I come from a long line of worriers. My grandfather was fastidious about being never less than ten minutes early for anything and thus; I nibble the insides of my cheek whenever I am cutting it close. My mother was convinced my siblings and I would drown in the turbulent undertows of Lake Michigan and to this day, I rarely wade in deeper than my shins. And me? Every time my baby tries to gum the shopping cart handle, I am certain the person before us had strep throat or dribbled raw ground beef onto the child’s seat. As a result, Bridget will probably bathe in antibacterial gel as an adult and contract some rare microorganism all because her mom didn’t spoon-feed her enough germs as a toddler.
Growing up I was a nervous kid. I agonized about a “B” soiling my Jr. High transcript and contemplated whether my sixth grade perm made me look like a lion. Resounding yes. I fretted over outfits and secret crushes and whether or not my parents were going to get a divorce. Since everyone’s parents were seemingly getting a divorce. I vexed about not knowing the names of all the New Kids on the Block and someone asking me to recite them. In public. In front of said crush. Later, I developed a knot in my stomach about going off to college without ever being kissed, and then worried endlessly how I would fare if the outlandish opportunity ever presented itself.
As a teenager, death became something I worried about a lot. After seeing a Hollywood thriller where a character is impaled by a ladder shooting through the windshield, I stopped driving behind maintenance vans. I had this morbid notion that if I conjured up every possible awful scenario then I would be safe. What if an intruder was hiding in my closet right NOW or I was attacked by a rabid squirrel or a funnel web spider or an Irukandji jelly fish? What if this building collapsed while I was eating tater tots in the second floor cafeteria or this plane plummeted into the Atlantic? Check. Check. Check. Check. I figured what were the chances of me premeditating my own fluke demise.
But, I will tell you that I never once worried about being divorced at 27. Never even considered it. I never thought my father would become so depressed that he would spend several years exclusively living in the basement. I can tell you that a friend’s sister-in-law likely never worried about being diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer as a newlywed and nonsmoker. And another who never imagined she would have to endure two consecutive miscarriages. And I guarantee you the parents in Newtown, CT didn’t give a second thought to dropping their chatty 1st graders off for school the Friday before Christmas break. No. They were worried that the pork chops they had bought last Sunday were spoiling in their fridge or that Noah would be ridiculed during lunch for bringing olive loaf. They were worried about saving enough for Michael’s college fund and whether or not Anne would spot Elf on The Shelf for sale in Target. But, they were not worried their kids were going to be shot during story time.
This was the first school shooting since I became a parent. I know there were others that came before. I lament that there have been others: Columbine. Virginia Tech. But, this one leveled me. With the news flashing overhead, I saw my sweet one year old, pretending to roar like a lion at her Fisher Price Farm set, while perched on her tippy toes and I thought… that’s her in four years. I was humbled by the sheer randomness. The blatant unfairness. Why those little kids? Why that town? Why that school? Why any school? Because it’s a beacon of our kids’ safety? Because there are people out there so disturbed that they are compelled to destroy what is most pure?
I don’t pretend to have any answers. Gun control. Mental health assistance. The fact remains randomness permeates everything around us. People do win $250 million jackpots just as people do die in tsunamis while vacationing on a beach in Thailand. Good people. There are a whole bunch of straws out there and a few in the pack are inexplicably short. All of us pretty much go through life not knowing what we hold until we are forced to stare down at the tip of that thing and then we realize. I pulled a short one.
The truth that is so terrifying as a parent is not how little control we have over own lives, but the paltry influence we have over protecting our kids. I worry now about Bridget choking on a teething biscuit or drowning in two inches of lukewarm bath water, but those are all within my motherly domain. Home. She is growing and her world is expanding and pretty soon, she will be out there on her own, coexisting with all the kind, evil, and indifferent. She will be scampering down the sidewalk with a backpack swinging off her shoulder and driving behind vans with ladders on top. She will be wading too deep in the ocean or tiptoeing too close to the edge. And really there is nothing I can do to clip her wings. I just have to trust that she is sensible. I have to hope she is just your average, every day, American kid. And that she doesn’t pull a short straw. It is this glaring vulnerability, the utter helplessness, which far supersedes any amount of bacteria-laden raw meat in a shopping cart.
