Things I Don't Want You to Know But My Toddler Will Tell You Anyway

We are crowded into the examination room- Minnow, Peanut, Peanut's stroller, the nurse, and I- for Peanut's one-month well-baby visit.  I am holding Peanut as the nurse wraps a tape measure around her head.  Minnow is humming the "Sofia the First" theme to herself.

"What's new with you, Minnow?" the nurse asks cheerfully.

"Peanut pooped in her car seat yesterday and Mommy still hasn't cleaned it up," Minnow replies.

The nurse's eyes dart to the car seat attached to the stroller and- sure enough- a dried stain the size of a silver dollar, which until then could have passed as mustard, boldly beams up at her.

"That must have just happened," I lie.  Inside I am dying.  Did my toddler really just rat me out?

"Here," the nurse says, holding out a pair of latex gloves and a sanitary wipe. "Do you want to clean it up now?"

Well, of course I do!  I rub at the stain with the wipe while Minnow, with arms crossed, oversees.  Do I detect disdain in her blueberry-blue eyes?

Later that day when my husband comes home from work he comments on how nice the house looks.

"Thanks," I say proudly.  "I swept and vacuumed all the floors today."

Minnow, standing nearby in a tiara and pink plastic shoes, corrects me.

"But you forgot to do the stairs and the hallway, Mommy."

No, you little twerp.  I didn't "forget" to do anything.  It's just that Mommy isn't a work horse and between feeding you, nursing your sister, going to the doctor's office, swim class and the post office, doing two loads of laundry, and playing 'princess tea party' for the billionth time this week, there was no time to vacuum the stairs and the hallway.  Jeez!

"Haha, Minnow," I say.  "You sure are observant!"

The next day after we get to Minnow's soccer clinic I realize that I've left Minnow's Minnie Mouse thermos on the table in the foyer at home.  I am hoping we can go an hour without hydration, but 15 minutes into practice the coach yells out "water break!" and all the kids run off the field and toward their mommies.  Minnow reaches into the pocket of the diaper bag where Minnie Mouse usually resides and comes up empty.

"Mommy, can me have my Minnie Mouse cup?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, sweetheart.  Mommy forgot Minnie Mouse at home.  But you can have a big hug instead!"

Minnow glares at me, then saunters back onto the field and approaches her coach.

"I didn't have any water because Mommy left my Minnie Mouse cup at home."

"Haha... tattler!" I laugh, although I'm starting to see that in Minnow's eyes I am failing miserably at this mother-of-two gig.

The coach laughs, too, and says to me, "That's nothing.  You should hear what the older ones tell us."

And that's when I realize that motherhood is one big Orwellian trial that we are all evidently losing.  Our children are meticulously monitoring and logging our every step- and misstep- so that they can testify against us at their whim.  I used to congratulate myself for being a stellar parent in public, and when I slipped up in private I'd think, "It's okay.  Nobody saw that."  Wrong!  My toddler saw it and stored it in her airtight memory, probably forever.

If you're curious about how you're doing as a parent, pay attention to how your toddler treats her toys.  One afternoon while washing dishes in the kitchen I heard Minnow give all her blocks a timeout.  "That's it!" she yelled.  "Five minute timeout for not listening!  I'm tired of it!"  Then she stomped out of her playroom angrily while I looked on in alarm.

Be mindful: Big Brother is watching.  And imitating.

I may have been embarrassed that Minnow told the nurse about the old poop or her coach about the forgotten water bottle, but how much more embarrassed would I have been if, instead, Minnow shared that on the way to soccer practice, Mommy called the driver in front of her a "jerk-face" for cutting her off.

"Mommy, I need you to stop yelling," Minnow had said.

"Yeah?  Well I need this guy to stop being a jerk-face!" I replied.

I am certain that I am destined for "unpersonhood"- or at least "unmommyhood"- in Minnow's world when we meet up with her former babysitter for brunch in Bronxville last Saturday.  Somehow we get on the topic of ice cream and Minnow's babysitter asks her, "Does your mommy let you eat ice cream?"

"Not really," I say.  "I'm a mean mommy."

"You're not a mean mommy!" Minnow retorts.  "You're the best mommy."

I am astonished, mainly because her words are so... unrehearsed!  I feel redeemed.  It is clear that Minnow is aware that I am flawed, but at only two years and nine months old, she seems to understand that I am doing my best to be a good mommy to both her and Peanut, every day.

And that is the truth.

The Nicest Neighbors on the Block

The day after we close, we go to the house early in the morning to meet with our prospective contractors.  The doorbell rings and I think it’s one of the painters we are considering hiring, but when I open the door, a lanky man wearing thick canvas gloves and a wide smile is standing on the stoop. 

