Friendly.

I know what you’re thinking.

“Where are you, Actchy? Why aren’t you writing?”

Why, indeed?

I don’t know. It’s a little of this and a little of that.

I wonder if I should continue with this blog? I’m clearly not very consistent. And I have this idea knocking around in my head for a book, but I’m not sure what to do with it. Maybe I would like to focus on that for a bit, see if it leads me anywhere.

And yet.

Well, I like writing the blog.

I dunno.

Of course, there are other reasons I’m not writing, including the full-time rearing of Acey. And settling into the new neighborhood. And making new friends.

Making new friends?

Yes. Or, no.

You see, I have a lot of friends already. I really don’t want to make new friends.

But apparently, when you are a new mom, you need new friends.

Even if you already have a lot of friends.

Even if you have friends who have babies.

And even if you have friends who have babies who live in your city.

When you are a new mom, you need friends…who are also new moms…and who have a baby who is exactly the same age as your baby.

You do. Really. You do.

Your old friends will continue to be as important as they always were. They will be your lifeline to your former self. They will remind you of your non-mom persona and encourage you to keep that personality alive. And the ones with babies will also offer invaluable support and sympathy, if needed.

But unless they have a baby the exact same age as yours, your old friends won’t quite fill all of your friendship needs.

You see, if your baby is, e.g., 10 months old, you will have no recollection whatsoever as to his sleeping routine at 7 weeks. There is no room in your brain for yesterday’s sleeping news. All you can think about is this 10 month-old’s far-too-infrequent bowl movements.

Whereas to the parent of a 7 week old, sleep is the only thing in life worth discussing. And that parent needs to talk to somebody in the Same. Exact. Boat.

I’m guessing that this isn’t always the case. The 10 month-old and 7 week-old will eventually be 7 and 6 ½ , and I’m sure they’ll be dealing with basically the exact same things. But it’s just not that way when they’re babies.

Anyway. I learned this the easy way.

Through some amazing trick of fate, I met Obie’s mom. Acey was 7 weeks old.

Obie’s mom lived in our building!
Obie was born four days before Acey!
Obie’s mom was home with Obie!

What would I have done without Obie’s mom?

Nobody else was interested in a conversation that went something like this:

Actchy: So, Acey went down at 8:43 last night.
Obie’s mom: Oh my God. I would die. Why?
Actchy: Because he didn’t nurse until 7:05!
Obie’s mom: Wow. I can’t believe that.

Ugh. What a bad conversation. And yet Obie’s mom was down for it. Hell, she was living it. And so we lived it together.

And then I met Elle’s mom.

I picked up Elle’s mom at the pediatrician’s office. She was easy prey. It took me all of five minutes to get her digits.

She pulled up next to me with her stroller, and lifted out her daughter. Small talk established that Elle was a mere three days younger than Acey. Aaaand, Elle’s mom was a lawyer, comme moi.

I was all, “Would you be interested in getting together some time?”

Score.

Yes, it was a little forward on my part. But she seemed perfectly normal and capable of carrying on a good conversation. And that’s all I was really after.

And when I Googled her (yes, I Googled her), I discovered that she and I had gone to the same law school.

I knew she seemed like a good egg.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, Obie’s mom, Elle’s mom, and I had all fallen into a delightful trio of new-mommy-girlfriends. Granted, initially our friendship was based entirely on the fact that nobody was getting a good night’s sleep. But things changed, and the babies grew, and despite this, we remained friends.

Good friends.

Good new friends.

Right.

But then Acey and I moved. It was only 15 blocks south of the old place, but it was certainly different not living in the same building as Obie’s mom.

And then…Elle and her mom moved to Connecticut.

Connecticut? Yep. They bought a car and everything. Oooooof.

And now. Well, now Obie and his mom are moving way up to the Upper West Side.

It’s not Connecticut. But it’s practically upstate New York.

WTF, girls? We are supposed to be downtown people!

I must say that because these past nine months have brought us so close, I don’t actually fear that I will lose touch with Obie’s mom and Elle’s mom. I mean, this is the digital age. I’m on Facebook, for crying out loud. I can’t fall out of touch with anybody. Even people I want to lose touch with.

But the new distance does make it difficult to have play dates.

And so I need some new friends.

Friends with babies.

Friends with nearly-eleven-month-old babies, to be specific.

And once I find these friends…then…then I will write.

Right?

We’ll see. Bear with me.

Color me frustrated

Naturally, the GWW text stresses the importance of revision. While your writing may seem pretty good the first time through, it will be one hundred percent better after the fourth or fifth re-write.

