So Fed Up.

It's late, and I am tired.

Tired from a day of reading recaps of another mass shooting.  Tired of reading reports of Planned Parenthood's defunding.  Tired of everything.

Sometimes, I censor myself when posting a blog or a social media comment.  There are people in my life who may disagree with my views, or business colleagues who may have a second thought about meeting with me when they know where I stand on some issues.

But here are the facts.  I'm not dancing around them to please or protect people any longer.

I support Planned Parenthood.

In my 20's, I relied on PP for affordable women's healthcare and birth control.  I was able, without insurance, to go to one of their offices get a yearly gynocological exam, and leave with birth control pills at a reasonable price.  Though I didn't always remember to take them.

At age 23, I had an abortion.  I had an affair with a married man, got pregnant, and terminating the pregnancy was the right choice at the time.  In hindsight, it was STILL the right choice.  I sometimes think (though not often) of how old that child would be now, how my life would be different, and I always- ALWAYS- come back with the same resolution: terminating that pregnancy was the right thing for me at the time.  The life I have now would not have been possible if I'd made a different choice.

When I knew I was pregnant and didn't want to be, I went to the PP in my college town, and was yelled at by pro-lifers on my way in to the clinic.  At the time, I fancied myself an "alternative" girl, wearing a black leather biker's jacket, wise cracking, and generally being a badass.  I shouted back at the protesters, and felt like I was providing a great service when, inside the clinic, I rallied the other women together who were in my same predicament, and boosted their confidence and gave them strength.

Though Planned Parenthood would not perform my abortion.

Turns out, college girls are terrible at timing and responsibility, and my pregnancy was a week past the PP cut off date.  I was referred to another clinic in Atlanta to perform the procedure.  My good friend Mary and I went to Atlanta for a weekend, and I was beautifully cared for by the women of the Feminist Women's Health Center.  At this writing, I am happy to see their doors are still open, and they are still helping women take control of their lives.

My point is this: Planned Parenthood is just that.  PLANNED.  PARENTHOOD.  For both men and women.  Planning your family.  Family planning.  Birth control. Education.  Physical Exams.  Cancer screenings.  STD testing.  All of it.  If they were solely about terminating pregnancies, they'd have a different name.  Something yucky sounding, I'm sure.

But their name is PLANNED PARENTHOOD.

And don't our children deserve to enter into a world where they are wanted and planned for?

I think so.

Date Night and Terrorism in NYC

My husband and I spent the weekend away recently, and left our three year old son in the care of his very capable, much loved babysitter.

Although our sitter has our numbers programmed into her phone, has keys to our home, and knows the friends we were with that weekend, we still had a few extra details to iron out- the darkest of which was leaving my own parents’ contact information in North Carolina, should anything happen to me and my husband while we were away.   (And if you’re like me, you believe that the mere act of passing along the information will be exactly what keeps a fiery crash from happening.)

But today, I’m wondering if this is something we should start doing every time we walk out the door.

Apparently, ISIS has shared a video wherein they name Times Square as a target, showing photos of The Gap and TGIFriday’s.  Thankfully, we never eat at Friday’s, and our Gap is two blocks away.  But joking aside, has it come time to consider what will happen to our child if, out on a date night, we are obliterated by a suicide bomber?  Or worse.  What will happen to US if our child and his sitter are enjoying the Museum of Natural History, and something horrible happens there?

I exaggerate this fear.  I’m not afraid, and I won’t change the way we live- or WHERE we live- to please some xenophobes or Really Bad People.  I won’t be looking sideways at people with backpacks or long beards, and I won’t steer clear of Times Square any more than I already do.  And believe me, I do- it’s an armpit down there.

On the other hand, there’s a new line to the SITTER INFORMATION sheet we have in our kitchen.  It says, “Grandparents.”

I almost went with “In Case We are Blown Up by Terrorists,” but that seemed a little much. 

And very unlikely.

Speechless and Helpless

This morning we woke to news of a shooting at a historic black church in Charleston, SC- a town that is like a home to our family, having gone to college there, and returning often to visit our dear friends.

Things like this are happening far too often.  And with each event, each news story, each blog post, the same phrases pop up over and over.  Senseless.  Tragic.  Horrific.  Prayers.  Victims.  Hate.  

There really aren't other words that work in this situation.  No words that make a difference.  That make us feel more in control or more at peace or more angry or more sad.  It's always the same.

Where are the words that will change any part of these events?  The words that will reach the people who commit these crimes?  Reach the lawmakers?  The mental health professionals?  The guidance counselors? The parents?  The preachers?

As sick and heartbroken as I am over these events becoming too common, I'm realizing I'm also sick of not having a better vocabulary, a better arsenal of words, to use to make something change.  I feel helpless.

Because the words we keep using aren't doing the job.

I'm Donating a Kidney for My Son...But Not Like That

In 5 weeks, I'm traveling from NYC to Charleston, SC to donate one of my kidneys- the left one, to be exact- to my friend Erin.

When people learn I'm doing this, they say one of three things, and I kind of rustle at all three.

Wow, she must be a really good friend.

No, not really.  I have known Erin for over 25 years, though we've never been close.  I don't know her birthday or middle name, favorite foods or music, and I'm not sure I even have her email address.

Though in some ways, I feel like I know Erin a lot better than I actually do, because she reminds me so much of me.  We are the same age, we are both actors with spouses who work in theatre as well, we've both moved around a bit, we both have cats (for what that's worth)...and I'd like to think that someone would step up and donate for me if I ever needed a kidney.  Or donate their hair if I needed a wig- that'd be cool, too.

So, while she's not a close friend, she's kind of me.  Only with more talent and darker hair.  And fewer pets.  And a car.

You're a hero.

No, I'm someone with two kidneys, and I only need one.  I'm someone who is no longer afraid of surgery or recovery, after the c-section delivery of my son two years ago.  I'm someone who maybe doesn't realize the magnitude of the gesture or the impact it will make.  I'm someone who likes to get things done, and just happened to go through the donor screening process quicker than anyone else.

So, I'm not a hero, I'm just efficient and not so scared of hospitals.   And someone said that a hero "ain't nothing but a sandwich," which really just makes me hungry.