“Hi!  I’m Jim, the garbage man.”  Jim thumbs toward the green refuse truck on the street.  “I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got my work gloves on.  Anyway, I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and let you know that your trash days are Tuesdays and Fridays.  Recycling on Thursdays.”

I am speechless.  In the roughly thirty years I’ve been alive, I don’t think I’ve ever had a garbage man come to my door and introduce himself to me.   In the weeks that follow, our mail carrier and our UPS man will also introduce themselves, and compliment us on the work we are doing to the house.

A few days after we meet Jim, we are pulling into our driveway when we notice that the family next door- a mom, a dad, and three children- are playing together in the front yard.  When they see our car, they wave vigorously, as if they have been awaiting our arrival all day.  The kids run over to the Jeep and clamor over one another to introduce themselves.  There is an eight-year-old girl, a six-year-old boy, and another boy who is just about the same age as Minnow. 

“Do you have any kids?” the six-year old boy asks eagerly.  After living next to an elderly couple all his life, it is evident that he is hopeful for some new playmates. 

“Yes,” I say.  “We have a two-and-a-half-year-old daughter and,” I point to my belly, “another girl on the way.”

The kids are overwhelmed by this news.  The eight-year-old girl volunteers to babysit for me when she gets a little older and her mom lets her.  The six-year-old boy vows to let our girls come into his yard and play in his playhouse whenever they want.  The three-year-old boy smiles shyly and digs a toe into the grass.  Then the three of them run into their house.

The parents come over to say hello and we can tell right away that these are the type of people others dream of having next door.  The husband gives us their home phone number and insists we call them whenever we need a hand.  The wife rattles off the names of the best pediatricians, grocery stores, and soccer programs in the village. 

The kids bound out the front door carrying a stack of children’s books, including Pinkalicious and Fancy Nancy.  On top of the stack is a handmade card.  The six-year-old boy hands the books and card to me.    

“These are for Minnow,” he explains. 

“We know it’s expensive to buy a house,” the eight-year-old girl adds, “so we don’t want you to have to buy books, too.”

I am blown away by these young children’s thoughtfulness and generosity, let alone their mature-beyond-years sympathy.  They haven’t even met our daughter and already they are willing to share with her.

Not to be outdone, when our neighbors across the street hear that we have a toddler girl, they leave a mint-condition toddler-sized scooter on our stoop with a note that reads, “Welcome to the neighborhood!  Our girls have outgrown this and we thought you could use it.”

“What is going on around here?” I ask my husband.  I don’t mean to be skeptical, but, generally, I haven’t had many positive experiences with neighbors.  My parents’ next-door-neighbors in Northeast Philadelphia literally throw dog shit in my parents’ swimming pool for sport.  In Manhattan, our neighbors didn’t take much interest in us, and we didn’t take much interest in them, because Manhattanites are, as a rule, not interested in anyone but themselves.  When we moved to Bronxville we encountered some really great neighbors, and some challenging ones.  The man who lived directly below us waited all of two weeks before knocking on our door one afternoon and requesting that we all start walking on the balls of our feet, to reduce the noise on the hardwoods.  I told him that I would happily walk on the balls of my feet, and I would relay the message to my husband.  Then I pointed to Minnow.

“But…she’s fifteen-months-old, so….” 

In the weeks following our move to the new house, various neighbors come by to greet us.  Mrs. McConnell, our other next-door neighbor, tells us that she is available for late-night babysitting.   She is approximately 94-years-old.

“I’m lucky if I get three or four hours of sleep per night,” she explains.  “So if you go into labor in the middle of the night and you need someone to watch the little one, I’d be happy to.”

“Wow, thank you,” I reply graciously.  I do not intend to take her up on her offer, given her advanced age and the fact that we met twelve seconds ago, but what a neighborly thing to say.

After I meet another neighbor across the street, she drops by that very afternoon to present me with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and a warm welcome note.  The flowers, in cheerful shades of pink, purple, and yellow, last nearly two weeks in our ugly blue kitchen.

The neighbor who lives behind us, whose name I cannot recall but whose dog’s name is “Eddie,” stops outside our house one afternoon so Minnow can pet the dog and smother him with hugs.

“We moved to the village about thirty years ago, when we were about your age,” he says.  “Once you move here, you don’t leave.”  He says that last part in an almost Stepford-ish way, and I can’t decide whether I am comforted or minorly disturbed by his words.  I mean, we moved to Long Island, not joined a cult.  Right?