Of course, the same thing goes for many things in life. We were very happy with our last apartment, including its décor. However, with respect to our new apartment, we needed to revise our approach to getting to that end product.

When we moved into our old place, we decided to paint. We knew we’d be there for a few years, and thought it was worth it to go through the rigmarole, though it was just a rental. And so we went to Home Depot and chose paint for the living room, bathroom, and kitchen.

It was the first time in our marriage that we had the opportunity to choose colors for our living space. Naturally, we agreed upon almost nothing. The husband wanted Tuscan yellow in the living room. I wanted brown. He wanted navy in the bathroom. I wanted anything other than navy. I wanted red in the kitchen. He wanted anything other than red.

But we compromised. The kitchen is my domain; I got to choose the color. That left my husband to choose the paint for the bathroom. We decided to sample both yellow and brown for the living room, and in the end, went with brown.

Right. Let’s paint.

But.

Um.

We weren’t unpacked. See, it is very difficult to unpack when your living space is small. There’s no place to spread out. You want to unload the box of large utensils but you have to put it to the side until you find the box with the container for large utensils. But there’s no space to put anything “to the side.”

In fact, our apartment looked like this:

We decided that if we were going to paint, we should probably just push everything to the center of the apartment and do it. If we waited until we were unpacked, it’d never get done.

But I was starting a new job. As was my husband. And we had moved to Manhattan, so we didn’t have a car. This made going to Home Depot and loading up on brushes and ladders and drop clothes challenging. To say nothing of the fact that there was no storage space for brushes and ladders and drop clothes when the painting was complete.

And that’s when we decided to bring in Willy.

Okay. So who is Willy? He is both a highly-skilled painter and a highly-functioning alcoholic. My father-in-law discovered him when he was preparing to sell his home. He politely describes Willy as “a character.”

Character. Vagrant. Same-same. To give you an idea, Willy doesn’t have a phone. In order to get in touch with him, it is necessary to call a saloon in Yonkers, NY. He gets his messages from the bartenders.

But he’s a good painter. And he doesn’t charge much.

And so it was that Willy arrived at our unpacked apartment at seven o’clock on the morning I was to begin my new job. I had just exited the shower and was in a bathrobe, so I quickly closed the door to the bedroom and dressed. My husband let him in and gave him instructions. He then left for the office. I emerged from my room to find Willy already at work, accompanied by the blaring AM radio.

Willy began assailing me with questions and stories. He had used the same brown on someone’s study up in Westchester. He missed seeing my father-in-law on a regular basis. He was almost done his novel and heard that I was good at proofreading.

You will recall that I was trying to get ready for my first day of a new job.

“Um, okay, Willy. You can send me your manuscript if you’d like.”
“Thanks, Actchy. It’s great to see you. You know, I was saying to your husband, it’s weird that I never have had the chance to meet your folks.”

Whaaaa? My parents? Um, yes. It is weird that I haven’t introduced my parents to my father-in-law’s painter.

On and on. Eventually, I was ready to go. I bade Willy farewell. But he stopped me.

“I think your husband forgot to leave me some money for lunch.”

Money for lunch? Does one give cash to one’s painter for his meals? Well, okay.
I looked in my wallet. I discovered $10.

“Willy, all I have is a ten. This should get you a sandwich at the bodega.”
“Perfect, Actchy. That’s all I need.”
“Okay. Well, there’s orange juice in the fridge if you’d like.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I had orange juice hours ago.”

Fast forward. Midway through the afternoon, my husband goes in to check on Willy, who was finished the living room and had begun the bathroom.

I receive a call from my sheepish husband.

“Well, the living room looks excellent. But the bathroom looks like the murder scene of one of the Blue Man Group. I’m not sure we can live with this sort of wild blue yonder.”

Wild blue yonder indeed. Hoo-boy: white tiles, and blue paint that was far darker than we ever dreamed.

I refrained from the “I told you so” dance. Sort of. And only because we determined we’d have the same problem with my red kitchen. So the kitchen stayed white.

We sent Willy out for a pastel blue that neither of us would’ve chosen but for the fact that we needed something fast, and hell, it matched a shower curtain that we already owned.

Problem corrected. No more Greek-flag-themed bathroom.

Finally I reached the end of the day. I was exhausted from meeting people and being on my best behavior and figuring out a new computer system. I got home to discover that Willy was done. In fact, he was paid and had left the premises by the time I got home.

And things looked…pretty damn good.

I went into my still-white kitchen.

Huh.

There were four empty 24 oz. cans of Bud Light next to my trash can.

