At the Mommy Table

Last night I attended this really fun "girls night out" dinner hosted by my realtor D, whom I adore because she does the Lord's work for us. There were probably 30 women in a private room in a local restaurant, and D had gone to the trouble to carefully place us in small groups for dinner to facilitate conversation.

As I sat down and introduced myself to my tablemates (one of whom I knew, as she is the wife of someone in my husband's office), D walked over and said magnanimously, "This is the MOMMY table. You all will have lots to talk about."

And I totally chafed.

All the other women seemed perfectly pleased. They were all stay at home moms and were used to the label. I dare say they revelled in it.

But I sat there thinking, 'I'm a lobbyist. I'm a professional. I'm a working mom. I'm not a MOMMY.'

I can't quite put my finger on why the label bothered me so much. I mean, I love my daughter and I think I'm doing a decent job raising her. She is a HUGE part of my daily life, and I always look forward to seeing her at the end of the day or when I'm returning from a business trip. My heart melts when she looks at me and says 'I uuhhh you' or gives me a big wet kiss.

Maybe I felt like putting me at the Mommy Table swept a huge part of my life under the rug. All the education I had, all the professional experience, all the knowledge on politics and policy issues, all the aspirations for my career. It ignored the balancing act that I (mostly) pull off every week.

It reminded me of college and the time just out of college, when I was single. I'd return home and would visit family, see friends, chat with family friends, etc. The questions I got most often were 'So are you seeing anyone? Is there anyone special in your life?' And when I would say no, I would usually recieve a pitying smile and a condescending 'Well don't worry. You'll find someone. You're young.'

What about my job? What about my hobbies? What about the new people I was meeting and the exciting things I was doing? No, the assumption was that because I was a young woman, my goal in life must be to find a mate. And now the assumption is that because I'm a young mother, my life is all about my kid.

It's pretty infuriating, and I hate it MOST when I get it from other women. But I guess the "mommy" label will always be first and foremost to some people, no matter if I cured cancer or established world peace.

Next time I'll tell D that I expect a seat at the Diva Table. Where I belong.

Give a Little Bit

I have an admittedly crackly exterior. I know it will you shock you, dear readers, after my sensitive posts on my daughter's relationship with my mother and the self-denial of Lent, but I'm a pretty snarky bitch most of the time. I know I will rot in hell for ragging on people who annoy me (or who are stupid, or who get in my way), but I take a perverse joy in saying snotty things about people who piss me off.

But deep inside my tough shell is a soft, gooey center. Like soft serve ice cream under a thick layer of Magic Shell.

Honestly, I have a gentle side. And it just melts when I witness people giving to others.

See, my favorite hour of television is Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I cry every single episode.

(For the uninitiated, Ty Pennington and crew find some family who has gone through a terrible tragedy and is living in a house that is both rotting from the ground up and contains 400 square feet of living space. The crew sends the family on a vacation while the old place is gutted and rebuilt to be a modern marvel of space, light, efficiency, technology and luxury.)

What gets to me is not the terrible circumstances that have befallen the families on the show. I can handle the sob stories. It's the moment when I realize how much better the lives of the homeowners are going to be because of what they have been given. Someone, somewhere gives these people something to believe in, to cling to, and it just makes me weep.

Now, I know that ABC and Sears are not exactly doing this for philanthropy. I mean, they're using this show as a giant PR campaign to show how generous and mindful their companies are. But you know what? I don't give a rip.

No matter the reasons for the donations, the stuff is REAL. The houses are REAL. Tearing up someone's mortgage is REAL. Someone in a position of power made a decision to give something really huge and really meaningful to someone who really needed it.

On a smaller scale, I witness moments of giving every day. We have friends who are so excited and happy that we're moving into a new house, they're bringing us meals and helping us clean the place! (Thanks so much, guys!)

That's the touching part: Giving where there is no expectation, parting with time and energy.

Selfless kindness reminds of the good in humanity, which is a nice change from always focusing on the jackass idiot parts.