This is my new worry.
Dec 16, 2012
Oct 23, 2012
Going Back
I brought my baby back to “The Farm”. (The Stanford campus, that is). I had visions of doing that back when I was a student, but at the time it was a romanticized fairytale. It involved me parading around two perfectly groomed, French-braided toe-heads while they sighed in wonderment at the campus’ beauty, dropped to their knees, and swore on the spot that they would excel at school, practice the oboe twice a day, master Portuguese, and start a non-profit so they could one day attend my alma mater.
In reality, at eleven months, my daughter wasn’t exactly game to sit through a 4+ hour football-fest and the tailgate fell smack dab in the middle of nap time, but at the very least, I’m quite certain she was inspired by the colorful koi fish in the Sheraton’s pond. Much to my dismay, I also had to consult the dorky alumni map on several occasions, exclaiming to my amused husband that ‘Ten years is a long time, dammit. Not to mention, as a student I was always on a bike which is a TOTALLY different vantage point from just walking around. No wonder we got slightly turned around’. And so, although Bridget never even got to see The Tree, we did buy some very cute and very over-priced toddler pjs adorned with all things Stanford. And let’s not forget the child also got to set foot in her first winery during our bonus visit to Sonoma after the weekend festivities. In fact, she was extremely well-behaved at the tasting and would probably post a very nice TripAdvisor review of the complimentary poppy seed crackers if she knew how to type.
In any case, our pilgrimage west reminded me of something I had written a half-decade ago after my fifth reunion. I dug it up and reread it, mentally comparing it to this recent visit. As it turned out, six months after writing it, I would find myself going through a divorce at the age of twenty-seven.
As time passes, life continues to teach me, a born planner, that we are not privy to The Grand Plan. It still amazes me how differently and yet, somehow gracefully my life has evolved these last five years without me trying to choreograph it – without the little French braids. I suppose as we age, we must quietly learn to trust in the imperfections and revisions. Going back to campus still felt wonderful. I was invigorated with that intangible collegiate energy and reminisced with friends about all the old haunts and crazy stunts, but it was a little more tempered this time around. I think we all felt a little older, but probably wiser too.
Although, secretly I may still tell Bridget, the oboe isn’t such a bad idea.
******************************************
November 2007
Cement
I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.
There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Lois Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the World Wide Web.
I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come that October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.
“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”
They were the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, treading thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new and unknown and simply yearning for the familiar.
Admittedly though, a similar longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.
In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was the tangible flutter of anticipation in embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into past flames. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.
A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots - Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad, looking out onto Palm Drive.
It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool with a white sun steadily burning through the haze, promising an afternoon of short sleeves. I eventually found myself at Wilbur Field, peering across the grass at my old freshman dorm, Otero, a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and masking throw-up stains on maroon carpets.
I crept around the side and into the back courtyard, studying the tiny middle unit on the first floor. I wondered who was living there now. Did she know about the ridge of cement that fanned out ever so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.
The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with unexpected pangs of jealousy.
I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for a fellow freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bike-less and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.
I turned back to Otero and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggles from the checkered sofas in the lounge, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the rap-tap melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. How many dorm meetings had I sat through on that very carpet? How many times had I breezed through that glass door, rushing off to class or meet a friend or cheer on the basketball team? Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.
What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, rent checks, wedding debt and corporate quotas. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.
I tried to picture myself in another five years on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, mortgages, and those extra ten pounds. I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.
I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. Some things, I think, should simply stick around for the ages.
In reality, at eleven months, my daughter wasn’t exactly game to sit through a 4+ hour football-fest and the tailgate fell smack dab in the middle of nap time, but at the very least, I’m quite certain she was inspired by the colorful koi fish in the Sheraton’s pond. Much to my dismay, I also had to consult the dorky alumni map on several occasions, exclaiming to my amused husband that ‘Ten years is a long time, dammit. Not to mention, as a student I was always on a bike which is a TOTALLY different vantage point from just walking around. No wonder we got slightly turned around’. And so, although Bridget never even got to see The Tree, we did buy some very cute and very over-priced toddler pjs adorned with all things Stanford. And let’s not forget the child also got to set foot in her first winery during our bonus visit to Sonoma after the weekend festivities. In fact, she was extremely well-behaved at the tasting and would probably post a very nice TripAdvisor review of the complimentary poppy seed crackers if she knew how to type.
