A Letter to the So-Called Baby Experts

I've been hearing a lot about attachment parenting lately. That's when a parent keeps his/her baby close through baby-wearing, co-sleeping, etc. Personally, I'm all for it. But for some reason it irks me that the "experts"are pushing it so hard. The same "experts" are also rabid about breastfeeding, but that doesn't bother me as much (though I'm sure it's infuriating to moms who either cannot or choose not to breastfeed), probably because there's so much scientific research showing it to be the best thing for baby (and mom, too, as long as she can do it comfortably and productively).

Attachment parenting is different. Sure, it's great for baby to be near mommy, and it's usually wonderful for mommy as well, because she can get more done when baby is calm (and a worn baby is usually a calm one). But there isn't the same medical component to it that there is for breastfeeding. Yes, research shows it's best...but the argument isn't as compelling as the one touting breastfeeding.

I think attachment parenting is a great idea. In fact, I wore both my babies a lot and even kept my second one in my bed until she was six months old. But I didn't do it because someone told me to. In fact, much of the literature at the time warned against keeping baby in your bed for that long. But despite the various books' warnings, my sweet baby had no trouble transitioning to her crib. She was (and still is) a great, happy sleeper.

Nowadays, I am always skeptical about what the "experts"have to say about child-rearing. It's a never-ending list of Do's and Don't's--enough to make your head spin. I wasn't always so savvy, however. Five-and-a-half years ago, when I was a hormone-crazed, first-time mom, I desperately and cluelessly turned to those "experts" for advice.

I bought the books: Happiest Baby on the Block by Harvey Karp, What to Expect the First Year, and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth, to name a few. I truly believed the authors knew best. Boy, was I wrong.

This book should be banned.

Some of the books are useful, some are amusing, and others are downright EVIL. In the latter category belongs this gem: The Contented Little Baby Book: The Simple Secrets of Calm, Confident Parenting by Gina Ford. Ms. Ford is supposedly a British "maternity nurse" (without formal qualifications) but to me she's a sadistic drill sergeant masquerading as Mary Poppins.

This book is a massive best-seller. Too bad it made me cry...and cry and cry. In it, Ms. Ford promises to get your baby on a schedule--sleeping from 7 p.m. through to 7 a.m.--at six weeks of age. She's critical of "feeding on demand," however, and requires baby to wait three hours between feedings.

In my sleep-deprived state, having a six week old who slept through the night sounded p-r-e-t-t-y damn good, so I tried it. And tried and tried and TRIED to get my firstborn on a "schedule." Guess what? It turns out breastfed newborns should be fed on demand and shouldn't be forced to wait three hours between feedings. Newborns aren't meant to be on a schedule! I hate this book.

Parents need to do what's right for them: what they can handle, what works, what's comfortable. Yes, it's important to know about the latest baby-rearing research, but when dedicated, nurturing, loving mothers are made to feel guilty about not breastfeeding, not making their own baby food, not using cloth diapers, or not wearing their babies on their backs 24/7, something is seriously wrong with society.

Back to Black

Amy Winehouse's death has hit me harder than it should have.

Ever since her untimely passing on Sunday, I've noticed that whenever I see a photo of her looking especially zonked out or emaciated (see left), I get a weird churning in my stomach. I finally figured it out; it's because she reminds me so, so much of one of my best friends--a friend whom I fear could die any day.

Like Ms. Winehouse, my friend has/had addiction problems--mostly alcohol but also, in the past, cocaine and possibly prescription meds. Like Amy, my friend also has/had eating disorders, depressive episodes, and dental concerns. Both ladies wear/wore too much makeup, have/had terrible taste in (and luck with) men, and are/were hot messes.

And, from everything I've read about Ms. Winehouse, both were/are interesting, smart, funny, crazy, charismatic, and loyal.

The reason I was freaking out about Ms. Winehouse's death only became clear to me upon reading British comedian/actor Russell Brand's touching words about his friend's death. When I read this passage, my brain buzzed and my heart ached:

"When you love someone who suffers from the disease of addiction you await the phone call. There will be a phone call. The sincere hope is that the call will be from the addict themselves, telling you they’ve had enough, that they’re ready to stop, ready to try something new. Of course though, you fear the other call, the sad nocturnal chime from a friend or relative telling you it’s too late, she’s gone."