Then there is the party.  Last week as my husband is tending to our vegetable garden, a neighbor from down the block, whom we hadn’t yet met, hands my husband an invitation to a party she and her husband are throwing to welcome all the newcomers on the block.  We feel obligated to go, so that Friday night we nervously process to her house, where about forty other neighbors have gathered, with hors d’oeuvres and cocktails in hand to, in one neighbor’s words, “initiate us.” 

It is one of the most splendid summer parties I’ve ever attended.  Every neighbor we meet is down-to-earth and intent on making us feel welcome in our new town.  I discover that around here, friendliness isn’t an anomaly; it’s a lifestyle.  Neighbors are, for better or worse, genuinely interested in one another’s lives.  If, God forbid, tragedy were to ever strike our block and the local news came to interview some of the neighbors, you would never hear someone say, “We didn’t really know the family.  They kept to themselves.”

One afternoon I am chit-chatting with my neighbor across the street- the one who gave Minnow the scooter- when her next-door-neighbor exits her house and approaches us. 

“Have you met the new neighbor?” the woman with whom I’m chatting asks.

I don’t answer because I assume she is talking to her next-door-neighbor, who has joined us on the sidewalk.

“C, have you met the new neighbor?” she asks again.

“What are you talking about?” I respond.  “I’m the new neighbor.”

“No!  This is Kristy.  She and her family are from Mississippi and just moved in on Saturday.  She’s even newer than you.”

“I just can’t get over how nice everyone is around here!” Kristy drawls.  “Down South New Yorkers get a bad rap, but we are so impressed with everyone’s hospitality.”

As she continues I wonder whether we- no longer the new family on the block- ought to bake Kristy and her kids a batch of cookies. 

Laundry Dreams (And Nightmares)

One of the best things about buying a house, in my estimation, is finally having a private laundry room.  After four years of renting in buildings with shared laundry facilities and dealing with all sorts of laundry drama, I’ve been dreaming of carrying baskets of laundry to the basement whenever I am so inclined, dumping them into the washer, and enjoying the rhythmic hum of the machine as I move on to other household tasks.  No waiting for an open washer because, despite the notices posted in both English and Spanish prohibiting the use of more than three washers at a time, a neighbor’s housekeeper is occupying all seven washers and three dryers.  No racing down four flights of stairs before some neighbor who just carried an oozing bag of garbage to the trash hut removes my freshly cleaned clothes from the washer and dumps them on top of the machine.  No worrying about someone stealing my sheets and towels out of the dryer (that happened), having to comfort a neighbor’s housekeeper who was just fired from her position (that happened), or getting stuck in an elevator for a half hour on my way to the laundry room (yup, that too).

We knew when we bought this house that the appliances were ancient.  I mean, the dryer was manufactured by RCA.  Are they even around anymore?  But the sellers certified in the contract that all systems and appliances in the home were in “working condition,” so we were hoping to get away with not having to buy a new appliance until our bank account balance is restored.

The night before I planned to do my first load of laundry in the new house, I went down to the yucky laundry room in the yucky basement and ran a cup of bleach through the yucky washing machine.  No morning-after disasters resulted from this experiment.  The hose didn’t leak, the laundry room didn’t flood, and the washing machine smelled a lot cleaner.  I put in my first sorted load, closed the door, turned the knob, and prayed for the best.  Forty minutes later, our clothes were damp and smelled clean.  Success!  Time to transfer them to the dryer.  I opened the door to the dryer and WHAT… THE… F?!

“You’ll never guess what I just found in the dryer,” I texted to my husband, who by now is accustomed to receiving various S.O.S. messages from home while at work. 

“A mouse?”

It was a reasonable guess.  Although we haven’t found any evidence to date, I’m quite certain there is a colony of mice living above the drop ceiling, because that’s the kind of basement we have and, also, that's the kind of luck we have.

“Worse,” I replied.  “A load of laundry the sellers left behind.”

“Gross!”

It was gross.  Those clothes have been sitting in the dryer for at least one month since we’ve closed!

The idea of leaving behind an entire load of laundry in a move absolutely baffles me.  If I so much as lose a baby sock in the midst of doing wash I am bent out of shape for a week.

I didn’t know what to do.  I am skittish about touching other people’s laundry, even if it’s clean.  I mean, who wants to touch someone else’s granny panties?  So I put on a pair of latex gloves and put the forgotten clothes into a black trash bag.  The clothes were dry, but smelled damp.  I put the trash bag in the laundry room closet, but immediately felt guilty.  Should I fold them? I wondered.  No, I decided, that would be creepy.  I loaded my clothes into the dryer, set it for an hour, and called the seller’s agent to arrange a pick-up time with the sellers.