Wow.

I did the math and realized that Willy had a liquid lunch with the sawbuck I gave him.

Well, okay. I mean, I knew he was a drinker. And the paint was no worse for his alcohol intake.

But then I looked in my fridge.

Missing were one half of a block of fancy imported Irish cheese and three of a five-pack of Italian sausages.

We had just moved in; we had almost no groceries. I had picked up the sausages and cheese so that we’d have something at home for dinner my first night of work. I was sort of in a quandary. I saw no evidence of cooking: no pots – dirty or clean. No plates. Had he eaten the sausages raw? Had he cooked them with no container in the microwave? Shudder.

And I then I saw my bottle of Chardonnay.

The bottle of Chardonnay was the last remaining bottle of a wedding gift from my best friend. She had sent us two great bottles of wine each month for six months. I had saved this one, and went through the effort of packing it with my overnight bag for safe transport in my car when we drove from Chicago to New York. It was a celebration bottle. We were going to open it on our first wedding anniversary, which was fast-approaching.

Now it was 50% empty.

And now I was angry.

I called my husband in a rage.

He talked me down. There was nothing we could do at that point, save to contact the pub in Yonkers and ask the bartenders to tell Willy to call me so that I could chew him out.

“For what it’s worth, I did tell Willy to help himself to whatever we had in the fridge.”

Okay. Fair enough. I mean, I had offered him orange juice, too. We didn’t have all that much in the fridge. Regardless, I wouldn’t think that an invitation like that would lead him to open the wine. He was the painter, not a freaking house guest. And really, what house guest opens a bottle of wine without asking?

And for that matter, how did he open the wine? I had absolutely no idea where our corkscrew was.

Amazing. Okay. Let it go.

I checked the freezer. It was with relief that I noted Willy had not defrosted the top tier of our wedding cake, which we had also saved for our first anniversary.

Revision: prior to our move to TriBeCa, I contacted a painter. I gave him the code for a paint color. I mailed him a check.

On moving day, Acey’s nursery was a soft, gentle green.

And our wine reserves were intact.

Moved.

“It’s time.”

He was right. In so many ways.

The movers were done; it was about to rain. My son’s crib needed to be moved into his new room and put together ASAP. It was time to go.

“I just…” my voice trailed off. I looked around, helplessly.

We didn’t own it. But it was ours.

“Remember how relieved you were when you first saw this place?” he asked me.

I did. I just couldn’t get away from work in Chicago when we had to find an apartment in New York, so my husband came out and pounded the pavement. The agent took him all over downtown. When they finally walked into our place, my husband stepped in, looked around, and asked for a lease. I had left it in his hands and he had done me right.

The first time I saw it was the day we moved in. And sure, moving in had been ridiculous. God knows unpacking a Chicago 2BR’s worth of stuff into an NYC 1BR took forever.

But man: this awesome set of windows on the greatest neighborhood in Manhattan. And on Sundays, the soft sounds of the mariachi band that played outside of Los Dados, there on the corner.

The building had a breathtaking roof deck that was home to several of our infamous cocktail parties. We watched fireworks up there, and the aftermath of Captain Sully’s handiwork on the Hudson.

Yeah, the building was replete with characters, but I loved them all.

“It doesn’t feel right empty,” I said.

Probably because it wasn’t empty. I could see the faded areas on the paint where our furniture and pictures had been. I noted the vacant cabinets of the smallest kitchen ever to allow me to work my culinary madness. I traced my finger against the door molding. No, it wasn’t empty. It was so full of memories.

“Well. I won’t miss our neighbors,” he said.

“Good God. Neither will I,” I agreed. “And neither will Acey.”

Acey. I worked through hard labor with him right here on our couch before we left for the hospital. This was his first home. Our doorman met him before much of our family did. I paced up and down this one stretch of floorboards for hours trying to get him to sleep in the wee hours of the morning when he was brand new. He rolled over for the first time right there; that’s where he sat in his bouncy seat when he said “Da Da” for the first time.

When we discovered we were expecting, all of our New York friends would look at our apartment and say, “This place is huge! It’s plenty big enough for a baby!”

Those who lived outside of the City would gasp in horror: “You’re going to stay here when the baby comes?!”

But stay we did. We shifted our living room over, and created a Baby Den. Acey learned to sleep with the noise of the construction right outside his window.

“At least we got to be here for the High Line opening.”