I have received this call before--many calls, actually. They've not been of the "I've had enough" variety, nor the "She's gone" sort, but more like: "She hasn't shown up for work in days," "Hi, I'm in the hospital," "I want to die," "I've been throwing up all day," or "I really need a drink."

Years have passed. My friend has been getting help for at least a decade now, yet the self-destructive behavior continues. It's not nearly as bad as when we were young and stupid, but how much more can her weak and broken body take?

I do expect to receive the "She's gone" call one day. I only hope it's not for many, many years to come.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Tears for Fears Edition

Now that I'm a mother, it hurts
to look at this album cover.

I heard a song on the radio today that brought me waaay back. It's one of the most haunting songs I know: "Mad World" by Tears for Fears (off their debut album, The Hurting, from 1983). I only remember this song slightly from when it first came out--the single from The Hurting that got the most airplay on American radio was "Change"--but "Mad World" has had a long life and is still relevant.

The version I heard today was by some dude Gary Jules, recorded for the soundtrack to 2001's Donnie Darko. The original Tears for Fears version was early-80's synth-pop, with an uptempo beat. The Donnie Darko version is much slower and sadder. This haunting version of the song is the one Adam Lambert absolutely slayed on Idol a couple years back.

The lyrics (written by Roland Orzabal):

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places...worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere...going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression...no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow...no tomorrow

*chorus*
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I’m dying
Are the best I’ve ever had
I find it hard to tell you
coz I find it hard to take
When people run in circles
It’s a very very
Mad world...mad world

Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy birthday...happy birthday
Made to feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen...sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me...no one knew me
Hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson
Look right through me...look right through me
*chorus*

Click here to watch the original Tears for Fears video.

And to see Adam Lambert's great performance of the song (which earned a rare standing ovation from Simon Cowell), click here.

Father Knows Best (About Some Things)

I'll bet Don Draper never got peed on while
changing a diaper.

Men have come a long way in the past 30 years. Back when I was growing up, most of the dads I knew had the following responsibilities: bring home the paycheck, take out the trash, mow the lawn, play catch with his sons, dole out the serious punishments ("Just wait 'til your father gets home!"), give pep talks, BBQ up dinner two times a summer, and maybe coach soccer or little league.

My very own father likes to brag that he's never changed a diaper in his life.

Nowadays, things are P-R-E-T-T-Y different. Roles and responsibilities are more evenly doled out; however, even when the dad is the sole breadwinner, he's still expected to change diapers, babysit while mom goes to the grocery store, handle the midnight feeding, and pitch in with housework--plus most of the things listed above. It's a big change over the Mad Men era, when Dad walked in the door after a hard day's work (those three-martini lunches must've been grueling) and was greeted with a steak dinner, a scotch & soda, and a smile.

However, despite the strides fathers have made, there is still room for improvement. Here are some things dads still can't do:

1. Give their daughter a neat ponytail.
2. Cut the kids' raviolis just the way they like it.
3. Put the baby's diaper on tight enough.
4. Figure out which toothpaste is for which child.
5. Bathe the kids without flooding the bathroom.
6. Put the kitchen utensils in the correct drawers.
7. Do more than two things at once.

These minor short-comings aside, fathers are the family unit's unsung heroes. Everyone talks about how hard motherhood is, and moms usually clean up on Mother's Day--jewelry, spa visits, etc. But you never hear people commenting on how difficult it is being a dad. And what does Pops get for Father's Day? A card, if he's lucky.

We moms really should thank our partners more often for all the great things they do. Are they perfect? No way. But we couldn't live without them. Nor would we want to--because life is more fun with Dad around. Dads make awesome paper airplanes, will play dinosaurs for hours, and most importantly, help us moms to not sweat the small stuff.

So a big thank you to all the fathers out there. We appreciate all you do and we love you.

Sister Act

I've just spent a fun day with my in-laws. While I adore them all, hanging out with my three excellent sisters-in-law is always bittersweet because it makes me sad that I don't have a sister of my own.

Don't get me wrong, my two brothers are awesome and I love them dearly. But, as I've learned over the years from watching my gal pals and their sissies, the bond of sisterhood is like no other. Even sisters that hate each other are usually ridiculously close.

I can count the number of conversations I have with each brother per year on one or two hands (depending on if Christmas is at my parents' house or my in-laws' that particular year). Certainly I'm partially responsible--it's not like I call them much more often than they call me (which is somewhere between never and once a year), but that's mainly because they are men and just not that chatty.