In any case, our pilgrimage west reminded me of something I had written a half-decade ago after my fifth reunion. I dug it up and reread it, mentally comparing it to this recent visit. As it turned out, six months after writing it, I would find myself going through a divorce at the age of twenty-seven.
As time passes, life continues to teach me, a born planner, that we are not privy to The Grand Plan. It still amazes me how differently and yet, somehow gracefully my life has evolved these last five years without me trying to choreograph it – without the little French braids. I suppose as we age, we must quietly learn to trust in the imperfections and revisions. Going back to campus still felt wonderful. I was invigorated with that intangible collegiate energy and reminisced with friends about all the old haunts and crazy stunts, but it was a little more tempered this time around. I think we all felt a little older, but probably wiser too.
Although, secretly I may still tell Bridget, the oboe isn’t such a bad idea.
******************************************
November 2007
Cement
I confess. I finally succumbed to the most selfish of modern human curiosities.
I googled my name last night.
There they were - all the articles I had written for The Stanford Daily as an aspiring young journalist, in my quest to emulate the perky blonde version of Lois Lane. Each one, cataloged in perfect order, collecting virtual dust on the World Wide Web.
I scrolled down and a feature story I wrote my junior eye caught my eye, “Farm-Sick in Sydney.” I had been abroad, studying at the University of New South Wales that semester, basking in the Aussie sunshine and backdrop of the 2000 Olympics. And yet, come that October, I was overshadowed with a sense of longing.
“It was as though I never expected life at Stanford to go on without me. I didn't actually realize I'd be missing out - that there would be basketball games and bike accidents and Frosty Mints at the CoHo and that I wouldn't be there for them. It was the first time being abroad didn't feel so glamorous, so superior to Stanford.”
They were the nostalgic musings of a twenty-year old girl, treading thousands of miles away in the Southern Hemisphere, having forgotten she was there to experience the new and unknown and simply yearning for the familiar.
Admittedly though, a similar longing prompted me to visit the Farm this past year as a real veteran this time, a five-year alum. I hadn’t been back since graduation and although life was good, I was anxious to return to a place that had been home for four enviable years.
In the beginning of Reunion weekend, there was the tangible flutter of anticipation in embracing old friends, fretting over names, and running into past flames. However, by Sunday morning, I found myself alone for the first time in days.
A hush seemed to have settled over the foothills. I decided to take a stroll and breathe in the campus before I left it again for another five years. I didn’t set off with any particular destination in mind but I found myself passing some of my cherished spots - Moonbeams Cafe, the trees behind Castano, the shaded steps off the Quad, looking out onto Palm Drive.
It was a glorious Stanford morning, crisp and cool with a white sun steadily burning through the haze, promising an afternoon of short sleeves. I eventually found myself at Wilbur Field, peering across the grass at my old freshman dorm, Otero, a building I had resided in for half my college years. Once as a skinny 17 year-old novice from the Midwest and again as a senior RA, queen of all dorm-planning and masking throw-up stains on maroon carpets.
I crept around the side and into the back courtyard, studying the tiny middle unit on the first floor. I wondered who was living there now. Did she know about the ridge of cement that fanned out ever so slightly from the foundation, forming the perfect step up to the window if you ever got locked out? Probably, I thought.
The familiar hint of yeasty waffle batter wafted past me and I glanced around at the swarm of bleary-eyed students in sweatpants and flip-flops, dangling key chains and negotiating their spots on picnic benches sorely in need of a paint job. They looked unbearably young. I flinched with unexpected pangs of jealousy.
I wondered if I might still blend in. If they might mistake me for a fellow freshman or perhaps a mature upperclassman here to visit some privileged bottom-feeder. But, then I glanced down at my conspicuous Stanford bookstore bag, bursting with paraphernalia. The truth was that I was bike-less and showered at 11:30am on a Sunday morning. Probably not. I just hoped they didn’t think I was somebody’s mother.