What if your son needs a kidney, and you're not able to give him one?

This one is the toughest one to hear.  I don't worry about this at all because my son has a father and tons of relatives who would gladly donate for him.  And maybe someone not related will remember that I did this, and they'll step up to lend a hand...or a kidney.  Or maybe, just maybe, he will stay healthy and never need someone to donate anything other than money to support the non-profit he will one day start to help orphans or homeless pets.

But really, my son is the biggest reason I'm donating.  Having him has given me confidence and made me kind of fearless.  He's made me strong, made me brave.  He's made me live more in the moment and not worry so much about "what if?"

I hope that my donating a kidney will teach my son to be generous and compassionate.  I hope he, too, will live his life in the moment, and without worry for what misfortunes the future might hold.  I hope he is loving and caring, healthy and happy, and always willing to lend a hand.  And tell a good joke- people like jokes.

I've learned a lot about organ donation and insurance as I've gone through this process.  I've learned that insurance only covers the actual medical bills, but not the bills for help at home, transportation or hotels, lost wages, or a host of other things.  Doctors tell me I'm not allowed to lift anything heavier than a jug of milk for 4-6 weeks after the surgery, and I have a toddler who wants to be picked up about 50 times a day.  Wish me luck with that one.

I have the most supportive husband in the world, and we're determined to make it work.  Because spending money or being uncomfortable for a few weeks is a small price to pay for someone to keep on living.

And if my son one day thinks I'm even remotely cool for donating a kidney to a friend, then it will have DEFINITELY been worth it.

And I'll call Erin and tell her.  Because she'll still be here.

(And if you'd like to donate, please click here.  And thank you so much.)

Home is Where the Toddler Is

I've taught my child a new party trick.  It goes like this:

ME:  "Sweetie, how old are you?"

MY SON:  "Two!"

ME:  "And how old is Mommy?"

MY SON:  "Twenty-nine!"

Our son turned two at the end of June, and I swear, every day he blows our minds with what he can say and do.  His vocabulary is growing exponentially, and is so advanced, I think he knows enough words to get a job at the local Duane Reade, should it come to that.  (And with the price of preschool in NYC, it just might.)  He strings together crazy long sentences like, "Daddy took our car away, Metrocard ride bus go see Rory's house OK."  (In my husband's defense, "our car" was a ZipCar, and had to be returned.)

His sense of humor is getting more refined, too.  He makes so many faces-his latest one involves kind of a coy pucker- a face reminiscent of Dr. Evil or Pee Wee Herman.  He pairs it with a sideways glance- and he knows it's hilarious.  His laugh is a genuine belly laugh, and sounds like tinkling bells or a happy waterfall, or maybe angels and fairies playing ping pong.  Something damn adorable and whimsical, I can tell you that.

I am more in love with our son now than I think I have ever been, and I'm dying a tiny bit inside because I'm going to leave him for five nights while I go out of town to shoot a film. 

Aaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  That's me screaming from way upstate. Can you hear me?

My mother in law is coming to town to lend my husband a hand for a few days, and I know my son will be in the excellent care of his daddy and grandma, but...no one does things like Mommy does them.

Mommy knows how he likes his avocado cut, how long spaghetti noodles should be, and the perfect jelly-to-peanut butter ratio for his PB&J.  Mommy packs the perfect bag for outings (usually) and keeps a few surprises hidden away for when emotions run high- usually his, though sometimes mine. (Long lost truck for him, sippy cup of wine for me.)  Mommy's arms fit perfectly around him, and her face nestles exactly in that little crook between his head and shoulder.  Or maybe it's the other way around.  Either way, there's nothing like it.

When I was in first grade, I was a Brownie.  I lasted about a year, maybe two, partly because my mom hated being the Troop's Cookie Chairman, but also because I hated camp outs and sleep-aways.  I was always homesick, even when my mom was a chaperone.  With my Brownie days behind me, I thought homesickness was behind me, too.  But tonight it's becoming clear that I haven't REALLY felt homesick yet.  I have a hunch that this week is going to be really, really hard.

At least for me.

My son will be eating ice cream for breakfast.  And if that distracts him from being sad, that's fine by me.

In fact, bring me a pint of Cherry Garcia.

Maybe I'll be fine, too.

The Asking is the Hardest Part. (And Surgery Probably Isn't that Fun, Either.)

I'm giving someone a kidney.

It's not for my best friend, it's not for a relative. It's for a woman I greatly admire, a woman who reminds me of me, someone whose family has made my family possible.

It has never occurred to me to not give her my kidney.  People find that strange.  I think even she might.

Surgery is scheduled for November 12th, and so far, my biggest concern is booking flights for my husband, son, and myself to Charleston, SC where the transplant will occur.

My OTHER big concern (OK, there are a few) is how our two families are going to pay for all the aftercare.  She will have much different needs than I will, but the list of potential problems- the list of needs and can'ts- gets longer every time I start it.  I'm sure it is the same- and lengthier- for her.

I was disappointed to learn that a donor (that's me) is barred from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for 4-6 weeks after surgery.  It seems like my toddler drinks a gallon of milk a day.  That means not picking up my son for 4-6 weeks.  That's a tough one.

For her, there are endless doctor visits and medications- some to suppress her immune system to keep her body from rejecting the kidney. There are needs not yet realized.  There are special meetings to find out just what those will be.  Phone calls to insurance companies to hear what isn't covered.  Another long list.

Both of us will need extra care at home, extra help with things we probably will hate admitting we need help with. I felt that way after my C-Section.  Helpless, a burden.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this, except to say we will need some good juju directed our way.  We may ask for help in various forms.  Maybe you can bring one of us dinner (She's in SC, I'm in NYC.) Maybe you can watch our pets/child.  Maybe you can make us mix tapes.  Maybe you can spread the word about living kidney donation.  We will be asking.  We hope you will be open and willing to listen.

When it comes down to it, it's just a kidney.  Most of us have one to spare.  We just need a little help after we let it go.

Thanks.

Not an Acceptance Speech, but a Pat on My Own Back

I'm going to cut to the chase.

I am really proud of myself.  

