A New Beginning!

I love this blog. I really do. I read the whole thing this morning and it made me so happy and proud and laugh and... well, I like it. But I'm moving on... and up. Launching May 1 is my new blog - address to be announced here on the big day. I'm inviting all of you - and anyone else who wants to join me - on a year long adventure into self-improvement. Not traditional, bullshit feel good about yourself nonsense but a hard hitting look into who I am and who I want to be. Real problems, (hopefully) real solutions, big goals for a better tomorrow.

WHOSE WITH ME? I hope you all are!

I Meant Later Rather then Sooner!

March is a busy month in the Maggie household - we celebrated St. Patrick's Day no less then 5 times, ate steak (and shrimp... and cake... and garlic bread... and bacon fried potatoes...) for GrandMaggie's glorious 61st and still managed to get to work almost everyday (one case of the Irish Flu for the holiday season is pretty impressive for me). Work has been emotionally chaotic lately - the work is a lot easier then the environment, if you catch my drift. A big, fat update will follow but I'm at my desk... trying to exhale.

Life Hangover

This weekend was kind of a blur, with a New England trip and Sunday's St. Patrick's Day festivities. That's right, this year my favorite fake St. Patty's Day was held on March 9 - eight days early but no less festive. I'm a huge fan of cheap beer and drunken dance parties so, it goes without saying, I had the most fantastic time. Maggie attended the "pre-game", otherwise known as the parade proper, and then was whiskey-ed off to Grandma's for an evening of smotherly love. Her beloved aunt took the hit and skipped out on the binge drinking (she's fantastic - and if you don't believe me, ask her. She'll tell ya) leaving Maggie's Daddy, Maggie's Mommy, and assorted friends (Irish and otherwise) to sing Peter Setera and steal cigarettes from bagpipers. As MD said, "Why do we only do this once a year?" Why, indeed!

Work's a zoo, my desk is covered, I'm still recovering from Sunday... more sooner rather then later.

Greetings from the Great White North

Apparently Nick Gregory wasn't lying - yesterday was a rainy, miserable day. Stalling until 7 wasn't a good idea - by the time we got in the road, not only was it pouring but it was pitch black out, too. After briefly discussing postponing the trip - not an option - and refueling at the gas station (and Starbucks), we hit the Garden State Parkway and headed north. When your days start at 5 am, 10 pm is late and by the time we crossed into New Hampshire, it was already midnight and we were shot. Lucky Maggie was snoring the back but Sarah and I were fading fast up front - as promised, Sarah dialed Whitney's number the moment we crossed the state line, ready to talk a little trash and let her know we were only 30 minutes away. But Whit's phone went straight to voicemail. Unusual, to say the least - we had spoken about an hour before and she knew we were on course. Why would she turn her phone off?
Perhaps we're all a little prone to excitement. Immediately, our minds turned to the macabre - we were driving through backwoods New Hampshire in the middle of the night, rain pouring down on our family friendly sedan. Better safe then sorry - we bombarded Whit with phone calls and, when that failed, 411'd the number for her family's house. When we got the answering machine, full on panic mode set in. Sarah and I are both long time Girl Scouts and are very familiar with the terrifying tales of mad men crawling through chimneys and hiding in the backseat of cars. Obviously, Whitney had been abducted and it was time to take action. Oh yes, loyal readers, we called the police.
Let's not overreact here - we did select the non-emergency option. Which went to an answering machine. That's right, in Nottingham, New Hampshire, the police station closes. But that didn't stop us - a man was raping and torturing our friend (in our extremely active imaginations, of course) and we had to stop him. So we called the Sheriff Dispatch line. A lovely woman named Melanie answered and Sarah proceeded to explain the situation to her. It actually sounded a little ridiculous as I listened but, nevermind that! Safety first and all of those good things. While Sarah filled Melanie in, her phone chirped. With a text message. From Whitney. Who (unsurprisingly) had very little service in her extremely rural home. Whoops!
This would be an out of the ordinary experience typically, but it turns out, earlier in the day I had tangled with a non-emergency police department in my home state, glorious New Jersey. In keeping with the term "no good deed goes unpunished", I loaned my old car to a friend who needed some temporary transportation a couple weeks ago. The car is crappy and the friend is lovely and I figured what would be would be. What I didn't figure is that my friend would loan the car to a friend of his. Who didn't have a license. And, believe it or not, things like that are frowned upon in our state and the end result is an impounded vehicle and hundreds of dollars in fines. You cannot even imagine how excited I was. Particularly when I had huge issues with paperwork and had to leave the car in impound for a week. Thrilling.
Apparently, people like me rarely have their cars impounded. When I say people like me, I mean mild-mannered suburban girls with steady jobs and no DWIs. The police department refused to give me the location of my vehicle until the paperwork was straightened out - just in case I scored some PCP, scaled a razor wire fence, and busted my car out, I'm assuming. Best to err on the side of caution. But on Thursday, sweet Thursday, I was able to get all of my paperwork in order and the police gave me a release to get my vehicle, which was conveniently located 5 minutes away. Unfortunately, it was also located at a junk yard that closed at 5 pm and it was already 5:03. And, no (I asked), there are no exceptions to the 5 pm rule.
I called the junkyard the next day to schedule a time to meet there - if I left my office exactly on time, my husband and I could be there by 4, which was A-OK with the extremely helpful dispatched. Yet, no one was there when we got there at 4. Shocking. I called the dispatcher who was significantly less helpful this time. If no one was there, it wasn't his problem. I would have to get the car on Monday. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Maybe I ran my mouth a little bit - I can neither confirm nor deny this. I can confirm that I was hung up on several times over the course of the next 45 minutes as we waited in vain for someone to show up.
Maggie's daycare was closing at 5:30. I knew this and I was pushing my luck already. I made my husband leave me while he went to pick up the baby. He was hesitant to say the least. The junkyard was located on a charming dead end, littered with garbage and barky dogs - prime real estate - and there were strange men milling about. But we didn't have a choice - I would be damned if I was spending another dime because of my idiot friend's stupid mistake. Maggie's Daddy pulled away, reluctantly, leaving me standing under an umbrella (did I mention it was raining) in a gravel yard in front of a chain link fence.
So I did what anyone else would do. I called the police. Non-emergency line, again, but this time I asked to speak to the sergeant, to whom I reported my car stolen. He asked me to elaborate and I calmly explained - the tow yard was obviously holding my car hostage, I wanted it out, and I was filing a report. Is anyone surprised that someone showed up 15 minutes later to give me my car? I wasn't. After being escorted into an office that was located on the second floor of a garage (and what I mean by office is room with table and fax machine) I was "permitted" to pay several hundred dollars in exchange for my car keys. The man who came to meet me was as awful as you could imagine. He leered at me, asked for cash before producing any documents, called me a bitch - you can't even imagine. "I don't want to be here, I should be home right now", he informed me. It just about broke my heart, this 600 lb. idiot making me apologize for him doing his job. I didn't kill him. I didn't use the C-word. I didn't burn the garage down. I'm really maturing, I think.
Yesterday was a big day. When we got to Whitney's house, we relaxed a little bit, con champagne, sans inhibitions. And today... well, the non-emergency police line was dialed again. But that's a story for another day.