I hang out with my sisters-in-law and am envious. Even though they all live in different states, they talk all the time and still have that sisterly shorthand with one another. Sure, there were rough patches when they were younger--my husband has told me about some knock-down-drag-out fights that happened during their teen years--but now they are best friends and share everything.

I wish I had that kind of relationship with someone. My husband's sisters could not be warmer, nicer, or more welcoming to me, but it's just not the same as having a sister of my own. In high school and college I had girlfriends who were almost like sisters, and even though I'm still close with most of them, it's only inevitable that we've grown apart somewhat. Family takes priority, and since these lovely ladies aren't actually family, well, we aren't each other's priorities anymore.

I used to think being the only girl was the best thing ever, because my dad spoiled me, I never had to wear hand-me-downs, and I didn't have to share my girly toys with anyone. But now I realize how wrong I was.

I hope all of you ladies out there with sisters realize how lucky you are.

Uno, Dos, Tres

I'm going to admit it: I kinda hate Dora. She's shrill, she yells, her singing is painful, and as my five-year-old son noted, "Dora is rude. She is always telling you to do something but never says 'Please.' " He makes a good point. "Say 'salta'! Again! Salta! Say 'salta'!" Jeez, stop bossing my kids around, Dora.

BUT. But my daughter LURVES Dora, and has for over a year now. (Over a year! Good god!) So, yeah, we have to live with the annoying, giant-headed, bilingual, monkey-loving beyotch.

However, I'm sort of loving Dora at this particular moment because I just realized my three-year-old can count to ten in Spanish--and really well, too. Like, if I plopped her down in Mexico, her counting would be understood by the locals.

This may not sound like a big deal, but my little girl was slow to talk--she was barely saying anything at two. So the fact that she knows her Spanish numbers (in addition to her English ones up to twenty) blows my mind.

The reason I was unaware of my daughter's proficiency en Espanol is because I NEVER sit and watch Dora with her. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to, but Dora is just too painful. So tonight, there we were on the train after enjoying dinner in the city, my daughter watching Dora on the iPad right next to me. I couldn't help but listen. Suddenly, I hear my baby counting, "Uno, dos, tres," etc.

Dora, I owe you a big apology--sorry for hating you. And thank you for teaching my baby some Spanish.

Awesome Song Lyrics: Pearl Jam Edition

Ever since I can remember, I've been a sucker for good song lyrics. When I saw Annie as a kid back in the 70's, "It's a Hard-Knock Life" became by favorite song--I liked it way more than the famous "Tomorrow," mainly because it's lyrics are so great ("Instead of treated, we get tricked. Instead of kisses, we get kicked"). The words horrified and enthralled me.

The first "grown-up" song lyrics I obsessed over were the ones to "Jessie's Girl" (Rick Springfield), which came out in 1981, when I was the impressionable age of 12. I remember actually having trouble understanding what was going on in this song. Jessie is a boy? Isn't that a girl's name? Rick Springfield and Jessie are friends but Rick loves Jessie's girlfriend? Is that even possible?

I learned a lot from "Jesse's Girl." It actually got me to look up the definition of "moot" in the dictionary. And people say rock 'n' roll rots your mind--ha!

Because song lyrics have affected me so deeply over the years, I've decided to occasionally post lyrics that I find particularly interesting, thought-provoking, meaningful, sad, or funny.

I'm starting with "Wishlist" by Pearl Jam because, 1.) I heard it on the radio yesterday and remembered how much I love it, 2.) Pearl Jam are awesome, and 3.) every time I hear it, I want to cry and laugh at the same time.

"WISHLIST"
I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off.
I wish I was a sacrifice but somehow still lived on.
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
The Christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top.
I wish I was the evidence, I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky.

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me.
I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me.
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good.
I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood.

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun.
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on.
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on.
I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down.

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up.
I wish, I wish, I wish, I wish,
I guess it never stops.


(Here is the video, for any of you who don't know the song.)