We had a direct view of the hottest new park on the East Coast. Our windows faced its entrance. We watched the creation of the park, the construction of the new hotel that straddles it, the demolition of the old industrial meatpacking building that was adjacent to it. Now that all was said and done, we could see trees and flowers at eye level, twinkling at night with evening lights, on the elevated park. With the old building gone, we had river views. Hell, I even got to see people do unspeakable things in their hotel rooms when I was up doing 4am feedings for all those months.

“I will miss this. My heart hurts.”

“Our new place is awesome. It will be just as special. And it won't have mice.”

“I know. But…”

But…

I pushed Acey’s stroller as we left the apartment for the last time. I wasn’t just teary-eyed. I was crying. My face screwed up and my mouth turned down as the tears started to fall.

Acey had never seen me make such a face.

He laughed at me.

It made me smile.

“Yeah. It’s time to go.”

Dairy Era

My family calls me the Milk Nazi.

It’s a well-deserved nickname, and stems from the fact that I can detect even the slightest upward change in milk temperature. I’m not one for tantrums, but am not above throwing one if I go to make myself a bowl of cereal, only to discover that the milk was left on the counter for upwards of five minutes.

Warm milk: yuck. In fact, I’m even squeamish about a little bit of spilled milk, because it’s only a matter of time before those drops on the counter become warm milk…and then become rancid milk.

Milk should be cold, contained, and sterile.

These days I think a lot about milk, because I am still nursing my son, Acey. I love breastfeeding. I never could’ve anticipated the bond I feel when I nurse him. I am so glad I decided to stick with it past the initial three months, for that is when it became the most rewarding: Acey popping off and gazing up at me at 4 months old, looking surprised and delighted to find that I was there. Acey at five months, when his preferred nursing position was to hold onto my nose as though it were a handle. Acey at six months, babbling and humming while he nurses. Acey now, at seven months, in a post-nursing euphoric state, grabbing my ears and snuggling into my neck as though to say thank-you for his dinner. So, so sweet.

I’ve had a few hiccups along the way. I am prone to duct blockages, which result in what I like to call “cookie boob.” Cookie boob is so-named because when the ducts along one hemisphere become blocked, the breast starts to look and feel like someone slid a chocolate chip cookie right beneath the surface. I have learned how to clear these blockages, though, and have only had to cope with two actual infections.*

Regardless, the downsides of nursing certainly pale in comparison to the benefits for me. Hence, when it came time for my husband and me to take our first weekend trip away from Acey, my primary concern was that after a full weekend of bottles, he might be reluctant or unwilling to nurse. I eventually had to chalk it up to “out of my control” and hope for the best. However, I did plan to pump the entire weekend, four times a day as per Acey’s feeding schedule, to keep my milk supply up. Also, in preparation for the trip, I had stocked my freezer with 100+ ounces of expressed breast milk. This was enough milk to keep Acey full for not only the whole weekend, but also for the time it might take in the event that his father and I became stranded in Chicago and had to, say, walk home to New York.

Yes. I realize that the preparation was a little crazy. My Fancy French NYC Disco Pediatrician raised his brow a full 6 inches above his Versace eyeglasses when I told him about my banked frozen milk and said, “Ehhhh, you realize it will not kill your child to have a bottle of formula?”

Whatever. I am the Milk Nazi. I will express and keep cold, contained, sterile milk-cicles for my baby boy if I so choose.

Okay. So, my parents arrived to care for Acey for the weekend, and I left them with, um, five (typed, single-spaced) pages of instructions, and a freezer full of milk. My departure was a whirlwind of tears (mine) and promises to pump faithfully, a fact that Acey seemed to appreciate. Or something.

Naturally, our flight to Chicago was delayed by a full hour. I had already failed to take into account the fact that there is an hour’s time difference between New York and Chicago, so by the time we landed, I was ready to burst. I made a bee-line for the women’s rest rooms in O’Hare with my trusty breast-pump.

I entered a handicap stall, and set up shop. I carefully tucked my purse into the protective anti-theft sleeve, and hung the pump off of the hook on the door. While meticulously trying to avoid touching anything in the stall that might be filthy (read: everything around me), I attached the battery pack, which I had never previously used, and hooked up the various jumper cables, horns, and pull-tabs that make up the pump. It’s a “convenient” two-side-at-once appliance, which is great because pumping takes less time. That being said, it’s somewhat of a feat to turn on the machine and hold both milk-catching vessels. But whatever. I undid my nursing bra and bit the edge of my shirt to hold it above all the components. I turned the pump on and positioned the horns and cables and bottles what-not appropriately, and waited for the familiar “whack-a-doo” noise that signals all systems are “go.”

Nothing.