I turned back to Otero and all the memorable vignettes it housed for me. I heard far-off giggles from the checkered sofas in the lounge, the sharp sound of cues hitting pool balls, the rap-tap melody of clucking keyboards from the poor saps in the lab who didn’t yet own a PC. How many dorm meetings had I sat through on that very carpet? How many times had I breezed through that glass door, rushing off to class or meet a friend or cheer on the basketball team? Faces I had struggled to picture en route to the reunion took shape for me now. I smiled, remembering. My time here had been a happy one.
What a tribute to Stanford that even now as an adult, its sights, smells, and sounds were able to evoke such nostalgia in me. Perhaps even more as an adult as I stood there, yearning for a life before taxes, rent checks, wedding debt and corporate quotas. I suppose this is what every passing reunion must bring – a wistful reminder of a time of youth.
I tried to picture myself in another five years on that very spot, peering out at a new batch of freshman inhaling doughy waffles on wobbly picnic tables, and reminiscing about a simpler time, before potty-training, aging parents, mortgages, and those extra ten pounds. I think it would again feel like a privilege to return to my roots and bathe in its essence for a while. Even if by then I really did look like someone’s hip young mom.
I just hope in the meantime they don’t sand down that sliver of cement. Some things, I think, should simply stick around for the ages.
Jul 26, 2012
A Mother's Wants
I look at you, Daughter, and marvel at your metamorphosis after eight short months. The way the corners of your mouth now twitch just before you are about to laugh. How your tiny toes curl in anticipation as you prepare to nurse and how you squeal like a parakeet when daddy comes through the back door. You are beginning to craft your own distinct personality. At night I rock you in the leather chair and press my nose to your head to inhale the scent of you. I know you won’t always let me cradle you like this. Every day, you become more alert and aware and interactive. You are slowly learning what sounds to startle at, what surprises to smile at, and what ideal gouging targets my eyes make for your curious fingers. I get the sense you have already figured out that orange “mush” makes you glad while green “mush” makes you gag. I swear you eyed me with blatant suspicion the other day when I pretended to ingest pureed peas with a gusto usually reserved for sprinkle donuts.
I wonder how your dad and I can possibly teach you all of the intangibles you will need to know when we are both still learning ourselves. Right now, the lessons are easy. Triangle, apple, yellow, duck, ball, wet. The lessons get harder and the directions more complicated. At home, you adore this mini toy house that echoes back to you in opposites: “Door Open / Door Closed.” “Light On / Light Off”. I find myself wanting to warn you. Life isn’t always one or the other. There’s a lot of grey. There’s a lot in the middle.
As your mother, I suppose I cannot shield you from pain, disappointment, and even danger any more than I can promise you joy and fulfillment. However, I can promise that I will still attempt to control these things out of love and instinct despite knowing that I am trying to control the wind. Your defeats will be my own and your celebrations will be my elations. And while you are small and depend on me to carry you up the stairs and fetch your toys and read your books, I want to tell you a few things. Since in ten, fifteen, twenty years, you may not be as apt to listen. Remember our conversation. Remember my words.
I want you to know that it is okay to be different – that you don’t have to wear the “right” shoes, listen to pop music or worship the color pink. In fact, you will find as an adult that those individuals who buck convention are often a lot more interesting to have over for dinner.
I want you to travel. Be open. Form opinions and ask questions.
I want you to realize you possess the inner strength and courage to pursue the dreams you know in your soul you are meant to pursue. Don’t let fear bog you down. Fight for your passions early and often.
I want you to trust others and hold dear the friends who make you laugh.
I want you to try sardines, beets, and sauerkraut every five years... just to see.
I don’t want you to rush into love, but when you do make sure you find someone with kind eyes and a good heart. If this someone makes you feel beautiful and safe and inspired AND fills your car up with gas after you have been dating a year, you have found the one.
I want you to experience a broken heart. Just once.
I want you to pay attention to red flags and small print. And avoid short-cuts through alleys.
I want you to wear wide-brimmed hats on the seashore and scarves in the winter.
I want you to keep a Kleenex in your pocket and an extra tampon in your purse.
I want you...no, implore you, to learn how to properly throw a baseball. I don’t care if you are an athlete, musician, or spelling bee wizard, but turn your shoulders and follow through.
I want you to read more than you watch. In actual books that smell like libraries.
I want you to tell the truth.
I want you to go on long walks at dusk, especially in the fall when the leaves are falling, the air nips at your cheeks and a melancholic hush has settled over the world.