On the Road Again

Today, Maggie, SFS, and Maggie's Mommy (aka moi) will hit the road jack to visit our dear and darling Whitney, who is now inconveniently located 5 hours up the Eastern seaboard in the Metro Boston area. Too excited to focus, really, but expect great memories, embarassing pictures, and tender thoughts and emotions to be reported on Monday. New England, here we come!

Time for Our Featured Presentation

Today, So Many Feelings, So Little Time is launching a new feature : New Rule Thursday. I have an unwritten code that I abide by in my life. Wanna-be dictator that I am, I'm not content being the boss of my own self - I like to have others fall into line with me. Whatever, deal with it. So, in honor of my strong feelings on every subject, every (Thirsty) Thursday will feature a few new (uninforceable... sigh) rules that I would prefer you would abide by, for my own health and well-being. Take it under advisement. And, yes, I know Bill Maher does new rules on his show (at least he did when we used to have cable) but Bill Maher and I also have a lot of other things in common (irrational left wing views, tendency to say irreverent things, fondness for younger women... well, two out of three ain't bad).

NEW RULE : We're All Tired. We're All Busy. SHUT UP.

Are you busy? I bet you are! I bet you are soooo busy. How busy are you? And TIRED. Can you believe it's only Tuesday - I'm swamped. And beat. And shot. And crazed. Want to tell me about it? Because I'm sure it's totally fascinating. Or not. Actually, I'm going to go with not. At work, I spend a fair amount of time on the phone. I talk to clients, vendors, subcontractors - we come from all different walks of life and the only thing that we have in common is that we're busy and tired. I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess you are, too. When I ask someone how they're doing, it's a courtesy, not a genuine and sincere inquiry into their well being. As a general rule, if I haven't met your parents - I don't really give a shit about you. There are exceptions to this, of course, but very few. Actually, none that I can think of at this moment. In this new era of touchy-feely friends and friends, people actually seem to think that a comment made out of habit is an invitation to explain to me how much sleep they've gotten in the last week because of all the work they've been doing. So here's the new rule: When I ask you how you are doing, you are doing good. Or well. Thing's are okay. Unless you have something nice and juicy to share with the group, I have no interest in how your baby is keeping you up or how your boss is riding you. So please, don't tell me. I'm NOT listening. Addendum to new rule: if you have time to talk about how busy you are... you probably aren't that busy. Just a little bit of perspective. I'm just saying.

NEW RULE: Yes, stranger, the rules DO apply to you.