(You didn't think I would be all nice, did you???)

Fries With That

To celebrate both the successful settlement on our new house and our fourth wedding anniversary, Basil and I went out to dinner with little Petunia in tow. We opted for a great local neighborhood restaurant - the Evening Star Cafe - that we've always enjoyed but haven't been to in quite some time (which Yummy Yucky also recently visited).

Clearly, we haven't been there since our daughter was old enough to eat table food. Otherwise, we probably would have opted for somewhere else.

The service was so-so (definitely not great). The host was polite (definitely not effusive) about seating a family, though it took quite awhile for him to dig out a high chair - which was amazing because there were other kids in the restaurant. But what really chafed me was the menu and, specifically, finding something decent for Petunia to eat.

Our toddler is a GREAT eater. She loves broccoli. She eats tofu. The kid likes just about every kind of bean on the planet. And we encourage her healthy eating habits. Partly because we feel like this is the best time for Petunia to develop a broad palette and partly because fruits and veggies keep her pooping.

(Our poor little girl gets constipated now and then when she gets too many crackers and too much cheese at daycare, and there is nothing worse than watching her stand and cry while she's trying to take a crap.)

See, I have a HUGE beef with restaurants that only offer fried food and carbs for kids. (Especially restaurants that delight in serving exotic plates for their adult diners.) Aside from not being very healthy, I think the commonplace chicken-nuggets-french-fries-pasta-grilled-cheese menu sells kids short on what they're willing to eat.

(I'm not saying that I expect lima beans and mango on a kids menu, but why does everything have to come with fucking French fries? Haven't these people watched Supersize Me?)

Last night, we sat and studied the very adult menu for some time. We were just stumped. There was no kids menu of any kind, and there was nothing on the starters/appetizers list that would have even passed. The few choices that featured fiber (most were seafood- or meat-based) were punched up with spicy seasoning like cayenne pepper or chipotle. After a long evaluation, we decided that we needed to cobble together a plate of our own from the side dishes featured with the entrees.

When the waitress arrived to take our order, we told her what we want to do for Petunia's meal. The waitress nonchalantly said, "Oh we have some kids items. Did I not tell you?" (No you didn't tell me...why do you think we've been sitting here worrying for almost fifteen minutes?) Then she proceedes to describe our three options: grilled cheese with fries, chicken nuggets with fries, and pasta with cream sauce.

What I heard was constipation, constipation and constipation.

So we went with the original plan. As it turns out, I think Petunia had the best dinner of all of us. And she loved her roasted corn. (I'm sure her digestive track loved it too.)

But I think from now on, when we are in the mood for a delicious and slightly upscale meal that will not leave our daughter as an annoying afterthought, we'll be heading a little further up the road to the new Del Merei Grille. We've been four times now, three times with Petunia. They have a real kids menu - printed and laminted - that features grilled veggies as a replacement for fries without having to make it a special request, high chairs at the ready for quick and easy seating of a little one and a staff that is delighted to see us AND our daughter when we come in.

Light My Fire

I am a smoker at heart. In fact, in college, I smoked a solid pack a day. Often, it was more like a pack and a half.

Many of my close friends smoked (and we took great delight in discovering snotty high-end cigarette brands and going so far as to order them direct from the manufacturer in New York in one case), and the student government that I was part of conducted most of its important business on the outside patio of the campus coffee house. I did my best work at the university's daily newspaper when I stepped outside to think and smoke. In grad school, the only people that I really bothered to get to know were the fellow smokers in the class. And if I had a drink in one hand, you can bet that I had a cigarette in the other.

I officially quit in fall 2001. And for a couple of years, I didn't have so much as a single cigarette. But in the past year or two, I have allowed myself the occasional smoke. Usually on the big beach trip, someone smuggles in a pack of Marley Lights and a few of us stand on the deck looking at the ocean while we enjoy our nicotine late at night. Or, during a random night of drinking, someone will suggest buying a pack, and I have one or two smokes.