I have friends who do this stuff every day, who can turn on the TV any time and see themselves on a national commercial, or as a series regular on a TV show, or who have a long list of IMDB credits.  And I know they all worked really hard to get to those places.

And you know, I worked hard to get myself on LAW AND ORDER:SVU this Wednesday night at 9pm EST on NBC, check your local listings. 

I played it cool in the car, riding to set in Staten Island with Danny Pino.  I played it cool when Mariska and I talked about our childbirth experiences between takes.  I let my cool drop a bit when I asked to take a photo with Mariska at the last possible moment at the end of our day of shooting- but I regained my cool by NOT posting it on Facebook (though I did text it to a select few friends and family.)

But I'm really, really excited to see this episode on Wednesday night at 9pm EST, check your local listings.

Dean and I moved to NYC 3.5 years ago to pursue our dreams.  My pursuit idled a bit while I was pregnant with Elrod (though I did stifle my urge to vomit long enough to do a play and a film out of town in my first trimester), and the pursuit continued to simmer on the back burner for the first year I stayed home with him- and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

But you know what?  I knew when the time was right to jump back in, and I did.  I jumped and I took swimming lessons, and I swam and I met the lifeguards, and I learned to love the sand, and....I can't carry this metaphor on any longer- it was pretty weak to begin with.

My point is that I am proud that I got myself on a TV show that almost everyone has seen, and I look forward to one Saturday afternoon a year or six from now, watching a LAW AND ORDER:SVU marathon on TBS, and seeing myself on screen again, and then waiting three months for that residual check for $1.09 to arrive in the mail.  And some of you will recognize why a check for $1.09 is so meaningful to me.  I know Iron Balls McGinty will.

If you're like me, you might be thinking, "Well, this is good, but what if it's the only thing you do?  What if there aren't any more TV gigs in your future?  Hundreds of actors have been on this show over the years.  Maybe even THOUSANDS.  So what?"  And to you I say, "Will YOU be on SVU this Wednesday night at 9pm EST, check your local listings?"  And if you're a friend of mine who has been on the show, well, then...please be more supportive and optimistic.

This may be all I do.  It may be the last good credit on my resume.  Or it may be the first.  Or second, because I did do ARMY WIVES, and that's not too shabby.  (For you SC actors, people up here are impressed by it, and don't know that a bunch of us locals got cast.) But I hope it's not the last good thing.  I don't feel like it's time to get out of the pool yet, I'm just ditching my water wings.  (Too soon to revisit the crappy metaphor?)

If you're a friend and you're planning to watch it, thank you so much.  It makes me tear up and happy and embarrassed and excited.  If you don't like me and are planning on watching it, don't you have anything better to do than read my blog and watch me on TV? (High five with my friends.)

I will be watching the show this Wednesday night at 9pm EST in my living room with our good friend Stephen Stafford (Dean is in Nashville this week, being a kick-ass playwright.)  Elrod will be sleeping in the next room, so we will have to be very quiet while we sip champagne and wait for my big moment.  And then I will blush and feel proud and probably text my mom and cry a little.

Unless they cut me out.  Then I'll cry a lot.

DISCLAIMER:  I had to go rerecord some dialogue for the episode last week (called "looping"), and they didn't cut me out.  In fact, it looks awesome.

A Birthday Tradition

Today is my son's first birthday.

Every year on my birthday, my mother calls me- not just to sing "Happy Birthday," but to recount the story of my birth.

Highlights from the story include:

*High on anesthesia, Mom saw my father and told a nurse, "I think I know that man."
* The nurses in the nursery called me "Rosebud," because of my ruddy pink skin and (if you ask Mom) my delicate beauty.
* One nurse fell asleep while rocking me, and Mom flipped out.
* The day I was born was the best day of her entire life.

I always thought that last statement was sweet, but I never really understood how much she meant it until now.  And frankly, I never thought I'd ever be the one saying anything remotely like that.  Ever in my life.  Ever.

But here I am.

I had a few minutes alone with my baby this morning, feeding him a bottle.  As we sat there, quiet and cuddly, I found myself telling him the story of the day he was born.

After all, it is his birthday.

Highlights from the story include:

*Acupuncture induced my labor.
* We had to "walk the halls" until they could check me in a hospital room, and a custodian found me groaning and laboring on my hands and knees in an empty conference room.
* While I was getting an epidural, I buried my head in the ample, comforting bosom of a Trinidadian nurse named Anselma.
* It was the best day of my entire life.

While my baby probably didn't understand what I was saying, I like to think he understood what I was feeling.  Feeling nostalgic. Feeling intense, immeasurable love.  Feeling incredibly fortunate.

And also feeling glad that I still have a few good years before he starts rolling his eyes when I tell him this story.

But when he does, I'll know that deep down inside, he secretly loves hearing it.

Because I sure did.

Thanks Mom.

Happy Birthday, Elrod.

Salsa-pocalyose

Long ago, my friend Jody moved to NYC.  Riding on the train one day, he was approached by a rep from Calvin Klein, and asked if he'd be interested in modeling for an upcoming shoot.  The man had legit business cards, and Jody was a handsome guy.  Jody said yes, and the man replied, "Good.  Just one more thing.  Can you snowboard?"

Crestfallen, Jody told him that no, he could not snowboard, but he would "look damn cute standing on one."  Jody didn't get the job.

Hindsight is 20/20, and we all told him, "You should have said YES!  You could have learned to snowboard in time for the shoot!"  Any actor would give the same advice:  always say YES.

Can you tap dance?  YES!
Can you speak Spanish? YES!
Can you fly fish? YES!

To these three questions in particular, I feel comfortable answering "Yes."  I actually CAN do all three things with varying levels of success.  I took tap from 4th through 9th grade.  I know enough Spanish to translate the Spanish advertisements on the subway, even ones without English versions hanging alongside of them.  I lived in Montana for two years, where the men give their women waders, boots and fly rods instead of engagement rings.  So, YES.  I can do those things.

This week, my agent called with a commercial audition for me.  I'd audition for the role of "Woman," early 40's, a young Sally Field type, with longish hair and a zest for life.  Perfect.  And then she said, "Just one more thing.  Can you salsa?"

(pause)

"YES.  Yes, I can."