Over all, I am not a black and white thinker. I understand why people steal to feed their starving families and speed when their partners are in labor. I have illegally downloaded music, jaywalked, and might have had a sip of a beer for my 21st birthday. I can't really remember. But overall, I am a follower of rules, an obeyer of laws. However, my family lives in the New York Metro Area, where apparently a sense of entitlement goes hand and hand with cheering for the Yankees and loving taylor ham. Around here, it's not uncommon to see people driving down the shoulder at 80 miles an hour just to cut into a lane of traffic that stretched back 10 miles. Women screaming into their Bluetool headsets glare at baristas who have the nerve to ask them what they want to drink. My mother teaches high school in an affluent Manhattan suburb and is bombarded by parents who want to negotiate their children's grades. Seriously, when will the madness stop? Who is going to stand up and say, "Actually, you're not that important." Thank you for asking - that would be ME. Because I'm tired of it. I'm tired of waiting my turn patiently only to be cut in front of by someone with a "friendly" wave and smile. I'm tired of sharing a restaurant with screaming children, their overmedicated and uninterested parents the only patrons able to tune them out. I'm tired of having someone else's time but before mine because they have deluded themselves into thinking they deserve it. New rule: play nice. The grown up world is just a big playground. To those of you think you can kick sand and push over little kids, you know what? You can. Because being an asshole isn't illegal - yet. But I'm not letting you in anymore. I'm complaining to the manager. I'm rolling my eyes at the teenager in Starbucks that you feel free to treat like garbage. I'm setting a good example for my daughter and being a good citizen of the world. Follow my example.

NEW RULE: Parents, Don't Let Your Daughters Grow up to be Bratz Dolls

By the time I was 12 years old, I was the exact size I am present day. In fact, at 12, I was a little heavier then I am right now. We're talking same cup size, same shoe size - a full grown woman before I was a teenage girl. But don't let those stats fool you - middle school pictures would indicate that I was a particularly greasy looking, long haired little boy. And I'm not the exception to the rule - my dear friend SFS, who now works in the fashion industry and is fifteen kinds of fabulous, favored mesh shorts and tie-dyed t-shirts for the majority of our youth. Starter Jackets were a major trend among my group of friends, as were flannels, scrunchies, and extremely modest one piece bathing suits. Things didn't change much in high school - hygeine improved and our genders became more visible, but I favored overalls well into my late teens. Socially active, involved in our communities, reasonably well liked - we were all normal teenage girls. We were all raised in reasonably affluent homes. Some of us had two working parents but the majority of us had one parent at home, at least part-time. We lived in good neighborhoods, did well in school, respected our elders, the whole shebang. The majority of us lost our virginities in college - the more precocious girls in the group were seniors in high school. I wore glasses to the junior prom - contacts hurt my eyes too much. By the time we were seniors, I was shaving my legs on a regular basis and had semi-retired my hooded sweatshirt collection. More aware of the opposite gender but not particularly interested, time on the weekends was spent vintage shopping in NYC and slumber partying at SFS' (best food/coolest parents). But a change was definitely coming. The new generation was a whole different stock - you saw it in the kids, but the parents too. Gone were the plumpety plump moms, with their sensible bobs and battered station wagons. Our moms wore skirted one pieces. The new moms wore bikinis while pregnant. And you saw it in their kids. 14 year olds were carrying $1,000 bags, perfect hair, perfect tans - mini adults without drivers licenses or bank accounts. I thought maybe it was our area - older money was being replaced by newer money, Wall Street hotshots were moving in by the dozens with their trophy wives and Stepford children. Our happy middle class life was being invaded by the Hummer driving, mani/pedi/facial set at a terrifying rate and I was happy to be getting out. But apparently, it is not an isolated problem. I have friends who call them prostitots or Jon-Benets... the droves of Barbie-esque children who wander the malls, their pierced belly buttons and expensive highlights drawing away from the fact that they are not even in high school yet. It's scary - I have a baby girl who I want desperately to lead a fulfilling life. I want her to feel valued and appreciated, have genuine friendships with sincere people. I want her to be a child and enjoy being a child and not get sucked into that crazy trap of not being pretty enough, thin enough, fashionable enough. And I'm rambling and I know I'm rambling but I wanted to grow up fast too. When I was little little, I stole my mother's makeup and jewelry and played big girl more times then I could count. I wanted to change my name to Princess Ariel and marry that guy from Snow White and live happily ever after in my furs and diamonds. And then I got a life. It's so hard now to shield children from the "real world" with a pregnant Jamie Lyn Spears and that High School Musical garbage that everyone thinks is okay just because Disney says so. I don't want to buy a cabin in the woods, home school Maggie, and breed till I drop. But I will if I have to. Because, damn it, my daughter is a person first, girl second and she needs to know that no matter what she looks like, she is valued and appreciated and good enough. Does anyone want to form a club? Take to the streets? Defend the defenseless and try to shield our daughters from this soul crushing and youth stealing culture that is taking over the world?

Sorry if I sound crazy. I'm just tired. And really busy.

Sunny Side Up

So many blahs lately - miserable weather, a sick household, cancelled plans due to inconvenient weather. Winter is really beginning to get me down, I suppose. However, since seasonal affective disorder (you can call it SAD) is not a valid excuse for calling out of work to stay home and play with Baby Friend, I'm going to look on the bright side and celebrate eight things completely worth getting out of bed for. I couldn't think of two more and I'm at work so time to brain storm is limited. To avoid hurt feelings and petty arguments, the following list is in no particular order except for (spoiler alert) Number 1, which is Maggie. Obviously.