Um.

I tucked one set of cones and tubing beneath an armpit (because that’s a sanitary place) and I grabbed the battery pack.

Tap-tap-tap. Surely if I knocked on it, it would start working.

Nothing.

I took a closer look at the pack only to discover that it requires four AA batteries on each side of the pack. Riiiight. The fact that I had put four new batteries on just one side was not really all that helpful.

Okay. Plan B. I had a two-hour drive from the airport ahead of me, and thus if I wanted to express the milk from my now-quite-full breasts, I had to do it right then. I was supposed to be on a schedule! If I waited two more hours, I would have effectively already skipped one of Acey’s feeding times. And the weekend had just started! Bad mommy. No excuses. Get this done.

I swallowed my pride and exited the stall with the pump slung over one shoulder, components still attached.** I had dropped my shirt’s edge from my teeth but continued to hold the horns and bottles beneath it, as though I were hiding a bomb, which is a good look for an airport.

The women’s bathroom in O’Hare was set up with stalls on either side of the room, and a huge island of sinks in the middle. There was a semi-private baby-changing station at one end, near the opaque windows. It had no outlet.

The only outlet was, of course, right above the gaping hole in the counter, into which women throw wet paper towels, coffee cups, dirty tissues, etc. Oh God.

I laid about 67 paper towels on the slick surface of the countertop. I rested the pump on top of them, single-handedly plugged in the pump, stretching the cord across the vast trash abyss, and removed the components of the pump from my armpit, where I had been holding them. I sighed, lifted my shirt, and turned on the machine.

Whack-a-doo, whack-a-doo, whack-a-doo…

During the following 10 minutes, I was very grateful for my enormous head of hair. I sought its shelter, letting it hang over my face as I bowed my head. It was a minor miracle that I did not run into anybody I knew in that bathroom, given that 75% of my college class lives in Chicago, and I myself had lived and worked downtown for two years.

I wished I had a sign that read “My battery pack is dead!” As I rinsed milky components in the sink and tucked eight ounces into my small cooler, I reconciled with the fact that I was just doing the best that I could.

No, actually I didn’t dump that milk over fear of contamination. It was the hardest-earned milk I had ever expressed, and goddamnit, my son was going to get it and delight in its healthful qualities.

Needless to say, as soon as we arrived at our destination, my husband went out to get me four AA batteries.

And of course, upon our triumphant return, Acey snuggled right in and was happy to nurse again. And his whack-a-doo Milk Nazi mom wept profusely with relief.




*The second of these infections conveniently occurred the morning after we moved homes. It was really a treat to wake up in a box-filled apartment with a giant cookie boob, a raging fever, and the shakes.

**I left my purse in the protective anti-theft sleeve in the stall. I realized this after the entire episode was over, and I had finally made my way out of the bathroom. I had to charge back in at a gallop, shoving my way through a crowd of teenagers wearing matching yellow t-shirts, only to discover it gone. Thankfully, the eastern European janitor saw my torment and led me to a back closet where my good bag hung next to the nearly-full bucket of ammonia on her cart.

Overheard.

“Actchy, stop break-dancing!”

My parents entertain frequently. When we were growing up, my brother liked nothing more than to stand at the top of the stairs during a party and bellow this line so that the adult guests would overhear.

Mortifying.

Also, totally false. If anyone was attempting to break-dance in those days, it was my brother, not me.

But I think that’s what started my interest in overheard dialogue. It really can be so much funnier to overhear something silly than it is to say it directly to someone. And, you know. So much more embarrassing.

I think I was about twelve or thirteen when my college-bound brother and his friends surprised me with a round of applause. I had been home alone, standing in the center of my parent’s bedroom. It had the best acoustics in the house.

I was singing the national anthem at the top of my lungs.

They overheard me as they walked up the driveway.

What’s funnier than overheard dialogue? Overheard singing. I should know.

The first time I got a headset for my cell phone, I was entirely unaware that it was set so that it would automatically answer an incoming call if I had the headset engaged. Accordingly, I was more than a little surprised when I was interrupted by the voice of my best friend as I bellowed out the long note during “Fool in the Rain” by Led Zeppelin.

I was in my car. Is nothing private anymore?

No, nothing is. Last week, I sent a text message to one of my dearest friends, with whom I hadn’t spoken in a while. I was nursing Acey at the time. A few minutes later, she called me. I was delighted. I picked up her call.