The internet is an incredibly useful tool. Want to give your loved one a foot massage?  Interested in fish taxidermy?  Want to cut your own hair? You Tube has videos to help.  You Tube can also teach you how to salsa.

With the audition looming a day away, I watched a handful of those how-to-salsa videos, and felt I had a good grasp on the basic steps I needed to know to get by.  Until now, by salsa experience was traditional, mild to medium.  I'd been known to try the occasional pineapple-habañero salsa, but very rarely, and there was usually a margarita involved.

But that's a different type of salsa.

When you go to a commercial audition, the waiting area is often filled with people who look a lot like you, but with mild variations.  Someone's cardigan may be a darker green, or maybe their ponytail is a little higher.  At this audition, no one looked like me.  The place was filled with (say this with an accent) Dancers of zee Salsa.  Women had weird Madonna arms and swirly, low-cut dresses, their partners (some brought actual dancing men) were clad in snug black t-shirts or white, flowy shirts with a few too many open buttons.  To some actors, it might have been intimidating.

But not to me.  I was out of the apartment.  I had a babysitter.  There were actual adults in the room, and I was fairly certain I'd be speaking complete sentences to them.  No, I wasn't intimidated.  I was already a winner.

And then they called me in.

"Monica, you're going to dance with Bernardo."

Bernardo reminded me of that guy from the Dos Equis commercials, The Most Fascinating Man in the World.  A cross between Ricardo Montalban and...a younger Ricardo Montalban.  Bernardo said, "Jest fahllow me."

I tried. I really did.  From the hips up, I was great.  I smiled, I snapped my head on the turns, I held my arms where the lady in the video told me to keep them.  I moved my hips as much as any white girl who's seen Shakira can move them.

But my feet.  Oh, my feet. Poor Bernardo got stepped on many times over, and at one point- and I didn't think this was possible- our KNEES banged into each other.  He said, "Relaaaax, and fahllow me."  I thought I was.  During my elementary and middle school tap training, I never had this problem.

When it was over, the casting director said, "You moved your hips, so that was good!  And you looked like you were having fun."  (A small victory.)

Bernardo said, "Goodbye."  (A crushing defeat.)

In the elevator, I updated my Facebook status to simply read "Salsa-pocalypse."

I wasn't surprised that I didn't book the gig, and I wasn't too bummed out about it.  After all, I had a break from The Best Baby in the World, and when my husband got home, he made me another delicious meal- this time, fish tacos.

Rummaging through the fridge, he asked, "Where's the salsa?"  I told him I'd been so busy watching dance videos, I'd forgotten to go to the store.

He said, "But your Facebook page said 'Salsa-pocalypse'."  So, I explained about my day, about Bernardo, and about saying YES.

Deflated, he replied, "Oh.  I was hoping for salsa."

So were we all, Dean.  So were we all.

There's Never Enough Time

It's been months since my last blog post.

Mainly because there just isn't any time for that sort of thing when you have a baby.

There's no time to pick the avocado out of my hair.  No time to pick up the hairball the cat just threw up. No time to unpack those last few boxes from our December move, or to send out thank you notes and birthday cards.  No time to clean.  Anything.

Truthfully, it's not so much that there's no time for ANYTHING.  There just isn't time for EVERYTHING.  No time to squeeze it all in.  No time to see that play that was just extended for a third time, or to have drinks with friends past 9pm.  No time to go to the gym...not that I complain about that most days.

But there is time for some things.

There's plenty of time to feed oatmeal and bananas to the baby, even if most of it ends up on the floor or behind his ears.  Plenty of time to splash with him in the bathtub, and to read "Peek A Who?" and "Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?" whenever he grabs the books and crawls my way.  There's plenty of time to clap our hands and dance to "Rockin' Robin" for the one thousandth time, and plenty of time to cuddle with him on the sofa while he giggles at "this little piggy."

There's ample time to baby proof the apartment as our boy gets braver and more interested in opening drawers and doors.  There's tons of time for zerberts (I looked up how to spell that) and rocking and making finger-painted art projects for friends and family.  There's even time to change diapers.  (Let's face it, there HAS to be.)

Having a baby has made us realize what is truly important.  So while one may be stressed that their champagne glasses didn't match when they toasted their baby's baptism (Who, ME?), there are much, MUCH better things that deserve my attention and limited brain space.

Like wiping off that little drop of milk from the corner of the baby's mouth after he falls asleep in my arms.  Or marveling in the piece of hair on the back of his head that is just starting to curl.

But not cleaning.

The cleaning can wait.

Should We Stay or Should We Go? Raising a Baby in the Big City.

We had a baby and momentarily forgot who we were.

We uprooted our lives and moved to NYC, excited to write plays and act, to forge a life together in the most creative city in the world.

And we did.

We produced some great theatre, and worked on films; we took classes and joined writers' groups; we saw what was hot, and knew what was not.  We walked the dog and nursed hangovers and took out the trash, and made friends with people cooler than us.

And later, we had a baby.

We had a baby, and throughout my pregnancy, we said to ourselves and anyone who would listen, "NYC is the BEST place to raise a child!  There are so many museums and different languages, and interesting cultures, and sights to see, and lessons to be learned!" We affirmed that a child raised in the city would be more savvy than a child raised anywhere else. Our baby would know the difference between a redneck and a Brooklynite.  Our child would be more tolerant of other cultures, would be more willing to eat strange foods with his hands and sit on floor cushions, and would be fearless when pronouncing names with extra consonants and not so many vowels.  NYC would help us raise a super cool kid.

And then, we went home for the holidays.

Home.

Where people come at you, arms outstretched, begging to hold and care for your child, without charging you $20 an hour.  Where Mom lets you sleep in the good bed and there are plenty of coffee pods whenever you want them.  Where there is a car available for your use anytime. Where a glass of wine costs $6.  Where it's never 19 degrees. Where you can exhale and there is room to think and breathe.  And breathe some more.

Driving back to NYC after a week Back Home, we had a lot of time to talk. And before we'd reached the first state line of our trip, we'd decided to pack it in and move South- and if anyone asked, it was to be closer to family.  It was the baby's fault.  We wanted, so we said, to be near a support system of people who would watch our baby whenever we needed.  We needed to stop paying rent and start paying ourselves.  We needed a back yard and a swing set and a veggie garden, even though it was sure to wither and die from lack of attention.