8. Cheerful and Charming Co Workers: When you work in a five person office, personalities can make or break the dynamic. That's why I'm so flipping lucky to have two of the most amusing colleagues a girl could want. We work in a high pressure environment where our clients want answers yesterday and our bosses want results now. Although we spend a lot of time discussing lunch options and after work plans, I have two solid supports behind me when I screw up and valuable resources for information when I start to drown in paperwork. When I say I couldn't do this job without them, it is not an understatement.

7. Gold Sparkly Lanvin Flats: The only good thing about February is that I was born in it. Period. Valentine's Day skeeves me out, groundhogs are gross, and the Super Bowl belongs in January. February is for drowning your sorrows in Miller Lite bottles and daydreaming about streets without slush. That's why my sister hit a grand slam home run with her extremely generous and totally flipping amazing birthday present this year - yes ma'am, she did get me gold sparkly Lanvin flats. I might be dimunitive in stature but my larger then life personality does not lend itself to the wearing of heels. As glamorous as I wasn't pre-baby, now that I tote Maggie almost everywhere with me, sensible shoes are my only option for the time being. And as incredible as the past year has been, it has been unimaginably difficult in other ways. My personal petty cash fund went from negligible to non-existent. Don't get me wrong - Maggie was, is, and always will be worth it. But luxury goods that were previously a possibility quickly fell into the impossible column. That's why these shoes... oh man, they're fantastic. They were unexpected and undeserved and unbelievably generous. They are the definition of a thoughtful present - they were something I would have drooled over, fantastized about, and maybe even bought a cheap imitation of. But my lovely sister went above and beyond and got me the perfect birthday present. And I love them.

6. My sister, Caitlin: As much as I love my shoes, they pale in comparision to my affection for my beloved sister. Only 13 months older then me, she has been my closest friend and chief rival for as long as I can remember. In fact, she is the sole reason for my existence - my parents decided that Caitlin should have a sibling and then there was me. There are days when I hate her. These days are not infrequent. There are days when I adore her. Almost everyday. She tells me to shut up when no one else will, bails my ass out when I get completely up a creek, and even braved her fear of hospitals to help me deliver my daughter. My husband loves her. She cracks my friends up. Maggie swoons when she walks into a room. And, in case she is getting a big head while reading this, I still hold many grudges from our childhood - don't you worry. That's why you're at number 8.

5. My mom: The most extraordinary thing of all the extraordinary things that have happened to me since the birth of my daughter is the understanding of a mother's love. It's an indescribable and entirely transformative process that has changed me in so many ways. It is the reason why my mother did not kill me when I was a teenager. It is awesome. And so is my mom. She was older when I was born, the second of her two miracle children, and she was the primary (okay, sole) caregiver for me for my entire life. My mom wasn't a stay-at-home parent - she was the chief executive officer of our house, the head bitch in charge of my life. Soccer games, PTA meetings, carpool - the woman had it on lockdown, even after she lost both of her parents in the same week her divorce was finalized. She was - and is - a bedrock of support to me and my family and I treasure her invaluable advice. Funny, warm, no nonsense, my mom takes a licking and keeps on ticking. I feel very lucky to have her as a parent - and as a friend.

4. Maggie's Daddy - We got married four months after we started dating, head over heels in love and deadset on starting our lives together. If either of us had any idea of what lay ahead, we might not have taken the plunge. On September 16, 2006, we both recited vows that were meaningless at the time but have taken on new life in our brief marriage. For better... could we ever have imagined our love would result in a person like Maggie? Did we know how much joy and comfort we would take in each other? I had no idea that his accomplishment would feel like my own personal triumphs, that his happiness went hand in hand with mine. For worse... who could have predicted he would lose his job just as we found out we were expecting? Did we know his parents would meddle and mine would pry, that we would be so scared and so angry at ourselves and each other for decisions we did - and didn't make? You can't go backwards and I wouldn't if I could - looking at my wedding pictures, I see a girl far more confident then I am now, who knew exactly what she was doing and why she was doing it. And I remember exactly why I fell in love with my husband. I call Maggie's Daddy my partner because I feel that term holds much more weight then husband. Husband is a legal term - it's a result of words we recited and forms we signed. He became my partner by being there, day in and day out, in whatever capacity I needed, whether I deserved it or not. From changing diapers to sorting laundry, midnight feedings and come what may, he is not only the love of my life but the single most helpful person I know. I would be lucky to have him as a friend - I am truly blessed to have him as a spouse.

3. SFS - Long-term friendships have become my speciality. Later on in our broadcast, you'll meet one of my oldest friends. But let me take this opportunity to introduce you to one of my dearest - SFS. Living her dreams in Manhattan, her schedule is as a crazy as her outfits. If you know her, you like her - everyone does. Always willing to lend an ear or an accessory, we traveled to Paris together - and didn't see the Eiffel Tower. We still have sleepovers. At her parents house. She is always welcome, no matter what the circumstance, wherever I am, whoever I'm with. She drives me crazy, cancels at the last minute, oversleeps, overschedules. She's there when I need her, I'll tell you that much. I love her. SFS is very special to me.