An hour later, when I went down to retrieve my laundry, it was still damp.  I guess it needs more time, I reasoned, and reset the dryer.  Another hour later the clothes were still damp and I realized that although the dryer’s motor was running, it was not emitting any heat. 

“Dryer’s busted,” I texted my husband.

“But I thought you found dry clothes in there.”

“Yes, but remember, they've been sitting in there for over a month.”

Of course the busted dryer meant that my dream of doing laundry on a whim had been placed on hold.  Two days later, I loaded two bags of laundry into the Jeep and carted them to my in-laws'.

This past weekend, we made an unplanned visit to P.C. Richard to purchase a new dryer and, hell, while we’re at it, we might as well buy a washer, as well.  Our brand-spanking-new, state-of-the-art, top-rated, glass-top Samsung washer and dryer were delivered this week.  They look a little out-of place in our yucky laundry room in our yucky basement (I was actually embarrassed when the delivery men arrived to install them), but aren’t they gorgeous?  It turns out laundry dreams really do come true! 

Homestretch

It’s hard to believe, but we are moving into the new house this Saturday, almost two months to the day after we moved out of our Bronxville apartment and into my inlaws’ home on Long Island.  My in-laws have been so gracious and accommodating during our transition into homeownership, and I know they will miss the way Minnow’s exuberant singing, ukulele playing, and knock-knock jokes can fill a big home, but I think they’d agree that eight weeks is just about the maximum amount of time that three generations can comfortably reside under one roof.

When I say it’s hard to believe, I mean that I truly cannot fathom how our house will be ready for occupants in four days.  Every time I walk through the rooms I am overwhelmed by the number of moldings that need to be scraped and painted, the boxes of furniture that need to be built, the layers of dust that need to be eradicated.  I’d analogize it to a paper in college whose submission date is looming.  You know that it’s due by a certain date, and you know that you will submit it by that date, but you have no definite idea how that will happen; you just sort of trust in miracles.  

What doesn’t help is that all of my contractors like to begin phone conversations with, “Mrs. C., we have a problem.”  They then go on to describe said problem, which rarely amounts to much of a problem at all.  It’s like they’re constantly hedging my expectations, as a means of insurance.

For example, on Friday my floor guy, Stanley, called while I was waiting on an infinite line at the DMV to change the address on my license.

“Mrs. C., we have a problem.”

“What’s the problem, Stanley?”

“It’s raining outside.”

“I’m aware of that, Stanley,” I said, staring at my soggy Hunter boots.

“Well I’m trying to apply the second coat of polyurethane to the floors and it’s not adhering.  The weather is too wet.  The floors are not dry.”

“Okay…”

“So I will have to turn up the thermostat in your house, allow the floors to dry overnight, and come back in the morning.”

“That’s not a problem., Stanley,”  I replied.

And it wasn't a problem.  Because we don't live there yet.

Similarly, this morning, while at Starbucks, I received a call from my paper hanger, Tony.

“Mrs. C., we have a problem.”

“What’s the problem, Tony?”

“Your hot water is not running.  If you don’t have hot water, I can’t wash the glue off my brushes.  If I can’t wash the glue off my brushes, I can’t hang your paper today.”

“That’s not a problem, Tony.  We turned off the boiler.  The boiler switch is at the top of the basement stairwell.  Turn it on.  You’ll hear the boiler kick in.  Wait a half hour.  You’ll have hot water.”

And I was right.  I’m a freaking genius.

Of course, usage of “We have a problem” is not exclusive to my home contractors.  When I called the body shop last week to check on the status of my Jeep repair, the owner began with, “Well, we have a problem...”

“What’s that?” I asked, feeling like I just might lose my marbles. 

“When we inspected your car more closely, we found additional damage to the suspension.  The insurance company needs to resend its adjuster to make a secondary estimate.  We’re looking at another week, at least.”

Unfortunately, this is one problem I cannot solve, and I so desperately want my car back.

All of this is to say I really don’t know where mothers found respite from life’s little “problems” before Starbucks.  I am there at least once a day, sometimes twice if the day is shaping up to be particularly “problematic.”  Minnow has become so familiar with the green mermaid logo that she points it out from the backseat whenever we pass a store. 

“Oh, Mommy!  There’s Starbucks! We go get coffee now?”