We imagined quietly interviewing for Southern Jobs, avoiding telling our NY friends of our secret plan.  We pictured meeting with a builder and designing our Southern Dream Home.  We could even buy our very own Piece of Land (as Mom says, "They're not making any more of it.")  We would find the most darling Montessori school for our child.

And then we remembered the Parade Balloons.

Every year, the giant balloons from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade are inflated outside the Museum of Natural History the day before the parade.  Families pack the closed-off streets to get an up-close, down-low look at Sponge Bob and Spider Man and Kung Fu Panda, before they fly high down Central Park West in front of network cameras.  It's a special thing, a cool thing.  And we want our kid to see those balloons.

We also want him to ice skate in Central Park, to go to the Bronx Zoo, and see a Picasso anytime he wants.  We want him to go to a Bar Mitzvah and a quinceanera, and eat dim sum in Chinatown.  We want him to decide for himself whether he's a Mets or Yankees fan, and we want him to develop a healthy preference for the C train over the 1/2/3. We want him to be a good person, a caring person, a kid who gives part of his allowance to the homeless guy he passes on the street every day- not because we make him, but because he is compelled to.  Because he is good, and he is grateful.

So, while we deeply miss our Southern roots, we've decided we want him to be a New Yorker.  We're letting go of the panic, and embracing the unique challenges of raising a child in the Greatest City on Earth.

And we won't lose sight of who we are.

We'll be the couple sharing a one-bedroom with a first grader.  After all, it's an expensive city.

Show Me

An invitation to gun advocates:

In the wake of the daily news stories about gun-weilding Bad Guys,

In the wake of dozens of parents' Very Best Things being stolen away,

In the wake of All the Cities We'd Never Heard of Before,

Show me.

Share the countless success stories where the Good Guy uses the assault rifle beneath his bed to heroically save his family from the Gun-Weilding Mad Man we keep hearing about.

Show me.

Show me the news item describing Lindsay Graham's Atlanta mother who used her
Uzi or
AK-47 or
Streetsweeper or
Thompson 1927 Commando

Or any gun from the theatre of war

Show me where she takes down the Home Invader coming for her family,

Or her Stuff.

Where are the news stories about that?

Show me the many, many, many cases that justify Regular Citizens not just owning, but wielding (trained or not) weapons like those from the streets of Kabul or Sirte.

Prove your point.  Plead your case.

Because I'm just not seeing the evidence.

New Year's Eve-sdropping

It's 11:30pm on New Year's Eve, and I am eavesdropping on the city.  On my new block, more precisely.

While my little family is asleep (having a baby makes for early bedtimes for everyone), I've woken up to feed the baby.  As I sit in the darkened living room, sneaking looks out of our giant windows, I am secretly glad that Blinds.com is taking so long to complete our order, for it means I can stealthily enjoy watching a sampling of New Yorkers on Their Most Famous Night, parading by our new apartment.

Lots of revelers, children and grandparents included, are making their way to Central Park for fireworks.  Some stronger souls are geared up in running clothes, lights on their wacky hats flashing, ready for the annual midnight run in the park.

I've seen dashing older couples in opera finery, twenty-somethings with noisemakers and uncomfortably high shoes, tourists using smartphones to find their way to the fun.  I'm hearing helicopters and sirens, car horns honking, and tipsy party-goers slurring premature "Happy New Years" to any of us within earshot.

I've heard one spat ("How dare you.  How DARE YOU!), but lots of laughing.  I've seen a little bit of sloppy walking, but no outright stumbling.  I've noticed people's paces pick up as we inch towards midnight.

And as I sit here in the dark, watching them all, I am happy for them.  Happy they are making memories.  Happy they are having fun.

But mostly, I'm happy for me.  Happy to be here in the Greatest City on Earth.  Happy that my little family is sleeping soundly.  Happy for the year to come.

And a little happy that no one can see what I'm wearing right now.

Happy New Year.

Neighbors

I'd not fully experienced what a "neighborhood"could be until I moved to New York City.

And I never expected it to mean as much to me as it has this past week.

NYC is a city of walkers, of people out and about in their neighborhoods.  We walk to the grocery store and post office, to doctor's appointments and dinner dates.  And as we walk, we see the familiar faces of our neighbors.

There's Jaunty Frenchman with a spring in his step and an enormous, well-groomed poodle;  Sunglasses Lady with the tiny bulldog on a rope; Bald Guy from the wine store; The Korean couple from the cleaners who adore Elrod, and rarely make us pay for the baby's laundry;  There's little Lab-mix Molly, who we've seen grow from a puppy, walking with Molly's Dad (who told us to cherish every minute with our boy); Visor Lady from # 15, whose bark is worse than her bite;  There's Irish building manager at the Kenilworth, who holds court on the sidewalk outside the service entrance, and for whom I will one day bake cookies because he would really appreciate them.  There's the UPS Guy, who knows to always buzz our apartment if he needs to get in, since Elrod and I are home a lot.

These people are part of our daily lives here, and we regularly greet one another with broad smiles and cheery hellos, or observations about the weather.  And we have no idea what each other's names are.

And that's OK.

Because this week, whether we knew each other by name or not, we all had each other's backs.

One young family on our block suffered an unimaginable tragedy last week.  A family we often referred to as The Cute Family with the Greyhound.  Or sometimes, The Cute Family with the Little Girl on the Scooter.  We didn't know their names.  We didn't need to.  Their faces were familiar and regular, and we shared the sidewalks with them as we walked our dogs, ran our errands, and ventured into Central Park.

Our block came together this week in powerful and subtle ways after what happened.  We exchanged tear-filled stares as we roamed the street, dazed.  Stunned.  We were wordless with disbelief and helplessness.  We hugged. We left flowers.  We petted each other's dogs for an extra long time as we went on our regular walks.

And we had our heart-broken neighbors' backs.