“Hello?”
“…And when someone needs a makeover,
I simply have to take over.
I know… I know… exactly what they need!”
“Um. HELLO?”
“Popular! You’re gonna be pop-u-lar!
I’ll teach you the proper poise when you talk to boys…”

Frankly, at first I thought she was kidding. So I let her finish the verse. But she kept going. I couldn’t shout to get her attention; it would’ve startled my nursing baby. But then again, I didn’t actually want to interrupt her. She has a spectacular voice, and indeed, I thought I was listening to the Wicked soundtrack for a few moments.

I actually had to hang up and send her a text message to get her attention.

But not all overheard dialogue is amusing. When we first moved into our apartment, we noticed that (a) we could, from time to time, hear our neighbors through the vent in our kitchen and that (b) our neighbors hated each other. They had arguments – nay, full-on fights – the likes of which I have never had with anyone.

One night, the hollering got so loud that we hovered over the telephone, debating whether to call 911. But then we were able to make out the following:

“I just CAN’T believe you! It’s GORGEOUS!”

He had proposed.

Great idea, kids. Yes, marry! Spend the rest of your lives throwing the f-bomb to each other.

The only upside of having neighbors like them was that in comparison, our marriage seemed absolutely perfect. Hell, we may bicker from time to time over who did or did not clean out the kitchen sink drain catch, but at least we aren’t them!

Well, those neighbors moved out last month. We had purposely avoided ever getting to know them, because really, it was embarrassing to have the mutual knowledge that they scream at each other all of the time. But I did run into the wife right before they moved. She had yet to see Acey, and offered her congratulations.

“Wow! He’s so adorable!” she said.
“Thanks! I hope his crying doesn’t bother you guys,” I replied, insincerely. (Please. Acey actually very rarely cries for longer than five seconds.)
“Oh, no! We never hear him! In fact, I always feel bad when my husband turns up the TV. I keep telling him to keep it down, that he’ll bother the baby next door!”
“Yeah, we never hear…your TV.”

And now they’re gone. I am a little nervous over who will show up next. I tell my husband that the known evil is better than the unknown. He totally disagrees. Nothing could be worse than sharing a vent with a feuding, expletive-happy couple when you are raising a child who is trying to learn how to talk.

Perhaps. We’ll see. Or maybe…we’ll overhear?

Not exactly lullabies.

Dialogue. Per Chapter 6 of the GWW text, dialogue is critical to a story. But I guess dialogue is critical generally. I’ve been reading up on child development; it’s essential, even for a baby, to engage in regular dialogue.

For about a month, Acey has been “talking” with us. It’s adorable: a fantastic alternative to his initial sole means of communication, i.e., crying. He’ll concentrate on our faces, screw up his little mouth, jut out his lower lip, murmur “Ooooooo”, and await our reply.* Other times, he seems to tell a tale, gurgling out assorted sounds of varying volume, finishing with a juicy raspberry.

He’s so smart.

I never really thought about how people learn the art of conversation. Surely I never knew it happened so early in life. But it makes sense. Accordingly, I talk to Acey all day long about all sorts of things. ** He loves the chatter, and is answering us more and more.

So, I suppose there are many activities that benefit children long before I would’ve guessed.

Because we live in Manhattan, there is no lack of services and opportunities for babies, many of which still seem like they might be…unnecessary. Infant massage. Newborn “Movement” classes. Baby Mandarin lessons.

Yeah. It’s a little obscene. With this range of alternatives before us, no wonder parents start flipping out about preschool a few months after childbirth.***

I remember when I was looking for job here in the New York area. I had flown in from Chicago for an interview, and I decided to swing by and see my niece. I hadn’t seen her in several months. I was told by my sister-in-law that because of the time I’d be available to stop by, I should try to meet her and her nanny at Music Class.

Um. Excuse me? Music Class? The child was six months old! What on earth was she learning at music class?

Fast forward. I have a baby. After all is said and done, I decide to stay home with him for a while, for I am thrilled with being his daytime caregiver. This decision feels right to me.

But. At the end of each afternoon, just when I’m starting to wilt a little, I note that Acey needs a bit more attention than usual. He gets antsy and, during these later hours before his final meal, he prefers to be held, bounced, walked around the apartment, etc. He has no patience for the bouncy seat or his gym mat.

Naturally, this is also the time of day during which he is awake for the longest stretch of time.

And my biceps are getting a little tired.

So, um. Yeah. I sign us up for a weekly music class. The child is four months old.