I want you to keep a journal and reread your nibbles of consciousness every year on some random Tuesday night when you are tempted to turn on the TV.
I don’t want you to worry about perfection. It is unattainable and frankly not very fun. It is our dents and dings that are the most endearing to those we love.
I want you to splurge on pedicures, cashmere and organic vegetables.
I want you to smile when you make eye contact with strangers. Unless they look creepy, smell like cigarettes, or are wearing a sleeveless undershirt. I realize this may indirectly contradict the whole embrace all free-thinkers rule from above, but I trust your judgment.
I want you to learn a second language and challenge your parents to follow their own advice. And yes, you have my permission to speak to us exclusively in Spanish until we have complied.
I want you to stand up for yourself, but master the delicate technique of arguing your point with logic versus volume.
I want you to realize that things are nice, but memories are better.
I want you to know we are all tested and deflated at one time or another. Take comfort that your ascent can be gradual and communal and will offer up vantage points along the way that will allow you to glance back and relish in your progress.
I want you to have faith that the hardest, most painful moments in your life will yield the most personal growth and sweet rewards. Be patient. Nothing is permanent while we are walking the earth. Most everything will make sense afterwards.
I want you to understand from a young age the power and grace that comes with giving and that pure inspiration can be deliciously infectious.
Most of all, Daughter, I want you to remember you are entirely unique, 100% worthy, and even if you utterly ignore all of the above, hopelessly loved.
I wonder how your dad and I can possibly teach you all of the intangibles you will need to know when we are both still learning ourselves. Right now, the lessons are easy. Triangle, apple, yellow, duck, ball, wet. The lessons get harder and the directions more complicated. At home, you adore this mini toy house that echoes back to you in opposites: “Door Open / Door Closed.” “Light On / Light Off”. I find myself wanting to warn you. Life isn’t always one or the other. There’s a lot of grey. There’s a lot in the middle.
As your mother, I suppose I cannot shield you from pain, disappointment, and even danger any more than I can promise you joy and fulfillment. However, I can promise that I will still attempt to control these things out of love and instinct despite knowing that I am trying to control the wind. Your defeats will be my own and your celebrations will be my elations. And while you are small and depend on me to carry you up the stairs and fetch your toys and read your books, I want to tell you a few things. Since in ten, fifteen, twenty years, you may not be as apt to listen. Remember our conversation. Remember my words.
I want you to know that it is okay to be different – that you don’t have to wear the “right” shoes, listen to pop music or worship the color pink. In fact, you will find as an adult that those individuals who buck convention are often a lot more interesting to have over for dinner.
I want you to travel. Be open. Form opinions and ask questions.
I want you to realize you possess the inner strength and courage to pursue the dreams you know in your soul you are meant to pursue. Don’t let fear bog you down. Fight for your passions early and often.
I want you to trust others and hold dear the friends who make you laugh.
I want you to try sardines, beets, and sauerkraut every five years... just to see.
I don’t want you to rush into love, but when you do make sure you find someone with kind eyes and a good heart. If this someone makes you feel beautiful and safe and inspired AND fills your car up with gas after you have been dating a year, you have found the one.
I want you to experience a broken heart. Just once.
I want you to pay attention to red flags and small print. And avoid short-cuts through alleys.
I want you to wear wide-brimmed hats on the seashore and scarves in the winter.
I want you to keep a Kleenex in your pocket and an extra tampon in your purse.
I want you...no, implore you, to learn how to properly throw a baseball. I don’t care if you are an athlete, musician, or spelling bee wizard, but turn your shoulders and follow through.
I want you to read more than you watch. In actual books that smell like libraries.
I want you to tell the truth.
I want you to go on long walks at dusk, especially in the fall when the leaves are falling, the air nips at your cheeks and a melancholic hush has settled over the world.
I want you to keep a journal and reread your nibbles of consciousness every year on some random Tuesday night when you are tempted to turn on the TV.
I don’t want you to worry about perfection. It is unattainable and frankly not very fun. It is our dents and dings that are the most endearing to those we love.
I want you to splurge on pedicures, cashmere and organic vegetables.