One family who puts up an elaborate and scary Halloween display every year, quietly took it down, because "it didn't seem right."  Another neighbor walked outside, scissors in hand, and removed the yellow crime scene tape that was still tied around a tree outside.  Doormen at the family's building painstakingly moved the growing memorial of flowers and stuffed animals to inside the building's lobby, protecting them from the coming storm.

Parents didn't have to say anything to each other.  We all held onto our children a little tighter, and we suddenly seemed to not mind at all if our children were a little disruptive in restaurants.  Children have become the unofficial heroes up here.

This week, our neighborhood came together in a way I've not felt anywhere else.  We are united in our gratitude for what we have, and in our sympathy for some of our own.

It feels good to know these people, these strangers, are there for us in some way.

Whatever their names are.

Killer Instincts

I'm a Killer Mom.

My husband, baby, and I are spending our First Weekend Away From Home at our friend's country house.  Our baby's godfather, to be more accurate.  We envision our son growing up spending relaxing weekends here, enjoying more nature than even Central Park can offer.  The type of Nature where one hears howls coming from the woods at night, and can be 92% certain that there's no need to call 911.

We spent many weekends here before the baby was born; weekends full of cocktails and frivolity, of saucy jokes, and late bedtimes.  While our cocktail intake and bedtime have changed since the baby was born, some things about visiting here remain constant, including sharing gorgeous meals outdoors, under the canopy of huge trees and -last night, anyway- a giant Blue Moon.

As we dined under the stars last night, our friend asked what it feels like being a parent. If we've ever felt love quite like this before.

It's a tough question to answer.

Sure, as parents we are hard-wired to protect and love this baby we made. It's our job.  My husband explained the joy we feel when our son recognizes us and smiles, and how protective he feels when the baby falls asleep in his arms, grabbing onto him like a little monkey.

I explained things a little differently.

I feel protective in a more violent way. A more animalistic way. A more primal way. I explained in great detail, and without hesitation, that if anyone threatened the safety of my child, I would reach out with my hand and jam my rock-hard fingers into their throat, grabbing their trachea and esophagus, and ripping them out the front of their neck.

The truly scary thing isn't the graphic nature of the punishment I would inflict, but rather that I came up with it without a moment's thought. I didn't weigh my options, I didn't wonder if kicking the perpetrator in the balls would be just as good.  I knew exactly what I would do, and I know without a doubt that I would have the strength and courage to see the violent act through.

Is that scary or admirable?  Is it to be discouraged or encouraged?  Should Child Protective Services be alerted, or should Parenting magazine profile me for their Awesome Parents Edition?

Apparently, this intense desire to protect comes with parenthood.  Our brains change. Our chemistry alters, like Dr. David Banner in The Incredible Hulk.  We become Super Humans. Super Parents.  Maybe even Super Scary.

I didn't know I had it in me.

Only Children are A-OK!

I am an only child.

At this point, some who know me may crack wise about my reluctance to share dessert at a restaurant, or the unspoken but unwavering claim I lay to the remote controls in the apartment.  Some may see being an only child as a bad thing.  That it makes one...self-focused.

I think it makes one self-sufficient.

When I was a kid, I received a lot of board games as gifts.  Multi-player games, like Sorry! and Parcheesi.  And as an only child who hated other children, it was rare to find someone to play them with.  I recall my Uncle Tommy playing with me, and I'm sure my parents must have, but mostly, I remember playing these games by myself.  Or rather, with myself.  Or maybe even against myself.  At least I always won.

My husband is the youngest of three boys, and really appreciates having brothers.  For me, the main appeal of having siblings would be to relieve some of the pressure of caring for aging parents.  Having someone to consult/blame/cry to/drink with when the time comes to find a really good nursing home.  (Mom and Dad, consider this "writer's embellishment.")

Our son is seven weeks old, and already people ask if we're planning on having another one.  My knee-jerk response has been, "No, parenting is a young person's game," but then I gave it some serious thought.  Yes, it takes an enormous amount of energy to tend to a newborn's needs, and one must function on very little sleep, two attributes that were at their height when I was in college.  Also, recovery from childbirth- in my case, a c-section- is much more difficult than I expected, and a younger, firmer, more elastic body would likely have more success bouncing back.

But I did think about it.  And I determined I was 89% certain that one child is plenty for us.  My husband is 84% sure of the same.  I'm more sure, so I win...even though we're on the same team.

Being an only child has its payoffs in adulthood, though.

OK, I can't think of many of them right now, but I CAN say that being an only child has allowed my imagination to flourish.  Not just to flourish, but to...whatever is even more fabulous than flourishing.

Case in point:  our son wakes up in the middle of the night, and it sometimes takes a bit of walking, bouncing, and singing to get him back to sleep.  We have a nightlight in our bathroom that has what I initially considered to be a charming scene of animals camping.

But really, it's more than that.

Many a night I've explained to our child that the red fox in the sleeping bag had a little too much to drink, and doesn't even realize he's not sleeping inside the tent.  The deer is helping him conceal it from the grey fox by hiding the empty wine bottle behind him.  The poor grey fox has to do all the work, including gathering firewood, and will no doubt have to clean up that dirty plate (bottom left corner) and the unfinished can of beans outside the tent.  The poor grey fox is so busy doing everyone's work, he's unable to hold his own marshmallow stick, and has to plant it in the ground, because the deer hasn't offered to help.  The grey fox probably didn't even want to go camping in the first place.

See?  You probably thought it was just some animals camping.

And you probably have siblings.

I win.

People are Crazy for Babies. In a Scary Way.

This really happened.

As our son is getting older (a whopping 6 weeks old, now), we've taken him more and more places.  We stick close to home, and our outings usually consist of dog walks or shopping trips for more diapers.  Or wine.

Last week, we took our baby out to dinner to celebrate my father's birthday.  As we expected, the baby got a little fussy here and there, so my husband and I took turns walking him around outside the restaurant while the other enjoyed dinner.  When it was my turn, I carried him out the front door, and past the tables of outdoor diners.

And that's when She stopped me.

She was close to 70 years old, sitting across from two gentlemen who were engrossed in their own conversation.  As I walked by, she stopped me, pointed to the baby, and said, "Excuse me.  May I?"

I obliged, turning so she could see his face over my shoulder.  She gazed longingly at him, saying the usual kind words about how beautiful he is, and how we should cherish every moment.