Minnow likes Starbucks because it usually means a treat for her, as well.  When we walk through the doors she immediately struts toward the cold case, grabs a Horizon organic vanilla milk box, and places it on the counter.  “And a bagel with cream cheese,” she tells the cashier.  Sometimes she mixes it up and orders a bag of organic dried mango slices instead.  Truly, we are (or at least I am) raising the Starbucks generation.  But what can I do?  Even the strictest moms have to make concessions sometimes, and lately I've been making a lot of them.

I’m just trying to be a good mom, in spite of all the problems.  Today I had to take Minnow to the new house while I awaited a furniture delivery for the nursery.  I brought snacks and books and movies to watch on the laptop during the two-hour delivery window.  We sat on the floor in the playroom, which is the only room in the house not being worked on, and which is currently serving as the holding area for the furniture and boxes that have been delivered to the house.  “Don’t touch anything, “ I commanded.  “It’s very dusty.”  As we watched an episode of Wallace and Gromit, I became aware of a cloud of dust swirling above our heads.  That’s when I realized that the painters were sanding the moldings and trim down the hall.  The old moldings and trim!  Laden with lead paint!  Creating lead paint dust!  Causing lead poisoning!

“We have to get out of here, Minnow!” I said, gathering the laptop, her diaper bag, and her organic vanilla milk box in my arms.  We would have sat outside in the yard, but it was raining, so instead we sat in our parked car.  Rain pelted the windows I had rolled down a crack for ventilation while Minnow watched her movie in the backseat and I checked emails on my iPhone.  She never made a peep of complaint, but I still felt like all of my new neighbors were spying on us and thinking, “What a dreadful mother!” 

And while I am confessing my deficiencies as the mother of a toddler, let me also say that during this time of upheaval, it has been extraordinarily difficult to even remember that I am pregnant with a second child.  I mean, who forgets that she is pregnant?  But I do, during most waking hours of the day.  (Nighttime is a different story.  Kicks to the bladder as you’re trying to fall asleep are powerful reminders.)  This morning, as I unlocked the front door for the painters, one of them grinned at me and said, “She’s almost here!”

“Who is?” I asked, glancing over my shoulders.

“The baby!” he said, and pointed to my stomach.

"I hope not!" I replied, but then I realized, he’s right.  Peanut will be here in just over four weeks and I am so unprepared!  It is impossible to indulge the nesting instinct when one doesn’t have a nest.  I haven’t washed a single onesie to date.  I don’t have appropriately sized diapers for a newborn.  All of the nursery furniture is in storage.  At this point in my pregnancy with Minnow I had Crockpot meals prepared and in the freezer.  I had washed and rewashed her entire miniature wardrobe.  I had assembled all the baby equipment I naively believed were essential to her baby amusement.  Don’t even ask me where the travel swing is right now.

It sounds awful, but my thoughts have been so consumed by what’s been happening at the new house that I hardly have the energy to give poor Peanut a second thought.  On the one hand, managing the renovation of an old, quirky house certainly helps speed up the tedious third trimester.  On the other hand, holy cow!  I am having a baby, like, next month, and every time I answer the phone someone is telling me, “We have a problem.”

Maxima Pleasure

It is said that God gives you only as much as you can handle, and I generally believe that to be true, but I don’t think God was keeping count last week.  We made settlement on our house on Monday and four days later, on Friday, I was involved in a low-impact car accident on my way to lock up after the painters had finished working for the day.  I am okay and Peanut is okay but, sadly, the Jeep is not.  It’s not totaled, but it’s going to be totally expensive to repair.  Our insurance company is not pleased, particularly because they only acquired us as clients last week, when we consolidated our new homeowner’s insurance and auto insurance into one policy.  

It is also said that timing is everything. 

Despite their exasperation, our insurance company is generously providing me with a rental car while the Jeep recovers at the body shop.  It turns out that $50 a day gets you a pretty spiffy rental.  I am currently cruising around Long Island in a white 2012 Nissan Maxima that is so wide and roomy, it may have more blind spots than the Jeep.  But that’s not the best part, as Matt at Enterprise pointed out when I went to pick up the car.  The best part is that it has a push button start, which is, supposedly, convenient.  But in order for the car to start, you need to carry the keys with you, so, really, the only step you’re saving is sticking the key in the ignition.  (R. Kelly would be so disappointed). 

Matt started the car for me before I drove off the Enterprise lot.  I had no trouble turning off the car when I returned to my in-laws’, but I ran into issues when I went out later to pick up some ingredients for dinner.   I pressed the button, just like Matt demonstrated, but the car didn’t start.  The radio played music, the air conditioner blasted air, the headlights shone brightly, but the engine didn't roar.  I pressed the button again.  The car turned off.  I checked to make sure I had the keys in my purse.  I did.  Embarrassed, I called Enterprise.