2. Whitney - My oldest friend. She was there before my memory starts and she'll be there after it goes. She lives too far away - I blame her parents. Her older sisters baby-sat me, her father escorted me to Father/Daughter Square Dances, her mother and I have wrestled. She won. We raised an electronic baby together as an alternative couple in health class. She was a great mom. Whitney is moody - I celebrate her feelings. She's particular - hey, I like things the way I like them, too. Her hugs are infrequent but always sincere. Unsurprisingly, she's in the public service world. She will make a difference. I love her.

1. Maggie - Um, look at her picture. She's awesome. Plus she can't speak so that means no back talk. She made me a mother and she makes everyday just a lotta bit better - I'm obsessed.

Why Can't We All Get Along?

Rereading my post from yesterday, I began to get down on myself. I made a snap judgement about a stranger, based off of a 60 second encounter on a checkout line. Surely, I'm not always at my finest while juggling bags of junk and 20 lbs. of squirmy baby. Maybe she was having a bad day, fought with her husband, needed a hug for goodness sakes. And I played sanctimommy, tsk tsking a woman I envied for not being the mother I hope I am. One of my least favorite things about new mommyhood is other mommies, I have to admit. Being a young, working mother, I have faced serious judgement and outright distain from other parents for my "choices". Having bounced back from a pretty gruesome labor and delivery in no time (I wolfed down a pizza burger in the recovery room as my family watched on in horror), I assumed that I would waltz down parent lane, an example to all who saw me. Well... not so much.

I read a lot of parenting jazz online as a substitute for real life advice. My friends are young. Childless. Awesome but clueless to the problems I'm facing in some instances. My parents are old. My mom had me at 37 and was completely rooted in life when she entered parenthood. My surprise pregnancy - 6 weeks after the ink on my marriage license was dry - was a totally different ball game and, while supportive, she wasn't particularly useful. Although I used to nanny, parenting full time is a totally different story. I figured the companionship I was missing in real life could be substituted, virtually.

Apparently, the Internet isn't the place to go for support. I lurked on blogs where I watched moms snip at each other, criticizing parenting techinques, childcare philosophies, even children's fashion! And I began to absorb some of that attitude. Instead of focusing on feeling better, instead of focusing on supporting other mother's so they never felt the way I did, I became a mean girl. I would make snide comments in my head - and sometimes on a blog - about how wrong everyone was, how superior I was. Yuck. I started to feel better but for all the wrong reasons. At least there were people out there worse off then me. I might not have it all together but at least I didn't (blank).

And then yesterday happened. I was having a bad day. I hate Mondays. After a fun filled weekend with my precious daughter and beloved husband, I have to wake up and trudge through my paperwork, interface with my clients, and appease my difficult employers. It's not that I hate my job... it's that I love my family more. And this woman, who I will call Target lady, who I would have traded places with in an instance, set me off. I wish I knew her so I could apologize but... shoulda, coulda, woulda. Odds are we'll never cross paths again. So I'm going to make the change where I can. I'm not going to stop voicing my opinion - there are blogs I regularly post on, posts that I stand behind, that I feel strongly about, that I have no problem defending. And I'm not going to fail to protect a child in need - in real life or virtually. But I'm going to work on the personal thing. I have so much to be thankful for - and so many better things to be doing - then bashing a stranger.

My Full Time Jobs

One of the less glamorous aspects of my job is the errand running. As lowest on the totem pole, I grab lunch, pop into Staples, and do the bank drive through, depending on what my office needs on a daily basis. My least favorite stop is Costco, for the obvious reasons, and I have been putting off a trip for about 6 weeks. Today I ran out of water - and luck. Costco it was! I work in a particularly charming suburban area situated on a long stretch of classic New Jersey highway. It's strip mall central - anything your heart desires conveniently located in a 10 mile radius - just use the U-Turn! It's a nightmare at lunchtime but a multi-taskers dream and I took advantage of my long errand to swing into Target for a browse. I constantly steal bottles from daycare (I'll return it tomorrow, I swear!) and the time had come for a little stock up, so I had a good excuse. Twenty minutes and fifty dollars later, I was standing online with an armful of things I totally forgot we needed - deodorant, razor blades, stage 3 nipples (they grow so fast!), etc. Being a new mom and totally baby slut, I picked the line where an adorable little girl, Maggie's age or so, was patiently waiting with her mom. Baby was turned out like no other - hat matched sweater complimented pants, etc. And it was no surprise - her mom was rocking a belted fur trench (yes, I said fur trench), not a (super overprocessed) strand of hair out of place.

I cooed and batted my eyes at sweet, sweet baby who ate it up, flirting, blowing bubbles, coquettishly chewing her hand while Mom stared forward, tapping her foot impatiently as the cashier carefully bagged her new purchases. I usually try and say hello to new moms, let them know I understand that it isn't easy, that their baby is BEAUTIFUL, that I hope they're enjoying the weather. I remember that isolating feeling of being home, just me and Maggie, and I have met so many lovely new mommies who also just want someone to say hello to. Not this lady - my awkward "How old is she?" was greeted with a glare. Oh, she heard me. She just chose not to answer.