And then She got weird.

As she stared at the baby, she crossed her arms over her chest and said to me, "I can almost feel myself lactating."  (Go ahead and reread that part.)  She looked right at me and said, "I don't think you know what you have here."

I was a little offended, and still frozen by the image of geriatric lactation.  Trying to be accommodating, I replied, "Oh, we know he's pretty special!  We love him a lot."  And I looked at the baby and did some nose kiss thing to prove my point.

Then she demanded, "Kiss him."

"Excuse me?"

"Kiss him," she said very seriously.  "Lean down and give him a kiss."

He's my baby, so I obliged.  Plus, she was elderly, and likely lonely, as those two men across the table were still ignoring her.

Then she directed, "Tell him you love him."

I thought it was a little strange, but for some reason, I was willingly compliant to her strange demands.  I leaned down to the baby and, in a baby-friendly voice, said, "I love you!  I love you! Yes, I do!"

"NO!" she said.  "Whisper it to him.  Like you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," I said.

Who was this woman to tell me I didn't MEAN it?  What did I have to do to prove to her that I meant it?  And WHY did I feel like I had to prove my love for my baby to a total stranger?

"Tell him again."

Sigh.  So I did.  I stood there and followed this stranger's orders.  I let her direct me in the middle of a crowded restaurant patio.  It was a one woman show (with an adorable prop) for an audience of one, as those men still weren't paying any attention to what was happening. After a few more instructions, she finally told me to give the baby a kiss from her, and I knew it was time to end the show.

Why had it been so difficult to leave? I'd stood there for a good eight minutes, kissing and cooing at my baby, following my captor's orders.  I was like Patty Hearst with Stockholm Syndrome.  Am I that much of an actor, that I felt I had to perform?  Was I pimping out my child for the entertainment of the elderly?  And if so, is that a bad thing?  After all, she seemed lonely.

You know, those men sitting at her table never looked over during that whole exchange.  They never got to see how cute the baby is.  But mostly, they didn't do anything to save me.

Maybe I was the one saving them.

The Parenting Olympics

The whole world has Olympic Fever.

We're all standing united in our new-found love of synchronized diving, skeet shooting, and table tennis, sports I wasn't even aware were actual Olympic events.

As a brand new parent, my husband and I are developing impressive knowledge, speed and accuracy at some events of our own, and I am now inspired to propose the first-ever Parenting Olympics.

Events would be divided into two main categories, Indoor and Outdoor events.  Let's look at an early list of proposed areas of competition.

Indoor Events

Swaddling:  Athletes may choose to compete in either One-Handed or Two-Handed Swaddling.  Those opting for Two-Handed Swaddling will be working with a colicky, inconsolable infant, to level the playing field with the One-Handers.

Bottle Preparation:  Participants will be scored on Frozen Breast Milk Thawing, Bottle Washing, Matching Lids with Bottles, and (in an effort to remain inclusive) Powdered Formula Mixing.

Diapering:  Parents may choose to compete in either Cloth or Disposable categories.  Those competing in Cloth will be on the honor system and will be judging themselves, as most people don't know how that whole cloth system works, anyway.  Those competing in Disposable will be judged by the EPA.

Soothing:  Competitors will soothe a fussy baby for three full hours in the middle of the night, using only their own bodies and voices.  Special points will be given for Best Impromptu Rhyming in a Song, and for Smoothly Transferring Baby from Arms to Crib.

Outdoor Events

Baby Wearing:  In this mixed-gender competition, Moms and Dads will be required to safely secure their infant in a Moby wrap, without use of the instruction booklet.  (Note: Participants may be asked to sign a waiver for footage to be used on America's Funniest Home Videos.)

Subway Navigation:  Athletes with infants will be given a destination over two miles from the starting line, and must navigate the NYC subway system through no fewer than two train changes and stations with no elevators.  Athletes may not ask strangers for assistance with strollers.

Dining Out:  Participants will be required to eat a full, three-course meal (appetizer, entree, and dessert) in a public restaurant with table service.  Competition must take place between 7pm and 9pm, during peak restaurant hours.  Points will be deducted for each restaurant patron that rolls his eyes at the participants.  Extra points will be awarded for finishing the meal without staining your own clothes or dropping hot food on the baby.


In this early stage of development, the Parenting Olympics is focused solely on infant care, but plans are in motion for the Parenting of Teenagers Olympics, the Parenting of Twins Olympics, and (in a special deal with Comedy Central) the Teenage Parents Olympics.  The Lifetime Network has expressed interest in the Single Parent Olympics, but participants deserve much more lucrative endorsements than are currently available, so those deals are stalled at this time.

The success of the Parenting Olympics depends on your input.  We can't do it without you.

I'd keep working on my list of potential events, but I've got to go pump.

(Look for Pumping to be added in 2016.)

Betrayed by Modern Conveniences

When I was pregnant, my husband and I watched the documentary film, Babies.  It's a fascinating look at how four different babies are raised in four different parts of the world- Mongolia, Japan, Namibia, and San Francisco, California.  Each baby is followed for a year, and while there is no narration or any substantial dialogue, we found ourselves rooting for the little tykes, and admittedly, developed a favorite along the way.

By far, the happiest baby of the lot was the Namibian girl.  We watched as she and her siblings played games like "Rock"and "Stick."  They sat in the dirt, right next to the family dog.  Her mother handled her confidently, slinging the baby over her back as she worked, not appearing to be worried that the sun may be too hot on the baby's head, or that a fly was buzzing a little too close for comfort.  She played with her baby heartily, and the family laughed often.

The baby's mother didn't have a vibrating chair or a Boppy pillow, or stuffed animals that make soothing ocean sounds.  She had her own loving arms and strong legs and soft breasts, and with these tools alone, cared perfectly well for her baby.

I, too, have these things, and I've felt pretty darn good about my ability to soothe our son myself, without many "modern conveniences."  I bounce, rock, sway, sing, rub, pat, coo, feed, swaddle, and hold with skill; and usually, our baby responds beautifully- by dozing off or quieting down- safe in his mother's arms.

Until yesterday.