Our first class was yesterday. We arrived at the “school” (read: Disney World-like storefront replete with fancy organic toys and teaming with moms and nannies pushing $700 strollers) a half hour early, so that I could nurse Acey right before class. Checking in was much like doing so at the airport: ID, please; here’s your badge; please give me your son’s pediatrician’s number and the name of his alternative caretakers and any known allergies and here, leave a blood sample and please list your previous four addresses and your mother’s maiden name and the age you were when you first rode a bike and…

I exaggerate. But only a little.

Acey and I retired to the “nursing room.” This was actually a closet with a plush chair. No complaints here: I’ve nursed in much more uncomfortable places. **** However, I panicked, slightly, because there was no clock in the nursing room, and thus I had no way to gauge how long Acey had been eating, or when the class began. ***** We paid an embarrassing fee for this class, and I was loathe to miss even a minute of it.

Luckily for us, Acey and I had not enrolled in the class alone. We were joined by his buddy, who was born a few days before he, and his buddy’s mom, who is a friend of mine. They knew of our plans to nurse prior to the class, and rescued us when they arrived.

My friend was nonplussed by the nursing room.

“Really? I thought it was going to be a spacious lounge. I guess I should’ve knocked?”

Nah. I’m not shy, and was relieved someone could now tell me what time it was. And I was sure that 18 year boy old who worked at the facility was used to bare breasts?

Apparently, my friend had already reported to the classroom, where she was immediately admonished for wearing shoes. She had also met the only other baby there at the time, whose name was the same as her son’s. Perfect. Not confusing at all.

Whatever. We ventured to the classroom, removed our shoes, and stepped in.

Initially, the “teacher” was speaking like a regular human being. She introduced herself, in a normal speaking voice. She asked if we minded waiting for stragglers, explained our best tact for the class, etc.

But something happened once she decided to start the class.

She blew a pitch pipe and started singing.

“Of course she started singing,” you might say. “It was a music class.”

Yeah, but she started singing and didn’t stop for forty-five minutes. She sang not only songs, but instructions and general comments. It reminded me of the way in which priests chant “The Lord’s Prayer.” I felt like I should be responding to her with “Amen” when she sang out “Do yooooou think it’s too warm in heeeeere? I believe I’ll gooooo adjust the thermostaaaaaat.”

There was also the fact that she was…screaming. I mean, she was on pitch, but she was still screaming. My friend went so far as to inquire whether the class was a touch too noisy for the little ones’ ears. The teacher responded, in song (obviously), that the sound of the maracas (which had been passed out during the percussion portion of the program, and which Acey promptly sucked on – very hygienic) was generally fine for the babies.

Um, yeah. Not the maracas that were really the problem.

Query whether it was helpful to Acey’s musical development to have his mom alternatively skipping, jumping, and running in a circle during the class.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, really. I had sort of envisioned all of the moms sitting in a circle, singing soft songs and maybe tapping out rhythm. I thought my friend and I might meet and befriend other new moms.

While we did sit in a circle for a short portion of the program, there was far more activity than I would’ve guessed, owing in no small part to the fact that there were older kids in the class, kids who needed to run, tumble, etc. And making friends seemed out of the question, given that it was far too loud to hear myself think, let alone make small talk with, say, Jason’s mommy.

All this being said, I have to admit something. Acey loved Music Class. He was enraptured with the constantly-singing teacher, and he squealed with glee when she barked like a dog (which she did more than once.)

Also, he was totally tuckered out by the experience, and required no excessive entertainment when we got home. Indeed, he was happy to lay on his back and converse in a quiet, inside voice for a full 40 minutes when we got in. I think he was trying to decompress.

Do I think this class will make for Acey’s certain future as a Julliard prodigy? No. In fact, do I think I could’ve achieved the same amount of delight in the boy by singing really, really loudly at him in the comforts of his own home? Probably.

But an outing is an outing. If dialogue is good for him, musical dialogue is arguably better.

So we’ll continue to attend. We will not be drop-outs.

But I may shop for earplugs. For both of us.


*When he first began the back-and-forth, I reported his milestone to my best friend. She noted that “her cat did the same thing.”

** “That was an impressive poopy, Acey! I can’t believe you were able to shoot straight down your leg into the footy of your pajamas like that.”
“Are you tired of this nursing top, Love? Does Mommy wear the same thing every day?”
“Can you tell if this is a milk stain or a spit-up stain, Little Man?”
“I would love to know from whom you have inherited your chipper morning disposition; are you sure you want to giggle and play right now? Can you wait until at least 6:30?”

***One of my girlfriends was chastised by a fellow mom for failing to begin researching kindergarten for her son. Her son is 19 months old. Seriously? Gross.

