too clearly, please), a woman in her early thirties.  Finally feeling somewhat established in her career, she found herself coming upon what has traditionally been her least favorite of the holidays (screw you, Chad) feeling more optimistic than usual.  So she hits Prada, finds an adorable little black dress, and buys it without turning back or glancing at the price tag.  To accessorize, she purchases a bottle of Veuve Clicquot (she always did accessorize well), stalks her boyfriend of approximately six months and uses the champagne to bribe him, and finds herself dining at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Chicago on one of the most exclusive nights of the year.  Heaven, right?  Well, in true V-Day tradition, not so.  The evening concluded with her in tears (too much champagne), eating her dinner out of a take-out box and watching a horrible romantic movie based on an even more horrible book, on pay-per-view.

Now picture an older, wiser (snort) version of the woman.  Ok, this one is me.  My V-Day this year consisted of waking up to an extremely attractive man calling my name.  Well, he was actually yelling "Mama" at the top of his lungs, but you get the picture.  Together, we had waffles (fine, frozen Eggo brand waffles) and headed out to Grandma's, where we were greeted with chocolates and coffee.  At night, we shared some mashed potatoes in the kitchen and I later dined on a not-so-gourmet frozen pizza.  I wore cookie mashed into my (unwashed from the week before) pants the entire day, and fell asleep before I could get through an entire episode of Family Guy.  But before I went to bed, my little boy gave me a huge slobbery open-mouth "kiss" and giggled.  And as he fell asleep in my arms, I was struck once again at how much I love this tiny little guy.  It was the best Valentine's Day I've ever had.