“Are you pressing the correct button?” Matt asked over the phone.

“I think so.”

“Do you have the keys with you?”

“Yes!”

“Is your foot on the brake?”

“Oh!  You have to put your foot on the brake when you start the car?”

Seriously, what is so convenient about a push button start?

A few days later, after finishing up some errands, I got into the car, checked that the keys-that-don’t-start-the-car-but-are-still-essential-to-start-the-car were in my purse, put my foot on the brake, and pushed the button to start the engine.  I shifted into drive, but as I pulled out of the parking lot, I could tell that something was very, very wrong.  To accelerate, I had to put all of my weight behind pressing the gas pedal, and if I removed even the slightest pressure, the car jerked to almost a complete halt.  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t get the car to exceed 40 mph- a fact that seemed to disgruntle my fellow motorists on the Jericho Turnpike- and the RPM gauge was spinning wildly.  When I finally reached home- a bundle of nerves- the engine was overheating and the entire car wreaked of burnt rubber.

“There’s something wrong with the rental,” I told my husband. 

He drove the car around the block.  When he returned he handed me the keyless keys and rolled his eyes. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the car.  You were driving in manual rather than automatic.”

You mean I successfully drove a stick shift five miles and didn’t even know it?  Look at me, all sporty!

A few days after that, I was in the car jamming to “The Last Episode” by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (because Minnow was obviously at home with her grandparents) (if my children are surprised about anything about me as they grow, I think it will be my impressive ability to recite East Coast/West Coast rap as if it were Byron or Keats), when I pulled into a Whole Foods parking lot.  I attempted to exit the vehicle, but the doors were locked.  I pressed the unlock button on the door panel, but the doors remained locked.  I removed my seatbelt and tried again.  Still locked.  

I was trapped!  Panicked, I began beating on the door with closed fists while cart-pushing patrons observed in horror.  What the F is wrong with this demonic car?  It's constantly changing the rules on me!  Then I realized: The car was still on.  Calmly, I pressed the button to shut off the car.  Dr. Dre abruptly stopped singing and the doors automatically unlocked.

Perhaps it is a safety feature that one cannot exit the Nissan Maxima without first turning it off.  Perhaps it is fun that one can toggle between an automatic and manual transmission.  Perhaps it is marginally convenient that one needn't fish for keys in her purse to start the car.  

Perhaps, but I can't wait until my Jeep comes home.  

Wait a Minute, This Song Is a Metaphor

“1901” by Phoenix is playing on the radio while Minnow and I drive to the Long Island Children’s Museum on a rainy April morning.  At the conclusion of the song the DJ mentions that at this year’s Coachella Festival, Phoenix invited R. Kelly on stage to sing “Ignition Remix” while they performed “1901” in an unexpected musical mash-up.  I started laughing as I imagined R. Kelly commanding the crowd to “Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce,” while Phoenix sang, “Fold it, fold it, fold it, fold it.”

“Why you laughing, Mommy?”

“Oh, Minnow!  I miss that song.”

I haven’t heard “Ignition Remix” probably since sophomore year of college.  It was THE song of Spring Break 2003, when my girlfriends and I partied at the beaches and clubs of Nassau, Bahamas.  Now here I am navigating a slick boulevard in Nassau County, NY with my toddler in the backseat, and all I want is to be ten years younger, sipping a Bahama Mama while wearing a midriff top in some seedy Caribbean nightclub. 

At the next red light I download “Ignition Remix” onto my iPhone and plug it into the car stereo.  Within seconds the familiar keyboard intro is filling the interior of the Jeep.

No I’m not trying to be rude,

But hey pretty girl I’m feeling you,

The way you do the things you do,

Remind me of my Lexus Coup.

By the third play of the song, Minnow is singing toot toot and beep beep along with R. Kelly.  By the fourth play of the song, I start really listening to the lyrics and realize: This song (like R. Kelly himself) is horribly inappropriate for young children! Especially smart, impressionable ones.  I had no idea what this song was actually about, probably because I was drunk when it was popular.  It’s not about cars!  It’s a metaphor!

And then another thought dawns on me: What other questionable music is my daughter absorbing while cruising in the car with me?  It drives my mother-in-law batty that Minnow’s favorite song is “Time Spent in Los Angeles’ by Dawes.  The chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a tragic set of charms,

That only comes from time spent in Los Angeles,

Makes me want to wrap you in my arms.

But according to my daughter, the chorus goes like this:

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness,

You’ve got a special kind of sadness… (And into infinity).

