Friday, May 31, 2013

Where In the World Is the Moo Cow?

Credit: samuiblue
I didn't post much here this week, but, believe me, the Moo Cow can't keep her trap (or laptop) shut. Here's where I've been this week:

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Fever

I've got a fever of 102. Which is why I'm up late at night writing (and completely ignoring my recently published advice about turning off the computer screen at night).

When I have a fever, the following comments do not help:

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Problem With Sleeping

Now that I'm "working," Fridays have returned to their earlier meaning: end of the week. Frankly, by Friday, I am ex-haus-ted and beyond grateful that Henry and I have nothing scheduled.

This past Friday I was particularly tired. Besides working, I'd also spent EIGHT-AND-A-HALF HOURS commuting. Last Tuesday was National Fender Bender Day. Did you know that? Neither did I, but everyone else seemed to have gotten the memo.

As Rayne was getting ready to leave for work, I put Henry in the Baby Fun Zone, site of March's Pooptastrophe. Although he clearly did not like the earlier rebranding exercise, these days if you distract him for a few minutes, he will happily play on his own for at least a half hour.

And then I went back to sleep. Mama needs her beauty rest, you feel me?

At one point I dreamed that Henry was right next to me babbling in my face. The next moment I woke to him slamming the bedroom door. My train of thought went approximately like this:

Monday, May 20, 2013

The Asshole Brigade, Coming Soon to a Neighborhood Near You

#1 Asshole
I've written a couple times about my gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood.

There is a lot about Brooklyn that differs from Manhattan. But there's one aspect of life that is the same the world over. No matter what neighborhood I'm in, I meet people on the street with my dog.

He's cute and clearly wants to be petted and played with by you (read: any sentient adult). People fall immediately, just as I once did, for his puppy eyes and nubby, quivering tail.

While my son is also adorable, no one, thankfully, asks to pet him. (The hordes have no qualms, however, about insisting I put a hat on my baby or keep his stroller uncovered lest he dehydrate.)

But Hudson makes friends; he always has.

The other day I was walking up my block when a woman on her stoop got an attack of the corgi-crazies. "Oh my god, a corgi! I love corgis! Love!!!"

Thursday, May 16, 2013

The 38-Year-Old Virgin

Well, hello there.
Photo credit: Maggie Smith
For the first four months of blogging, I didn't even know "blog hops" existed. I thought blogging was about writing. Silly Moo Cow.

Blogging is social. Problem is, I'm not. And as I've said before, I'm sort of a bad mom blogger -- I don't do crafts or sparkles, mainly because I don't want to hurt anyone's eyes with my catastrophes. (You're welcome. I'm anti-social, not sociopathic.)

Anyway, last fall I lost my blog hop virginity (in a three-way!) to Janene and Christine of More Than Mommies (MTM). At the MTM Mixer, I found some great bloggers whom I still follow today, including our co-hostess Meredith at The Mom of the Year.

I was excited. I'd hit pay dirt. I'd figured out The Blogging.

Monday, May 13, 2013

The Quarter Century French Braid

Sisterly love
"Aunt Deb?"

It was K, my niece, bright and intuitive beyond her four years. A big, big girl compared to my son and her little sister who were both toddling around eating dirt and pulling things out of each others' chubby hands at the family Mothers' Day barbecue.

"Yes, love?"

"My mom said you are really good at French braids. Will you do a French braid in my hair?"

So cute, right? Except I haven't done a French braid since my sister was little older than she.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Lean In: Why I Thought the Honest Toddler Was a Boy

I finally broke down and bought Lean In, the now infamous book by Sheryl Sandberg about women in the workplace. Truth be told, I was worried I would spend the entire book either a) crying with disgust for my bad choices or b) fuming at Ms. Sandberg's myopic view of the world.

Neither happened.

The book is great, actually, and I think some of the criticism has been misplaced. (I don't agree with everything she says; the chapter on Mentoring is particularly hard to swallow.) Her words and her experience, for the most part, resonated with me, and I encourage everyone to read it and form her own opinion.

One of the many stereotypes and gender inequities she addresses is the term "bossy." Have you ever referred to a man or a little boy as bossy? No. "Bossy" is a pejorative term for a little girl (or a grown woman, for that matter) who speaks her mind too frequently or with too much conviction. Ms. Sandberg writes:
When a girl tries to lead, she is often labeled bossy. Boys are seldom called bossy because a boy taking the role of a boss does not surprise or offend. As someone who was called this for much of my childhood, I know that it is not a compliment.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

First Spring Walk

This is the first spring he can take a walk. Just the beginning of a lifetime of spring walks, or so I hope. 

Everything is brand new. I wonder what he thinks of it all?

Pratt Campus, Brooklyn / May 3, 2013

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Guest Post: Okay, I'll Keep the Baby... For Now

This post will make a lot more sense if you read my letter to the Bloomberg Help Desk dated January 3, 2013. She published it on her weblog, which was embarrassing but now I'm sorta committed, you know?

Anyway, here is the follow-up letter I sent to the Bloomberg Help Desk this past Friday.


Dear Bloomberg Help Desk,

Help. Help.

Even though none of your suggestions for getting rid of a baby were help-ful, I'm writing to tell you I've changed my mind.

First, the little mailman* is learning to play fetch, slowly but surely. He only throws the ball about a foot, but I give him three or four chances before I give up and bring it to our mom. It's a little confusing, because sometimes he just waves the ball in front of my face and squeals, but eventually he lets go of it.



NB: I'm not allowed to rip the ball out of his hand or play tug of war. That is a definite no-no, Bloomberg Help Desk, or so I've learned. I'm a good boy and a good learner.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Little Man Love Drug

This morning was the first time I went to work while Rayne was away on business. Usually he walks Hudsy while I attend to Henry, but this morning I waited for my babysitter to arrive so I could take the dog out.

As soon as she walked in, Henry freaked out; he realized I was leaving. I could hear his screams all the way to the elevator as I left -- the first time -- with Hudson.

Upon my return, Henry was thrilled. But then I left a second time, for real.

The look of betrayal on his little face was almost more than I could bear. Even though I knew he would be fine in five minutes, I wanted to tear off my work clothing and cuddle him on the couch all morning.

An uncomfortable, itchy layer of mom-guilt slithered under my skin as I went down to the car.