I want you to smile when you make eye contact with strangers. Unless they look creepy, smell like cigarettes, or are wearing a sleeveless undershirt. I realize this may indirectly contradict the whole embrace all free-thinkers rule from above, but I trust your judgment.
I want you to learn a second language and challenge your parents to follow their own advice. And yes, you have my permission to speak to us exclusively in Spanish until we have complied.
I want you to stand up for yourself, but master the delicate technique of arguing your point with logic versus volume.
I want you to realize that things are nice, but memories are better.
I want you to know we are all tested and deflated at one time or another. Take comfort that your ascent can be gradual and communal and will offer up vantage points along the way that will allow you to glance back and relish in your progress.
I want you to have faith that the hardest, most painful moments in your life will yield the most personal growth and sweet rewards. Be patient. Nothing is permanent while we are walking the earth. Most everything will make sense afterwards.
I want you to understand from a young age the power and grace that comes with giving and that pure inspiration can be deliciously infectious.
Most of all, Daughter, I want you to remember you are entirely unique, 100% worthy, and even if you utterly ignore all of the above, hopelessly loved.
Mar 30, 2012
MWF w/ I Seeking F w/ I
So, I started dating again. I am back in the saddle and in truth, just looking for friends with benefits this time around. The “benefit” of course being that they have a kid. Non-procreators need not apply. And if your offspring is the same age as mine, I’m even willing to pick up the turkey-n-avocado-on-wheat lunch tab. Oh, and did I mention, I’m really only interested in women at this point? Mr. Moms’, I commend you for bucking the gender stereotype (even though you likely ironed the grilled cheese and stapled the Woobie) but I’ve decided I’m a boob gal. Because let’s face it, we ladies want to the freedom to complain about our sagging girls and in the next breath, criticize our husbands and how they STAPLED the beloved Woobie! Can you believe it? What a jack-ass. Unless you’re gay and willing to badmouth your man, you’ll have to find your own playgroup.
It’s weird being back on the prowl. Sizing up other moms up at the petting zoo, in the grocery check-out aisle, on the playground. Stealthily calculating who appears to be somewhat “normal”. I’ve heard church can actually be a goldmine, but I’m not sure I am ready to open up that can of worms. I think its best to avoid politics and religion, at least until the second date. I am open to “virgins” as well as moms who have been around the block a time or two. I find both contribute to a budding relationship. I can whine about sleep deprivation with the other first-timers while the veterans offer sage advice and always seem to have stains on their shirts which makes me feel better about myself. Either way, I strive to present a wholesome and mentally stable image when my daughter and I manage to expunge ourselves from the house. I actually wash my face and accessorize Bridget (my chick-magnet wing-baby) in her adorable gingham jumpsuit and socks with bows. Terrible to admit, but she is an excellent prop. I’ve discovered that moms of boys seem especially attracted to pink frilly tots and you never know who you may run into.
The hunting mom does have to be cautious. No surprise, there are a lot of freaks out there. Avoid groups with matching Land’s End polos and umbrella strollers who are chuckling at the park in a tight U-formation with their iced lattes. They are TAKEN. You will not be able to break into that clique no matter how cute your baby is – so just accept your losses and move on. Avoid the over-zealous La Leche chicks – unless you find it socially acceptable to express breast milk into your coffee mug at the local Panera. (Disclosure: May be a slight exaggeration) Avoid all perfectionists who actually put on mascara for a play date, fit into their pre-maternity cloths after a month and generally make you feel like a frump. Avoid the visibly exhausted who were genetically socked with a devil child. Empathize – but move on. She won’t be able to sit still for more than five seconds and Junior’s atrocious behavior will only rub off on your little darling. Pay attention to those shy reliable ones in the back corner of music class. They are often times the keepers.
It is a delicate dance to appear vulnerable and approachable without coming off too desperate. Women can smell it like a poopy diaper and retreat because clearly something MUST be wrong with you if you are THIS starved for companionship. But, I sense the majority of moms are very open to exploring the domain of female dating. I recommend an initial casual one hour lunch date and if all goes well, the official phone number exchange in the iPhone. But, best to wait 72 hours before calling or texting again. Better yet, play hard to get and let her pursue you. Always good to be in the driver’s seat.