“I don’t like that song she sings,” my mother-in-law says.  “It’s about sadness.”

“It’s not, really.  It’s about California, which is pretty much the opposite of sadness,” I reply.

But I still feel guilty because Dawes is certainly not Mozart.  In fact, Mozart is not on Minnow’s iTunes playlist, but Mumford and Sons, The Lumineers, and Loudon Wainwright III are.  It’s my fault.  I’m not one of those moms willing to listen to the “Hokey Pokey” on repeat in the car.  Driving is stressful enough.  But, admittedly, I was growing weary of  “I Will Wait,” “Ho Hey,” and “Daughter,” so I sort of embraced that the kid was digging R. Kelly.

I am hoping Minnow will forget all about “Ignition Remix,” by the time we leave the Long Island Children’s Museum, but when we get back into the car she immediately requests the “car song.”

“What song?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep! Cars talking, Mommy.”

Minnow continues to ask for the “car song” each time we get into the Jeep for the next few days.  On Sunday morning, as we’re driving to church, Minnow again makes her appeal. 

“What is she talking about?” my husband asks.

Reluctantly, I turn on “Ignition Remix,” and, without missing a beat, Minnow starts singing the words, like, perfectly. 

Sipping on Coke and rum,

I'm like so what I'm drunk...

“Do you play this song for her?” my husband asks.

“Not all the time,” I reply sheepishly.

That night, on our way home from dinner, my mother-in-law is sitting in the backseat with Minnow. 

“Car song, car song!” Minnow demands.

“What song does she want?” my mother-in-law inquires.

“Uh, I don’t know,” I lie, mentally willing my husband to drive faster toward home.

“Toot toot!  Beep beep, Mommy!” Minnow reminds me.

“Oh! That one.  The wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round, ‘round and ‘round” I improvise.

And that is probably the closest we’ve ever come to listening to kid-friendly music in the Jeep.

Over the Bridge, Pt. 2: A New Life

Every Monday and Wednesday morning, Minnow and I cross the Throgs Neck Bridge from Long Island to Westchester so that she can continue to attend her 2's program in Bronxville.  With the recent toll hikes, the trip costs us $7.50 each way, and takes an hour and fifteen minutes during rush hour and another forty-five minutes on the way home.  I probably need my head examined to spend two hours in the Jeep twice a week so that my two-year-old can spend about the same amount of time painting pinecones and singing songs about dinosaurs, but I’m trying to be a good mom.  I’m trying to maintain a modicum of normalcy in Minnow’s world while the rest of it is being tipped on its axis.  On the days we travel to Bronxville, I also take Minnow to her favorite playground after school and sometimes- as a treat- to her favorite bagel store for a mini whole-wheat bagel. 

Long, congested commutes to school are not new to me.  When I attended law school in North Philadelphia, I lived 7.5 miles away in a leafy Main Line suburb.  According to Map Quest, the trip should take approximately 17 minutes, but traveling on I-76 or Route 1 to Broad Street takes closer to an hour during rush hour.  My drive to school only added to the unrelenting misery of being a law student.  Nothing- besides the Socratic method- could raise my blood pressure quite like nonsensically slow-moving traffic, especially around the Conshohocken Curve.  (It’s there every morning, folks.  Learn to navigate it.)  I was notoriously late for class, often sauntering in red-faced after the professor had already begun interrogating unlucky punctual classmates. 

What got me through those harrowing daily voyages was listening to public radio.  It’s how I became acquainted with the likes of My Morning Jacket, Ray LaMontagne, and Vampire Weekend.  I was such a devoted listener that, despite my lack of income, I became a supporting member of the station for three consecutive years.  When I moved to New York after law school, I took a break from driving and, thus, decent music, but when I relocated to Westchester and bought a Jeep, I rediscovered how much I love public radio.  It is thanks to public radio that I’ve added Alabama Shakes, The Head and the Heart, and Josh Ritter to my music rotation.

Minnow and I listen to public radio every morning on our expeditions across the Long Island Sound.  This morning we heard the new song by Jim James of My Morning Jacket, and as I reflected on the lyrics, I realized how appropriate it is to our current transition into homeownership:

Babe, open the door

And start your new life,

Oh, your new life.

Babe, on to the shore,

And start your new life,

Your new life, once more.       

In a couple short months, I'll only have the memories of our irrational, early-morning trips back and forth to Bronxville.  In a couple short years, I'll only have the memories of Minnow in the back seat, kicking her feet and singing along the best she can.  ("I sorry, Mommy, I don't know all the words.")  But songs like this, and the traffic-cancelling emotions they stir within me, will remain.  