Elrod's paternal grandparents have come to town for a visit, and his schedule is a little off from his typical day.  He was cranky at unusual times, and nothing helped.  He screamed and screamed, and then- when my back was turned- he magically hushed.  I turned around to see what had happened- was someone trying a new hold?  A new way of baby-joggling I'd not yet learned?

Nope.

There in his mouth was a bright blue pacifier.  And he seemed to love it.  He happily sucked away, soothing himself and falling asleep, as if someone had pushed a button.  Or given him a lot of Benadryl.

Now, don't get me wrong- I have pacifiers in our home.  I registered for them and even picked up a couple myself.  I'd yet to use them, as I was waiting to master the art of breast feeding before introducing them, but I'd not put up any signs alerting others to this possibly neurotic, new mommy decision.

So I did what any new mother would do.  I hid them.  Should anyone ask where they are, I'll say, "Hmmm, they were here the other day."  And that will be the end of it.

Only it wasn't.

Later, as the family tried to sit down to dinner, little Elrod was once again unhappy- loudly unhappy- and someone had the idea to put him in the automatic swing.  The one we registered for.  The one, like the pacifier, we'd yet to use.  And again, he loved it.  He fell right asleep.

And I fell apart a tiny bit inside.

This freaking swing had pushed me aside.  It did my job- swinging my baby to sleep- better than I did it myself.  It was a cold, robotic substitute for warm, flesh-and-blood, Me.  The pacifier was replacing my breast, and now this swing was mocking me with its chirping bird music, and its little animal mobile above my fascinated baby's face.  I hated Swing.  Swing could suck it.

But then I realized (or was it rationalized?), I need to take care of Me.  I had surgery three weeks ago, I still tire easily, and I deserve a meal and a rest and a deep breath now and then.  My husband and I deserve, and need, time with each other, even if it's only for 15 minutes over reheated leftovers.

And if Pacifier and Swing are the ones to give me those things, then maybe there is a place for them in our home right now after all.  Maybe Swing isn't mocking me.  Maybe Pacifier is just misunderstood.

It's still early- our son is just a little over three weeks old.  In time, these "modern conveniences" will likely have a more prominent place in our home. But for now, when they make their rare appearance, I'll try to remember that they could never replace a mother's loving arms, strong legs, and soft breasts.

It'll be nice to remember that.  Because I can't remember where I hid the pacifier.

Leaving the Apartment- Was it Worth It?

Two days ago, I wrestled with the Ergo baby carrier, our infant son successfully secured inside, and I headed out to walk our dog.  It marked the first time I've left the house on my own with the baby, and it felt great.  Although we only went around the block, I felt free, and I liked feeling a whisper of my former, pre-pregnancy, independent self.

As I turned the corner to head home, my phone rang.  In some serendipitous turn of events, my agent was calling with an audition.  Could I make it to a 4:30 appointment the next day?

What, and miss an opportunity to speak in a grown-up voice in a public place?  Of course I would be there.

So yesterday, I planned it all out.  I modeled "Casual, Fun-Loving, Mom" audition outfits for my husband.  I showered, washed, dried, and styled my hair.  I put on makeup, even foundation.  I updated my resumé, and printed it on the back of my smiling, commercial, "Buy this Car/Detergent/Peanut Butter from Me" headshot.

Fearing that the humidity would wreak havoc on my freshly styled, Real Person hair, I took a cab downtown, rather than take the train, which turned out to be a good call.  Did you see the national news story about the weather that day?  The piece with shots of the Empire State Building being struck by lightning?  It was raining sideways.  There was hail.  And the center of the torrential storm seemed to be hovering over 60 Madison Avenue, where I had just gotten out of the cab- only on the wrong side of the street from my destination.

Sure, I'm always prepared, and I had a tiny umbrella in my purse.  A flimsy, rickety, tired old thing that would sooner be inside out that be open at all.  An umbrella in the loosest sense of the word.  This storm gave my umbrella the finger.

I arrived at the audition with squishing shoes, curling, frizzing hair, and running makeup.  My skinny jeans felt like they'd taken on a gallon of water. Throughout my audition, thunder boomed and lightning cracked outside the studio windows, drowning out my lines.  Still, I was thrilled to be out of the house, doing what I love to do.

And then I began to make my way home.

Since it was monsoon season outside, getting another cab would be impossible, so I headed to the nearest subway stop.

If you've ever been in the subway in the middle of summer, you are aware of the many smells one may encounter there.  People have varying standards of personal hygiene.  They may be eating Doritos.  Perhaps they've just come from doing a Shakespeare performance in period costumes in the hot, hot sun.  As a woman of 5'4", I was unhappy to be reminded that my nose is armpit height with most taller people, particularly when they grab onto the overhead bar to steady themselves.  Everyone around me was coated with a thin layer of wetness.  Was it rain?  Was it sweat?  Who could tell?  All I knew was that the minute I got home, I was sponging off my arms and face, and scrubbing the skin off my subway-tainted hands before going anywhere near my baby.

As I emerged from the 72nd street station, the rain was still pouring, as was what was left of my makeup.  I'd given up attempts at keeping my snakeskin flats dry, and instead sloshed through puddles and mini-rivers as I walked the 4 blocks home.

I was beginning to question whether or not making the trip out of the apartment had been worth it.  I'd ruined some shoes, made a questionable first impression on a busy casting director, and was experiencing some strange, unfamiliar feelings.  Was it...longing?  Could it be that, in the two hours I'd been away from him, I was missing my baby?


Vowing to myself that auditions could wait, telling myself I'd been foolish to think I could pop right back in to my former routine so soon after having a baby, something else serendipitous happened.

There, right off the corner of Amsterdam and 74th, was Levain Bakery.  There was no line, and the light from inside was warm and welcoming.  Smiling adults worked behind the counter, baking the most delicious cookies you've ever tasted.  It smelled of heaven and (someone else's) home, and I plopped down my $8 and took home two walnut-chocolate chip cookies to share with my husband.

Yes, it rained.  No, I didn't get a callback.  But was it worth it?

Yes.  To be reminded that auditions and trains and cabs and the city will all still be there when I'm really ready...that was worth it.

And the cookies were pretty good, too.