October 8, 2010
I began reading Lorna Lenore Skenazy’s book Free Range Kids: How to Raise Self-Reliant Kids (Without Going Nuts with Worry) and thought I found my guru. An advocate of letting children enjoy childhood without helicopter parenting, the author, like me and my parents, is not afraid to let their children fall or get a bruise.
As I read more, it confirmed how I allow my kids to run. They run in an open field near the apartment.
They run down the sidewalk, knowing to stop before they reach the curb. They run down the hallway playing peek a boo with the doorman. At three and one and a half my kids love to run and be kids. And I support this.
Yesterday they were playing one such game in the hallway when the doorman buzzed me. I brought the kids inside and continued with our nighttime routine/ negotiation. While in the tub my daughter asked who was upstairs. When the noise became louder and I realized my husband was not coming home early to surprise me, I went up to see four police officers standing in my apartment.
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September 27, 2010
Every New Years, and about four other times throughout the year, I vow to be more organized. I’ll make a dent in the piles of papers on my desk and file documents in what was once intended to be color coded folders. This lasts about a week.
I’m also a bit of a commitment-phobe. I don’t even have a steady schedule with my babysitters. My husband swears it will make my life easier, but I struggle to bring myself to do it. I had a therapist once force me to commit to a time slot with the understanding that I could change it with 24 hours notice. Surprisingly, I kept most of our sessions. Had he been a better therapist than a) I might still be seeing him and 2) he would have addressed my issues with creating and adhering to a schedule.
Now that my daughter is at pre-school, I’m forced to drop her off and pick her up promptly. The second week I was confused about the pick up time, so, oops, one late day. The following two weeks I anticipated my son waking up in time for us to rush 13 minutes to the school. This plan backfired at least twice leading to one phone call and one scolding by the head of school.
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September 11, 2010
I first noticed it when I was pregnant. The darkening of my skin above my upper lip, a stain mustache that demanded my attention every time I looked in the mirror. At first I scrubbed hoping the dead skins cells would fall off and reveal a color consistent with the rest of my face.
It didn’t. My sister noticed. My dad said something. Nobody else did. But still when I found myself staring at my reflection I could see little else than the darkened skin above my lip. I wore sunscreen and waited for my son to be born then learned that birth control pills can make the skin susceptible to staining.
A friend of my sister had similar face staining and passed along her dermatologist’s recommendation: a Retinol concentrate and bleaching cream with hydroquinone which I later learned was popular with gay men eager to bleach their anuses. I met the friend and discretely searched her face for stains apparently common during pregnancies. Either the cream’s worked or she had blended her foundation well.
So I applied the anus whitening and anti-wrinkle cream to my face along with sunscreen to prevent any further damage. And every morning I’d examine my stain mustache noticing that the edges were blurring. My skin tone faded making me a more ghastly olive tone so I used the creme less. Read the rest of this entry »
June 23, 2010
My husband devised this cute game to encourage our kids to jump in the pool. He modifies the humpty dumpy nursery rhyme and the kids jump into our arms with my daughter reminding us she does not want to go under.
My 18 month old wanted to play too and when he last jumped into my arms he screamed in agony, drying in my shoulder. I thought his tush had brushed against the brick because he wasn’t close enough to edge. I did wave for him to come closer before taking the leap. I think. I hope.
The next day I was changing him and saw a huge rash on his tush that I thought was the result of diaper friction. He squealed when I applied the Desitin. Then I saw closer that half of his ball sack was bright red too. He must have brushed that against the brick too. I cringe thinking about his pain, the loud scream in the pool with his eyes shut and mouth agape.
I don’t know how sensitive his equipment is to pain, but I imagine it hurts. I think his penis is especially sensitive because he likes to tug it regularly.
June 18, 2010
Saying my children share a room is an embellishment. My Manhattan kiddies share a nook not legally called a bedroom because it lacks a window. A small four by four window peering into an air shaft would qualify the space as a bedroom, but alas, we just have French doors with frosted glass enclosing the two into the small space.
The cribs are close together. Less than a foot separates the space so narrow that my toddler daughter must turn sideways to squeeze into the gap that divides their respective beds. Naturally, the kids communicate to each other in the evening. On nights when my two exhaust me I will listen to the chatter upstairs with a glass of wine in my hand.
On one particular evening I had muted the television to decipher if the noise emanating from the children’s room was one that necessitated attention. With no shrieks or shrills I resumed my television viewing. Eventually I could no longer ignore the odd sounds so I ventured towards the room. Read the rest of this entry »
February 8, 2010
This year for my son’s first birthday I did not invite everyone I knew, just people I liked and friends with children. I had even been debating hosting a party, but how could I refuse the photo op? No surprise, the party evolved into a larger soiree than expected. Since it was for the children and I was hosting at home, I did not sweat it.
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January 27, 2010
I obviously have sex on my mind if it continues to emerge in my subconscious. I can’t remember the too many details of last night’s after hours romp but it definitely involved a critique of my blow job skills.
I don’t love blow jobs. While there have been several inspired moments when I enjoyed thrusting my husband’s organ into the back of my throat, tickling my gag reflex, it’s not a exactly a pleasurable experience. Turning on my husband and exciting him in a way that I know he cannot do better himself (see hand job) Read the rest of this entry »