Mom couldn't juggle baby and bags and it was time to go back into the stroller. Sweet baby's 180 was instantaneous and she started crying, mewing, shouting at the top of her lungs to be picked back up. Mom didn't have a moment to comfort her - it was time to swipe the card. Not a word of encouragement, a soothing look, a well meaning but strained hush. The baby screamed, the mom pouted, the tension grew. Mom had more bags then hands and was frazzled - I know the feeling. Standing in front of the cashier - not moving, not apologizing, not caring - ignoring her wailing infant, Mom reorganized her wallet, shuffled her diaper bag, and distributed her packages. And then she walked away, leaving her purse on the ground. "Ma'am? Your..." "I KNOW! I KNOW I LEFT MY FUCKING PURSE I'M COMING BACK FOR IT." Oh. The cashier blushed, looked away, looked embarassed. Mom left the screaming baby next to the automated doors and came back for her purse. Glared at me. Marched out.

And I got pissed. Not because the woman was an evil shouting troll with no manners and terrible taste in fur trench coats. I got pissed because said troll had the luxury of spending all day with such a beautiful little muffin and she didn't even appreciate it. Now, I'm not a perfect mother. I've shouted in front of Maggie, cried with her when she was frustrated, put her in her crib and walked away when I couldn't take it anymore. But I try. Everyday, to be the best Mom I possibly can and just love on her until she can't take it anymore because you're only little once and it's already going to fast. I got pissed because this woman wasn't a stay at home mom, she was an unemployed woman with a baby. Because I would trade with her in a second, this mean, mean lady with her precious little girl. And maybe she was having a bad day. But I am too! It's Monday. I'm sick. And Maggie is at daycare.

Plain and simple, I work to survive. We live in an area of the country where a combined household income of $70,000.00 is just enough to live paycheck to paycheck, with a little left over for luxuries like retirement and emergency savings. I am one of the fortunate few, a working mother with outstanding and affordable child care, humane hours, and a supportive partner. But if we hit the lotto? If Maggie's Daddy got a raise? Two weeks notice would not even cross my mind - I would be home with my daughter tomorrow if I had the opportunity. Maybe if I was "passionate" about my job (I'm not) or providing a valuable public service (far from it), I would feel differently, but home is where my heart is, wherever I may go. Everyday I fall deeper in love with the most fantastic mistake my husband and I ever made and it may be difficult to believe, but it is getting harder and harder to leave my daughter everyday.

So until we make our first million, I'll keep working hard for my family and our future. And I'll let women like THAT be an example of exactly who I do not want to be when I grow up.

The Right to Choose

I was not a happy pregnant woman. I was a screaming, shouting, crying, (binge) eating bitch on wheels who, by week 39, was researching natural means of induction to make the misery end. Up sixty pounds and down to my last nerve, I asked my doctor if they would consider inducing me on my due date. He refused - 'You don't want Pitocin, trust me! - but told me he would schedule a C-Section for 41 weeks if I was that desperate. I wasn't. It never occured to me that a vaginal delivery was a choice - C-sections were for emergencies, weren't they? Apparently not. Christina Aguilera told People magazine she schedule a c-section because of the horror stories she heard about tearing. My boss suggested that I schedule a c-section then I would know exactly what day I would be giving birth (which would help with planning maternity leave, one guesses). After asking friends, I found out a few wouldn't consider conceiving without knowing their doctor would perform an elective C. And I was - and am - horrified.

Entering into parenthood is the ultimate in unselfish acts. A biological mother shares her body for nine months before sharing her life for (God willing) ever with her child(ren). Before I even met my daughter, I endured stretch marks, hemroids, and heart burn that could burn the eyebrows off your face in anticipation of her arrival. As I type this, my pillow-y lower belly (now beautifully creased with purple stripes) rests softly on my keyboard, stretched beyond recognition of my former self. And she was worth it. Being a first time mother, you are facing the ultimate unknown and, quite frankly, labor was the least of my worries. I knew that at some point, "the time" would come and what would be, would be. I had concerns about if it would hurt (it did), if I would poop on the delivery table (I didn't), and the thought of an episiotomy was even more frightening to me then a natural tear (And tear I did). But most of my worrying was focused on the health of my unborn child, my untested parenting skills, the impact a new child would have on my relationship with my husband - I don't know, the things that really matter.

Parenthood has changed me in so many ways - physically, emotionally, mentally. And the process began with my pregnancy. If I can do it, you can too. If you're starting your journey as a parent by taking the easy way out, you're in trouble.

Close to the Surface

Maggie and I already have so much in common - and she's only six months old! She likes to nap, I like to nap. She gets grouchy when you take her food away, I, too, have been known to be upset in a similar situation. She has a sassy sense of style, I... well, I dress her, so I guess that's all me. But the thing that I like best about my daughter is something that I am unable to do and that is her uncanny ability to feel her feelings. Little Baby Bipolar knows what she wants, when she wants it, and she's not shy about letting you know how she feels. I have been open hand slapped by her chubby little sticky formula encrusted paw at the end of feedings and say what you want - it wasn't an accident. The INSTANT she's had enough of the Exersaucer, she cries like she's making Sophie's Choice. And I LOVE IT.