And honestly, for the longest time, that's been fine. But lately, I am teetering on the edge of becoming a true smoker again.

I mean, I'm not actually lighting up. But I am thinking about it. I am wanting a cigarette when I drive. When I see people smoking, I think, Damn - that looks good.

I found a pack of crusty six-month old Camel Lights in our friend's convertible (which we're caring for sort of indefinitely while he's working overseas), and I smoked the two cigarettes in there back-to-back in two nights, on the way home from evenings out.

What the hell is going on? I mean, every time I smoke more than about half a cigarette now I feel disgusting. Recently, a girlfriend and I had about four cigarettes each during a night out and I thought I would throw up when I got home.

(Maybe it was the five gin and tonics, then again.)

And I can't stand the smell. I smoke one cigarette and come inside to change clothes, wash my face, brush my hair, brush my teeth and scrub my hands like a surgeon. Sometimes I go so far as to take a shower.

Yet, I've got this jonezn going on. I see people smoking on TV and I want to join them. I remember how good a cigarette was with my morning coffee in college.

I don't think it's nicotine. (Well, maybe a little.) I've always been more drawn to the act of the smoking itself. Having something to do with my hands, taking the long drag, exhaling leisurely.

I can't put my finger on it. But if there's a Marlboro pusher hanging out in my neighborhood these days, he better stay the hell away from me. Or I'm going to end up sneaking money from husband's wallet to support a new (or revised) habit.

All I Need is This Ashtray. And This Lamp.

The boxes are starting to pile up. At first, they were only in the laundry room. Then some of them started filling up the family room. Now, they're in a corner of the dining room and some are hiding in closets.

We are SO moving. Two weeks from today, to be exact.

And as we slowly pack our lives away, we're trying to decide what we really need to get by for the next fortnight. The kitchen gets pared down more each evening. Books and CDs are slowly being packed. Coats, hats and scarves all got the ax a few nights ago. Tonight, I plan on tackling sweaters and other winter wear.

You'd think it wouldn't be so hard to separate the things you really need for two weeks versus the frivolous crap that just takes up space. But when I open the cabinets and stare down the footed ice cream bowls, I think...Now, if I pack these away and use a cereal bowl for my Ben & Jerry's fix for the next fourteen nights, I will end up dishing way more than a serving of ice cream because a serving will feel so tiny in that great big bowl, so really I'm just looking out for my diet by keeping these little dessert bowls around.

(You should hear the rationalizations for why I haven't packed up my sexy nightgowns.)

It seems crazy that the decision-making is not more straightforward. Two weeks is not a long time (it's practically a long vacation), and all this stuff will be available for use once we move. But the idea of putting it in a box and having it inaccessible for fourteen whole days just seems dicey.

I'm trying to get over it. Really, I am. I know that we have a lot of packing to do, and I don't want the run-up weekend to be nuts. (Well, I'm sure it will be insane anyway, but I'd like to minimize the frenzy if at all possible.)

So tonight, when I confront the row of cookbooks and start to waver about whether or not I'll need to look up my favorite stroganoff recipe before we move, I'm going to shush the crazy voices in my head and put those cookbooks next to the ice cream bowls in a big cardboard box - where they belong.

Here We Go Loopty-Loo

My daughter loves music. I'd like to think she gets it from me and my piano-playing, handbell-ringing and choir-singing, but it could just as easily come from her dad and his love of CDs of all genres and styles. We try to encourage Petunia's interest by giving her instruments (maracas, rhythm block, triangle, tiny cymbals, tamborine) and by letting her plunk on the family ivories when she wants.

She also has her own boombox and a growing collection of CDs. What started off as a mix of classical compilations with names like "Beethoven for Babies" and "Sweet Dreams" soon blossomed into a stack of toddler playsongs. Which Petunia loves to listen to. All the time. In the living room, in her room, in the car. As background music, as dancing music.

We have created a musical monster.