****A church pew.

*****Look at my watch? I forgot to wear it. Use my cell phone’s clock? I dropped it into an auto-flushing toilet two days earlier.

Speaking of speaking.

“That’s a nice bike. What is it, an Orbea Volata?”

The man speaking had a Brian Dennehy look about him: barrel-chested and grey-haired. He was smiling broadly at the woman folding her laundry next to me. She was roughly his age, and silvery blond.

My eyebrows lifted. I wondered if he was hitting on her. This would be fun.

“Yes. Yes, thank you.” She spoke efficiently; clearly she would rather not continue the conversation. She flicks her towels a little more crisply than she had been, and focuses on her pillow cases.

The Brian Dennehy guy did not notice her body language. He continued to talk about her bike, and had shifted his stance to better appreciate it. He continued enthusiastically.

It occurred to me that he wasn’t exactly talking to her anymore. Rather, the bike seemed his conversational companion. He nodded at it, tilted his head. He’d been going on for a full two minutes with basically no encouragement. From anybody.

“….Yeah, I used to have a few bikes, as a matter of fact. Used to bike to work….”

I noticed for the first time that this guy was wearing spandex pants. For some reason, they weren’t as horrifying as most. Possibly because his torso was so massive and his legs so chicken-like: his t-shirt hung long, covering any potential horribleness.

“Man, those were the days! Of course, back then, I looked more like…”

He looked away from the bike. He noticed me.

“Her.”

I blush appropriately. “Yes, I’m a real princess.”

I hadn’t had a full night sleep in over two months at the time. I was wearing an old sweatshirt of my husband’s and a pair of gym shorts with my law school’s name partially worn off of them. My hair looked like a lion’s mane and I hadn’t brushed my teeth since Wednesday evening. It was Friday morning.

Brian Dennehy’s doppelganger gestured at the array of baby clothes spread before me. “My guess is that your son thinks you’re a princess. In fact, he probably thinks there are two different kind of people: you, and everybody who’s not you. Does he call your husband ‘Not the Mama’?”

“My son can’t talk. He’s nine weeks old,” I tell him.

He nods, unhearing. “I’ll bet. Remember that show? Really good show. What was it called? They cancelled it too quickly. There were some dinosaurs. And the baby dinosaur called the father ‘Not the Mama.’ The dad was funny; sort of a Ralph Kramden guy. But, you know, a dinosaur. Yeah. Kramden. You’re too young to remember ‘The Honeymooners.’”

I agreed. Yet I wasn’t getting any younger listening to this diatribe. I decided to quicken my pace with the folding of the clothes.

A weeks later my husband went out to get some take-out for dinner. He was gone forever; I wondered whether he had been hit by a taxi.

“What the hell took you so long?”
“Don’t ask. I got cornered by some guy in the lobby. I don’t even know how it happened.”
“Was it Avery?”*
“No, I’ve never seen this guy before. Older dude. He was wearing spandex pants.”

It was Bob. Bob was able to engage my husband for a while by pontificating on his theory for saving the economy. My husband was too polite to extricate himself.

His willingness to be Bob’s sounding board that one time has trapped him in a terrible new role: Bob’s buddy. Bob has taken to following him down the hall and into the elevator these days. My husband, in turn, has taken to fake cell phone calls to avoid him.

Last week, Bob materialized outside of the building entrance. A friend and I were on our way out with our babies, and Bob held the door for us and our strollers.

“Look at ‘em. Yep. Big guys!”

We have identically-aged boys. They are not big.

“Yeah, my daughters were big babies. Not my son, though. He was so pretty when he was born that I was nervous.”

I tried not to let his comment get too far under my skin. Bob turned to consider the babies again.

“You should know my brother’s boys. They were on a camping trip once and…”
“WE HAVE TO GO.”
“…once they got to the camping grounds upstate…”
“WE’RE REALLY LATE,” my friend bellows. She plows forward, leaving Bob to address the sidewalk.

I’m startled.

So is Bob. He blinks rapidly and turns his head toward the next person headed to the building.

It’s my out. I take off after my friend.

Chapter Six of the GWW text is called “Dialogue: Talking it up.”

Frankly, sometimes I think that “talking it up” isn’t dialogue at all. It’s monologue. And the best way to deal is to just plow forward.


*Avery is another building goofball. He has no apparent line of work and seems to spend all day, every day walking his noble, sad-eyed hound dog. He often stops us in order to admire Acey, but begins each conversation with “How old?” We find this irritating, as it suggests that while he is desperate to talk with us, and has no problem eating away precious moments of Acey’s nap time, he can’t be bothered to remember us.