After much consideration, my personal ad would read something like this:
MWF (Married White Female) w/ infant Seeking F w/ Infant. Looking to pass the time - whether it be meandering stroller walks in the park, Target returns, or comparing sleep-training strategies at the corner table at Starbucks. I want a woman who doesn’t claim to have all the answers or have it all together, but is willing to chuckle about our attempts at juggling chaos. I want a woman who can swear, sport a ponytail, and does NOT have the energy to peel, chop and puree her own acorn squash into baby food. I want a woman who shops for onesies at Marshalls instead of Bloomingdales and doesn’t judge me for using pacifier wipes. I want a woman who is willing to quietly sing Farmer in the Dell in the line at the bank because it makes her baby laugh. I want a woman who is smart and dreams of taking a vacation in ten years so that she can actually read a book without pictures. (And bonus points if her husband is actually “normal” as this opens up a whole other dimension of swing dating with the men in tow.) If this sounds like you, call me. If you get my voice mail, I promise to wait the appropriate 72 hours before stalking your home.
It’s weird being back on the prowl. Sizing up other moms up at the petting zoo, in the grocery check-out aisle, on the playground. Stealthily calculating who appears to be somewhat “normal”. I’ve heard church can actually be a goldmine, but I’m not sure I am ready to open up that can of worms. I think its best to avoid politics and religion, at least until the second date. I am open to “virgins” as well as moms who have been around the block a time or two. I find both contribute to a budding relationship. I can whine about sleep deprivation with the other first-timers while the veterans offer sage advice and always seem to have stains on their shirts which makes me feel better about myself. Either way, I strive to present a wholesome and mentally stable image when my daughter and I manage to expunge ourselves from the house. I actually wash my face and accessorize Bridget (my chick-magnet wing-baby) in her adorable gingham jumpsuit and socks with bows. Terrible to admit, but she is an excellent prop. I’ve discovered that moms of boys seem especially attracted to pink frilly tots and you never know who you may run into.
The hunting mom does have to be cautious. No surprise, there are a lot of freaks out there. Avoid groups with matching Land’s End polos and umbrella strollers who are chuckling at the park in a tight U-formation with their iced lattes. They are TAKEN. You will not be able to break into that clique no matter how cute your baby is – so just accept your losses and move on. Avoid the over-zealous La Leche chicks – unless you find it socially acceptable to express breast milk into your coffee mug at the local Panera. (Disclosure: May be a slight exaggeration) Avoid all perfectionists who actually put on mascara for a play date, fit into their pre-maternity cloths after a month and generally make you feel like a frump. Avoid the visibly exhausted who were genetically socked with a devil child. Empathize – but move on. She won’t be able to sit still for more than five seconds and Junior’s atrocious behavior will only rub off on your little darling. Pay attention to those shy reliable ones in the back corner of music class. They are often times the keepers.
It is a delicate dance to appear vulnerable and approachable without coming off too desperate. Women can smell it like a poopy diaper and retreat because clearly something MUST be wrong with you if you are THIS starved for companionship. But, I sense the majority of moms are very open to exploring the domain of female dating. I recommend an initial casual one hour lunch date and if all goes well, the official phone number exchange in the iPhone. But, best to wait 72 hours before calling or texting again. Better yet, play hard to get and let her pursue you. Always good to be in the driver’s seat.
After much consideration, my personal ad would read something like this:
MWF (Married White Female) w/ infant Seeking F w/ Infant. Looking to pass the time - whether it be meandering stroller walks in the park, Target returns, or comparing sleep-training strategies at the corner table at Starbucks. I want a woman who doesn’t claim to have all the answers or have it all together, but is willing to chuckle about our attempts at juggling chaos. I want a woman who can swear, sport a ponytail, and does NOT have the energy to peel, chop and puree her own acorn squash into baby food. I want a woman who shops for onesies at Marshalls instead of Bloomingdales and doesn’t judge me for using pacifier wipes. I want a woman who is willing to quietly sing Farmer in the Dell in the line at the bank because it makes her baby laugh. I want a woman who is smart and dreams of taking a vacation in ten years so that she can actually read a book without pictures. (And bonus points if her husband is actually “normal” as this opens up a whole other dimension of swing dating with the men in tow.) If this sounds like you, call me. If you get my voice mail, I promise to wait the appropriate 72 hours before stalking your home.
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