I think we have a decent collection of kiddie albums: all four volumes of the Disney Children's Favorite Songs Collection, sung in a simple folksy fashion by Larry Groce; several of the VeggieTales* Sing-a-Longs (On the Road, Campfire Songs, O Veggie Where Art Thou and Silly Songs with Larry); Lisa Loeb's Catch the Moon, which came tucked into a board book of the same title (the CD is a pretty pleasant acoustic experience, the book is painfully bad); and these two bargain-bin numbers of slightly off-tune Canadian kids singing every song/nursery rhyme you ever heard of and some you've never heard of.

*(The VeggieTales CDs are a little more evangelical than the Judeo-Christian-ethic-pushing DVDs, but the high-quality production and funny characters go a long way for my listening sanity. Really, I never stop laughing at the background chatter between Pa Grape and Mr. Lunt during 'On Top of Old Smokey.')

But it's time for some new additions.

Yeah, I'm starting to go a little allworkandnoplaymakesJackadullboy from hearing the same CDs over and over. And over. And. Over.

So we've started looking for things to add to Petunia's music collection. It's a hard balance, finding things that don't make me want to stick sharp things in my eyes and yet still make her want to dance and play.

I'm thinking there have to be some good classic Sesame Street CDs out there (picking up on the threads by both Florilegium Suburbanum and Dahlberg Central last week); I have enough Elmo in my house these days, thank you very much to my mother and mother-in-law.

And my husband found a great collection of children's folk songs from the Smithsonian Institution, which has my daughter's new favorite Spanish melody, "Los Pollitos Dicen." We'll be ordering that soon.

Is it possible that adult artists have made decent kids CDs? I was sorely disappointed in Mary Had a Little Amp (though I still appreciate the friends who passed their extra copy our way). It is way too clubby for little Petunia's taste, though I think it makes perfect background music for trying to convince our childless friends that having a baby hasn't made us any less hip.

"Hey, is that a new Moby CD you've got?"
"No, it's actually my daughter's CD, and Moby is on it."
"Cool. I might have to pick up a copy of that for myself."

Anyway, I'm sure we'll be on Amazon shortly, listening to 30 seconds snippets and trying to imagine whether the tracks will make us cuckoo after the 88th time around. So if you've got any recommendations, pass them my way.

Grandma Dot Com

My mother visited over the weekend, and she had a rip-roaringly good time with my daughter. Little Petunia* is the first grandchild on both sides of the family, and she has both grandmas by the short hairs.

*(Since the rest of us are using veiled pseudonyms, I figured I'd pick one for my kid.)

Really, my mom made the trip just to see and spend time with Petunia. My mother-in-law does the same thing. Basil and I are old news these days. See, it's all about the B-A-B-Y.

I don't begrudge the shift in attention. I'm happy that my daughter gets to see her grandmommies pretty regularly, especially considering that they both live about three states away. And our mothers just love spending the quality time with our 18-month-old.

My mom taught my daughter hide-and-seek (as well as you can teach a child that young anyway...she only has two hiding spots and one of them is behind the rocking chair that has open slats). The two of them colored up a storm. They packed purses and went for walks. They went to the playground. They read a lot of books. They sang and danced.

Every night, my daughter was exhausted, and my mother beamed.

I can't quite imagine what it's like to have a grandchild. Petunia seems to be a source of sheer light and joy for our parents. They have a love for her that seems endlessly patient and wise. They value her every moment, and they see her with soft eyes.

And as I watched my mom with my daughter, I wondered if someone was out there giving voice to grandmothers. I mean, there are so many mothers out there writing about their experiences and their children, but is anyone capturing what it feels like to be a grandma? That's a link I would definitely be interested in sharing...

Estrogen Therapy

I just keep digging deeper and deeper into the blogosphere, finding strangers who tell great stories and learning that people I know in "real life" are blogging, too. So I've added some links.

The funny thing is, my blog is quickly becoming a big ole' chick party. Aside from a few links to blogs of guys I know personally, my links (and my online reading) are generally women's blogs. What's up with that?