As I might have mentioned before, I have a lot of feelings myself. And they're close to the surface, right there under my freckly, Irish skin. My feeling them... well, that's a whole different ball game. I like to talk about my feelings - I would be more then pleased to schedule a conference call with a friend long distance just to explain EXACTLY how I was feeling at one specific instant in my life (and I do sometimes - hi Whitney! I miss you!) but, even when I am deeply engrossed in conversation about how I feel... I'm not really feeling it. I have an out of body type relationship with my emotions and that's hard for me to admit. The soft squishy feelings I don't do so well and I'm trying to work on it, at the advanced age of 23 (I'm Irish Catholic and I hate everybody. Rage, I am good at). I don't want Maggie ever to think that it's not okay to cry or that she has to keep something from me because I don't "get" it or that I don't care because I do... so much so that I could cry, if I was into things like that. And I'm working on it, really, maybe even too much. People have begun to register complaints (Hi Caitlin! I love you!) that I have TOO many feelings - is there such a thing? How DO you strike a happy medium between being in touch with your feelings without covering other people in them? Do any loyal readers have any advice on this subject? Do I have loyal readers?

So feel your feelings, Baby Maggie. Because, in this life, to get to the great joy, you sometimes have to feel the great sorrow. And it's worth it, my little baby friend. SO worth it.

Halfway There

Today is Maggie's half-birthday, a holiday that is rarely given the attention it so deserves. As an adult, I use my half day to reflect back on my year so far andus it as an excuse to get a really great summer drunk on. Today is Maggie's first big milestone, in my eyes, and even though so isn't quite old enough to appreciate a big fuss, I'm still looking forward to making one. The past six months have been the best of my life, hands down. When I was pregnant, well wishers would tell me how fast the first year would go but halfway through the whole ordeal, it seems more like Maggie has always been here then that she just arrived.

So tonight we'll celebrate our short time together, taking the time to appreciate the blessing of our daughter. And in honor of our daughter's love of the bottle, we'll be hitting it ourselves. Happy 6 Months, Maggie Mooza... Mommy loves you!

What's In a Name?

My husband and I decided early in my pregnancy that we wanted to find out the gender as soon as possible - it would help with planning and preparation and, in a funny sort of way, we thought it would help us to get to "know" our baby a little better. When I was twenty weeks along, the ultrasound tech pronounced us proud expectant parents of a baby boy. You can imagine my surprise when, a short months of pregnancy and a few long hours of labor later, the doctor held my beautiful child in the air. The first thing I thought when I saw my brand-new little baby was, "Oh my God, he has no penis!" It took a few moments for me to wrap my mind around the fact that it was not a birth defect but a mere case of human error - my son was perfect, he was just a she.

The hospital I delivered in allowed only two people in the room for birth - one per leg, it turned out. My husband, sister, and mother worked in alternating shifts through the night, keeping me comfortable and sane as we waited for the big moment. My mom opted out of watching the actual delivery - she had been there, done that twice before and had no interest in doing it again. She was sitting on the couch in the waiting room when my sister rushed in to tell her - It's a Girl! A sick sense of humor is a recessive gene that runs in our family and my mom claims she didn't believe her until she laid eyes on her granddaughter. Her granddaughter named Margaret.

The nurse was holding her when my mother walked in. "Here's Grandma!" she whispered to my daughter. The nurse looked up at my mother and smiled, "Meet Margaret." And my mother cried.

We aren't a particularly emotional family, my mother especially. Our hugs are short and end with an awkward pat. I love you's often go unanswered, if they are said at all. We show our devotion with sarcasm, rides to the airport, and well-intentioned but often useless Christmas gifts. My sister and I cannot make eye contact when we're discussing emotional things and the conversations always end with a, "Let's never speak of this again." I get itchy thinking about watching people cry. Feelings are private. Emotions are to be kept in. We are the WASPY-est bunch of Irish-Catholics I know - and that's the way I like it.

But my mom's name is Margaret. Her mother's name was Margaret. My sister's middle name is Margaret. My name means Margaret in Gaelic. And although I would never say it, at least not to her face, my mother is the most important thing in the world to me. She raised my sister and me on her own, in every way you can imagine, but we lacked nothing. She attended every soccer practice, not to mention game, chaperoned Girl Scout camping trips (picture Troop Beverly Hills with a brunette, chubby Shelly Long), and never spoke badly about our father, who broke her heart and her home. My mom is super rad and killer awesome in a way no sixty year old has any right to be. She's a sassy school teacher with cropped pants and ballet flats whose social life is more packed then mine. She is an active and avid volunteer in her church who counts among her friends a Madonna loving priest and a hard nosed former financial executive. My mom knows everything about everything, is never wrong and seldom mistaken, and has a knick knack stashed away for every occasion. She is everything I aspire to be as a person and a parent and I love her with all my heart. I say it here because we don't talk about things like that in my house. My mom would roll her eyes or change the subject, get uncomfortable and leave the room.

So I gave my daughter her name. It was my way of saying without words - Mom, I love, respect, and admire you. And, through my daughter, I hope to honor you. But don't ever let me catch you crying again, woman. Really.