7th Annual Pleasantville Music Festival

Yesterday was the Pleasantville Music Festival, an event we've attended and enjoyed just about every summer since we've moved to Westchester. Last year's line-up was great--Rusted Root, The Bacon Brothers (as in Kevin Bacon), and Jakob Dylan--but this year the bands scheduled to perform were less impressive. Sure, the headliner, Marc Cohn, is a huge recording star, but he's just not my cup o' tea. And the other acts scheduled for earlier in the day were mostly no-names (except for Augustana, who I saw opening up for Stereophonics at Bowery Ballroom back in 2005), so I wasn't quite as psyched to go this year. But I'm always up for an outdoor music festival, no matter the lineup.

Nicole Atkins

Back in 2005, I thought Augustana were just okay, and yesterday's performance didn't change my mind. They were pretty good, but a bit twee for my taste. However, the big surprise of the day, for me, was how awesome Nicole Atkins & the Black Sea were. They totally rocked! Atkins has a powerful, smoky voice, and her guitarist is a woman, which is always cool to see. The two other members of the band--bassist and drummer--are hairy dudes with scruffy beards (of course they live in Brooklyn).

I enjoy getting as close to the stage as possible when I see live music, but since we had the kids along with us, we couldn't sit up front next to the blasting speakers. But when I saw that two of the four members of Nicole Atkins's band were female, I suggested to my 3-year-old daughter that we walk up closer to see them. I want her to learn that girls can rock out just as hard as the boys, and this was the perfect opportunity. I held her in my arms so she could see the musicians up on stage, and I pointed out the various instruments. She seemed to be enjoying herself, even though it was pretty darn loud.

We stayed for a song or two, then started making our way back to our spot on the grass (where my husband and son were watching from afar). Halfway there, my little one abruptly stopped walking and began to cry. When I asked her what was wrong, she wailed, "I want to see the lady sing more!" Yeah, that's my girl! So we went back and resumed our position in front of the stage.

I loved it. I mean, what's better than a mother & daughter enjoying some kick-ass chick rock 'n' roll on a sunny summer afternoon? As far as I'm concerned, that's pretty much as good as it gets.

Yeah, it was a great day.

(And go check out Nicole Atkins & the Black Sea--you won't regret it.)

The Sad Tale of Swing Boy

My husband and I took the kids to a nearby playground tonight. It's not the closest one, but I like going there for a number of reasons--one being the diversity of the kids who play there.

Our town is not diverse. In fact, it's my second least favorite thing about our Westchester hamlet (my #1 being that you can't walk anywhere good). I grew up in a very white town, and once I was old enough to realize it, it sort of bummed me out. I didn't have the chance to meet people from various backgrounds, and when I went off to college I was unprepared for the diversity I found there. I was naive.

Economically, the New England town I grew up in ranged from well-to-do electricians and contractors to ivy league professors and renowned neurosurgeons. Ethnic diversity meant Greeks and Armenians. A handful of Asians lived in town--mostly affiliated with Boston's many universities and hospitals--but basically no black or hispanic families. There were some black kids in the school system--bussed in through the much-maligned METCO (Metropolitan Council for Educational Opportunity) program--but they didn't live in town and tended to stick together.

I was hoping to raise my kids in a more diverse environment, but because our town isn't great in that regard, I have to leave town so my kids can learn that not everyone looks the same.

The playground was packed tonight. After pushing my daughter in one of the baby swings, my husband informed me there was a little boy, around three-years-old, in the other swing who seemed to be parent-less. He pushed the kid a few times because he felt sorry for the boy, who was just hanging there. He wasn't complaining, not crying, not acting out...just hanging, legs dangling.

My husband asked him if his parents were around. He pointed behind him, to a picnic table with three adults. Because the grown-ups at that table never even glanced over at the boy, my husband was not convinced they were actually the parents.

The boy was stuck in the swing for over an hour! He didn't look unhappy, but neither could he get out on his own. Whenever the other baby swing opened up, a new parent would put his or her kid in, start pushing, and then notice the sad little boy hanging adjacent. The other parent would awkwardly push both swings for a little while, glancing around for the boy's caretaker all the while. In between, the boy would just hang there.

What the heck was going on? Were his parents really not there? If they were, in fact, around, did they not care that dozens of random adults were pushing their kid on the swing? How lazy could they be? Apparently, this particular playground is diverse even in terms of parenting skills.

Finally my husband went over and asked the boy if he wanted to get out. He did, so my husband lifted him out. The boy ran off to the play structure. We still weren't sure his parents existed, but after a few minutes he ran over to the picnic table with the three adults sitting around it.