(Of course, WTF did I expect would happen when I picked a pink template and used the phrase "working mom" in my tagline?)

I have mixed thoughts about the bonds of sisterhood and all that jazz. I mean, I think I'm fairly progressive on women's issues, and I believe firmly in the need for women to connect with one another through their shared experiences. But sometimes things get crazy among the fairer sex when there are too many of us in close proximity. Maybe it's all the hormones running rampant.

(Personally, I think this contributes to some of the mommy drive-by phenomenon that has gotten so much attention in the past few months.)

All I know is that I never could have joined a sorority, and I opted to live in co-ed housing in college. I love a good bridal or baby shower, but I'm happy when it's over and I can watch football or something.

But in the virtual world, I seem to be more and more comfortable with my girlfriends. And it seems that a lot of other women are, too. Take a look at the links. They speak for themselves.

Do guys do this? Is there a big interconnected webring of men's blogs out there? Or do they ignore the gender association and subdivide into other categories (politics, humor, news)?

Maybe women just have so much to say that we are all letting it hang out at once. It's like Girls Gone Wild Online. A weird pap smear? Post it. Shopping for new shoes? Post it. Love your kid? Post it. Musing on work-life balance? Post it.

Yeah, there's a pretty loud chorus of female voices these days. And, for once, I don't care. And I'm hoping the party doesn't end anytime soon.

Registry Redo?

My sister is getting married this fall, and yours truly gets to be the matron of honor. Sis originally told me that I would be her wedding planner, too, but it turns out that she has also inherited the anal, obsessive, detail-oriented mania that comes from my dad's genes. So my inner control freak has been relegated to the sidelines of advice-giving and option-weighing.

Last night, Sis and I were talking registries. In that, she and her betrothed need to set some up! And of course, the questions are (1) How many registries? and (2) Where to register?

When dear Basil and I were wed four years ago this month (ah! how time flies) we set up three registries: one at Lazarus (now Macy's), one at Crate and Barrel and one at Target. Partly to meet the geographic needs of having wedding guests from three different metro areas and partly because no one store (or even two stores) seemed to carry everything we desired for our new life together.

We received dishes (casual and formal), glasses (wine, water, tumblers), sheets, towels, small kitchen appliances and electronics. The generous gifts from our family and friends have been used frequently over the past four years.

But I wish I could go back in time (a la Audrey Niffenegger's protagonist) and advise my engaged self on a few things, mostly related to the kitchen:

1. Sur La Table. I don't know where they were in 2001, but I needed them. Wow.
2. Food processor. I might actually make homemade sauces if I had the right equipment, but have you ever tried to chop everything by hand for pesto? Sucks.
3. Cheese board and spreader set. How many times have I planned a cheese platter for a party only to say "Oh shit..." and put everything out on a hodgepodge of cutting boards, trivets and plates?
4. Microplane zesters and graters. Zesting citrus and finely grating whole spices (like nutmeg) on a regular cheese grater has resulted in many sore fingers, though I promise that I've never served anyone a finger nub.
5. More plastic cutting boards. Goddamn, do I hate having to wash the same one over and over when I'm making a recipe that involves cutting up meat AND vegetables.
6. Platters, bowls, cake stands, servers. I love to throw a good party, and it seems like I never have enough of the right serving elements. Besides, I'm a total whore for pretty stoneware and ceramics.
7. Giant mixing bowls. I have a good variety of small and medium sized bowls, but when I'm mixing up pound cake batter or a huge batch of cookies for Christmas, I always end up splattering the ingredients everywhere. I need like Mario Batali-sized bowls.
8. Heavy duty potholders and trivets. The thin cotton ones wear out and get dirty easily, leaving me with burned hands and a yucky looking kitchen.

(Not to mention that something about me seems to say "teddy bears" to people who buy me potholders for gifts. I'll write a whole post about it some other time, but I hate fucking teddy bears.)