Not Your Mama

I was reading one of my favorite blogs last week (ISawYourNanny.com, if you're wondering) when a certain posting caught my eye. A nanny was fired after her charged called her mom, terminated almost immediately by an insecure employer with mixed-up priorities. I was instantly sympathetic. In a past life, I worked for a family in an affluent Manhattan suburb - two working parents, more then willing to pay me my exorbinant fees in exchange for never having to deal with their children. In some ways, it was a dream job. I saw my bosses for a total of 30 minutes every week, give or take, and was given almost free reign to do what I wished with their children. I did not abuse that priviliege - they had three spectacular children that I loved and cared for as well as a twenty-year old girl knew how. Their two older children were school aged so I spent the majority of the day with their baby, a precocious five year old girl who loved puppies, playgrounds, and playdates. We went everywhere together, holding hands and singing songs and developing a special kind of friendship that I treasure to this day.

She cried when I left - not for good (which I eventually did) but Every. Single. Day. Her father would come home and her little arms would circle my leg, refusing to let go until I promised to return bright and early the next morning. Occasionally, she would call and check in on the weekends, making her big sister dial my number and then leave the room so we could have a "private" conversation. She drew me in her family pictures, asked me to read to her class, and introduced me as her Best Friend to anyone willing to listen to her. I loved her and she loved me and it was a good thing, I think. But it wasn't easy, on me or on her parents, I would imagine. I couldn't handle the pressure - and they couldn't handle the truth.

The situation came to a head on Special Person's Day at her school. I had left the flier for her parents to handle - it was 8:00 pm on a Saturday, not my territory. Someone marked it on the calendar and I put it out of my head, as it had already been dealt with. The Friday before, as I got ready to leave, my sweet friend asked me what I was wearing to the festivities the next night. I reminded her that it was on a Saturday and she would be going with her parents. And she lost it. "THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL! THEY ARE NOT SPECIAL!" Her father calmly told her that they were going as a family, that Mommy and Daddy were her special people and Red Meghan would be with her family and friends and could not come. But she did not care. She did not stop. When I finally left, at least thirty minutes later, she was still inconsolable. But what could I say? What could I do? A few months later, it became too much and I moved on. So did they. She loves her sitter now, as much as she loved me, maybe more - who knows. But I will never forget how I felt in that moment - frozen to the floor, afraid to speak. Unafraid to speak what had always remained unspoken - that she had parents, parents who loved her and cared for her and did what they thought was best to give her the life they thought she wanted. And then she had me - a person who was always there for her.

I love my daughter's childcare provider - almost as much as she does. And every morning, when she squirms in her seat, reaching up to touch Cidalia's face, cooing with pleasure at the sight of her - I feel a sigh of relief. Because I don't work because I want to - I work because I have to. And I have found someone who shares in the joy and love I have for my daughter. She is not Maggie's Mommy and I know that. She knows that. Even Maggie knows that. But the more love she has for Cidalia - the better. It's a blessing, not a curse, to have a caregiver who loves your child. And when the feeling is mutual? The best feeling in the world.

Last night, the fire alarm went off. 4:15 a.m. I was blasted out of bed. I live in a 15-story apartment building, old fashioned brick and concrete - it will outlast the cockroaches when the apocalypse comes, I'm sure of it. We didn't evacuate. My husband looked out the window, watching the fire trucks pull up, their snail like pace a sure sign nothing was really burning. I felt like I was in college again, waiting in bed until the last minute when an R.A. would force me outside, emergency or not. But no knock came - everyone for themselves in the adult world, I suppose, and I waited until the alarm went off, until my husband came back to bed, before falling asleep. Through the whole ordeal, Maggie didn't stir. I could hear her soft, rhythmic breathing alternating with the shrill alarm and I smiled smugly to myself - my baby could sleep through anything.

This morning, I woke up terrified. What if the building HAD been on fire? What if it had been too late by the time we realized? The town we live in has a volunteer department - what if their slow response was due to lack of training, not lack of urgency? This time, we gambled and we got away with it. But who knows what next time will bring? When I was pregnant, I would joke about how having a baby wouldn't change me, that the same old, same old would continue just with another person in tow. So, so, so wrong. Every thing I do, every decision I make, revolves around the well-being of this little person. Or should. Old habits are hard to break and Lord knows I'm as selfish and self-involved as they come, but just thinking about what could have happened. Sometimes, I make myself sick.

Allow Myself to Introduce... Myself

Doesn't my name say it all? Probably not, actually. I'm a young(ish), bookish(!), stylish(?) mom to my brand-new best friend, Margaret (formerly known as Baby Bigolyps). I juggle, with little grace and no dignity whatsoever, a full-time job, a handsome husband, and the messiest apartment this side of the Mississippi. I have a fantastic childcare provider (Hi Cidalia! I love you!) who provides me with comfort, peace of mine, and stunning pictures of my daughter with her baby friends. I still hang out with my friends from middle school, own a stunning handpainted shirt of all the modern-era Disney villians (sequins. shoulder pads. stunning) and am not above shouting at the television. If you enjoy Wally Lamb, t-shirt sheets, Boston baseball, orMiller Lite - we could be friends!