I couldn't believe it! For an hour, the boy's parents (or guardians, at least) completely ignored it while random other adults uncomfortably pushed their boy on the swing. I was looking around the whole time, and the adults at that table didn't look at Swing Boy even once. And they appeared normal enough. Sure, the dad/male had a tattoo sleeve on one arm but that's hardly unusual these days. The two women were...eh...texting on their phones most of the time. Not great, but they weren't strung-out junkies, either.

They didn't care that he was just hanging there! For an hour! While other adults pushed him! While my husband talked to him and helped him out of the swing!

What the hell? In this era of helicopter parenting, this kind of disregard is downright shocking.

My husband: "Well, he'll probably end up being really independent, at least."

Me: "Or a drug addict."

But isn't that the great parenting dilemma?

Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String

Wave by Suzy Lee

This children's picture book isn't new--it came out in 2008--but we just discovered it. Wave is without words, and the color palette is just black, white, and blue, but it tells a better story than 90% of the picture books out there. I came across the book at the library a couple of weeks ago. I checked it out because my kids were eagerly anticipating our upcoming beach vacation, and I thought they'd enjoy the pictures. I was surprised, however, by just how much they love it. The pages are deceptively simple--the artist Suzy Lee has transformed simple illustrations of a girl and the ocean into works of art. Her brush strokes perfectly capture the beauty and wildness of the ocean, as well as the emotions of a little girl who is, in turn, scared of the wave, enchanted by it, and then soaked from it.

Let England Shake by PJ Harvey

I've been a fan of PJ Harvey's going on 20 years. Her latest album, Let England Shake, is a homage to her country. England gets a bad rap as a dreary, uptight place, but it's actually a magical place full of breath-taking scenery, charming villages, and colorful folklore. There's plenty of ugliness, war, and death in its history, too, of course...PJ Harvey captures it all on her new album. The song "The Last Living Rose" is one of her loveliest and most haunting to date, with lyrics that truly paint a picture. The song, like the album, is raw, honest, and beautiful.
Goddam' Europeans!
Take me back to England
& the grey, damp filthiness of ages,
fog rolling down behind the mountains,
& on the graveyards, and dead sea-captains.
Let me watch night fall on the river,
the moon rise up and turn to silver,
the sky move,
the ocean shimmer,
the hedge shake,
the last living rose quiver. 

Berry Burst Ice Cream-Flavored Oreos

This is what happens when you bring your five-year-old to the grocery store--you come home with the most repulsive-looking cookies imaginable. But then, sometimes, what looks gross actually tastes sinfully delicious. That's what happened with these pink, berry-cream Oreos. I am usually a purist when it comes to the cookies I loved as a child--I'll try the newfangled flavors, but I won't like them! So I was truly surprised to try one of these berry-flavored Oreos and find it even better than the original. Oh, and they're double-stuff, too. Double-yum.

Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Fine

Ahhhh, the beach! There's nothing like it, of course. I can be in the foulest mood, but let me loose on a serene beach for an hour and it's guaranteed I'll return in much better form.

I've been coming to Cape Cod since I was a baby--my uncle bought a place in North Falmouth's Old Silver Beach in 1969, the year I was born. My family spent a week or two there every summer, and many of my fondest memories are from those visits.

I remember the drive down seeming interminable, even though it was only an hour-and-a-half (mere child's play to my kids, who are used to regular five-hour drives to see their grandparents.) "Are we there yet?" is such a cliche, but I distinctly recall driving my parents insane with that query the whole way. Or maybe the parental insanity was due to there being no car seats to prevent me and my brothers from pummeling each other the entire 75 miles, and no in-car DVD player to put a stop to the endless litany of complaints.

Three years ago, my parents bought a to-die-for Cape house, right across the street from the beach. So now it falls on me--the parent with New England roots--to instill in my kids a love of Cape Cod. Not that it's difficult--the Cape pretty much sells itself--but five-hour drives suck no matter how many snacks, DVDs, and Sesame Street CDs I pack. Seven-mile backups leading to the Bourne Bridge don't help, either.

But then we arrive...the cool sea breezes beckon, the warm sand slips between our toes, the waves gently lap at the shore, the sun turns the water into an ocean of glittering jewels...and the memory of the long drive, bridge traffic, moaning children, and crappy fast-food fades away.

Because now we are in Paradise. "Hello, Paradise, I've missed you."