That's clearly a pretty indulgent wish list, but isn't that what a registry is? I guess I just didn't realize back then (waaaaay back in the shadow of the Y2K hoax) how much my husband and I both loved cooking. And I suppose it's been somewhat of a blessing that we didn't end up with the whole C&B catalogue, as we've been living in a house with a tiny galley kitchen for the past two and a half years.

The good news is that our new home has a big kitchen with tons of cabinet and pantry space, so we'll be able to start filling in some of the gaps that were left over from our wedding booty. Or maybe I can just get my sister to add a few things to her registry for me...

I am the Columbian Connection

At a recent conference for work, one of my Caribbean members asked me and my coworkers where he could get some ganja. "Marijuana? You know." He was totally serious.

And while not offended at the request, I was really stumped about how to hook him up. After a little bit of thinking, I took a gamble that someone I knew professionally might be able to help out. And my hunch apparently paid off, though I know no details about what went down. (Nor do I want to!)

Never having been to the islands, I guess I don't have a sense of how different the culture is. I mean, this guy is definitely in his 50s. He has three grown children and a grandson. He's a respected executive. And he just wanted a little toke.

The thing that rattled me most about the experience, though, was his incredulousness that none of us knew off the top of our heads where to score some pot. He just kept saying, "Really, none of you know? I just want some marijuana. I don't drink alcohol."

I was never a big pot smoker in college, though I did enjoy the occasional joint with friends. But I always knew where I could get some if I ever decided that I wanted it. Now, I'm clueless.

Maybe it's not a culture thing. Maybe it's a cool thing. Have I become so straight-laced and fuddy that anything outside the grind of daily life is exciting? I mean, it used to take a LOT to qualify as an exceptional night out. Now, a few drinks and (gasp!) a couple of cigarettes are cause for wide eyes and titillation.

Our annual beach trip of drunken debauchery is my last lifeline to wild times. When that goes, I'll just button my cardigan all the way up and assume the missionary position. FOREVER.

Mostly Miranda, With a Little Bree

On Saturday night, some girlfriends and I had a night out on the town. Riding public transit gives the opportunity for plenty of good conversation and it also allows for interacting with some of the city's more interesting characters.

On the way to the restaurant, one of the four of us noticed that she was the only one in a skirt and pearls and said, "Great. I get to be Charlotte tonight." After having a great laugh, we commenced to figure out who the rest of us were. I ended up as Samantha, without much debate.

(I will take the designation as a compliment on my free spirit, bold personality and tremendous self-confidence under pressure. Any other similarities will be left to speculation and anyone who knew me in college.)

As we were heading home at the end of the night, we politely refused a request for money from a guy outside the Metro station. He good-heartedly yelled, "Okay, then, you have a good night, DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES."

After getting over the shock that a supposedly homeless guy had such a good finger on the pop culture pulse of society, we set about figuring out which characters we were in that TV translation. (No, I did not end up as Nicolette Sheridan.) I was "the one with all the kids." Lynette, to the familiar. But I didn't really see an obvious connection.

Well tonight, dear hubby and I were watching said show, and Lynette ended up butting into guest star Marlee Matlin's marriage and inadvertently encouraging Marlee's fictitious husband to leave her. Lynette and her husband are lying in bed after the confrontation between the two women, and Lynette starts saying, "Why do I do it? Why do I stick my nose in when it's not my business?" And the husband is trying to be all polite and saying, "Oh, it's just your way of trying to help." The conversation continues with the husband gently agreeing that maybe his wife is a little headstrong and forward with people sometimes, and in the end he quietly says (via sign language picked up from Marlee's character), "I told you so."

Well, the looks my husband was giving me were just priceless. So yes, I guess I am the "one with all the kids." (And it doesn't help that we're planning on having three kids.)

Now I can't help but wondering, can all women these days be described as a character on 'Sex and the City' or 'Desperate Housewives'? Or some combination of the two? TV seems to have painted some pretty true-to-life pictures in those two shows.

I guess being a mix of Lynette and Samantha isn't too bad considering the explosive combinations that I could put together...