Over the Bridge, Pt. 1: Home Is Wherever I'm with You

We’re halfway across the Throgs Neck when I catch a glimpse of Minnow, quietly cuddling her favorite purple dog in the backseat, and burst into tears.

“What’s that noise?” she asks, craning her neck to see around the boxes and mounds of clothing we’ve loaded into the car. 

My husband shoots me a reproachful look.  I’ve made it a rule to never let my children see me cry, but the events of the past month have tested that rule’s durability.  “Mommy is sad,” he states simply. 

“I didn’t even let her say goodbye,” I emit between sobs.  “She has no idea that she’s never going back.”  In our haste to pack the car and beat the late-day traffic, I had completely forgotten to ceremoniously mark Minnow’s last exit from our apartment by having her wave bye-bye to each room, as I'd planned.  It was, in my hormone-fueled estimation, an epic mom-fail.

“She’s two,” my husband reminds me.  “She’s already over it.”

To prove his point he addresses our daughter through the rearview mirror.  “Minnow, you know we’re not going to live in A7 anymore, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Because Mommy and Daddy bought a bigger, better house.”

“Yeah.”

“But that house isn’t ready yet, so we’re going to stay with Mimi and Grandpa for a little while.”

Minnow doesn’t respond.

“Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.”

As we continue across the bridge, wisps of doubt swirl through my mind.  This is what I wanted, right?  To be pregnant with our second child.  It was all I could think about in the months before we conceived, but now that we’re nearing my due date, our old life- the three of us living in a rented two-bedroom walk-up in Bronxville, New York- feels just right.  Peanut is changing everything, and I struggle against so much change at once like an overturned tortoise seeking solid ground.

As a mother, I also worry about what all this change will do to Minnow and her fragile, two-year-old psyche.  The Bronxville apartment is the second in which Minnow has lived, and the first that she has truly known but will probably not remember, in her short twenty-nine months.  We moved to Bronxville eighteen months ago after we outgrew our majestic one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.  What that apartment lacked in space it made up for in charm and convenience, with its sweeping vistas of the American Museum of Natural History and one-block walk to the 77^th Street entrance of Central Park.  On Thanksgiving mornings my husband and I could watch the Macy’s Day Parade balloons bob by our windows minutes before we’d see them appear on the live television broadcast.   It was a matchless home with a Shake Shack on the corner.  We were going to live there forever, or at least until we had our first child. 

But our first child, Minnow, came unexpectedly- a few months after our first wedding anniversary- and because we weren’t yet ready to shed our Manhattan skins, the three of us toughed it out in our shared bedroom for as long as we could muster.  Three weeks after celebrating Minnow’s first birthday- in true Upper West Side fashion, with afternoon tea at Alice’s Tea Cup, a picnic supper in Sheep’s Meadow, and cupcakes by Magnolia Bakery- we boxed up the life we had crammed into 600 square feet and headed north to Westchester County, where, for the same rent, we could afford an extra bedroom, a formal dining room, and double the square footage.

The Bronxville apartment was the perfect transitional residence for a family reluctant to part with the allures of city life.  The 25-minute morning commute into Grand Central on the Metro North was easier on my husband than his former indefinite sojourns underground, waiting for the B or C trains to materialize.  The Bronx River Pathway proved to be a suitable, if not wholly comparable, substitute running route for the Central Park Loop.  And although, in solidarity with our suburban neighbors, we bought a Jeep, I still preferred to do my errands the Manhattan way: By buckling Minnow into the UPPABaby and high-tailing it to the post office, cheese shop, wine store, and children’s boutique, collecting bulky packages in the undercarriage as I went.

Although I missed Manhattan terribly, the Bronxville apartment gradually grew on me.  It was there that Minnow mastered the art of toddling, and then walking, and then, to our downstairs neighbors’ chagrin, the art of galloping at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning while pulling a plastic toy tow truck behind her.  It was there that Minnow jubilantly used the potty for the first time, before steadfastly refusing to do so again for several months.  And it was there that I discovered our cozy little family would soon be expanding. 

I will miss the mornings spent eating sliced banana and watching Sesame Street with Minnow in the sun-drenched living room perched high in the treetops.  I will miss the afternoons spent trailing Minnow as she scoots around the playground adjacent to our building in a plastic canopied car, loading invisible groceries into its trunk.   I will not miss the minutes spent pleading with Minnow to climb the 53 steps to our apartment on her own because my belly is swelling and my doctor says I can no longer carry her.  Simply put, I will miss the days spent together, just the two of us.

Like I said, Peanut is changing everything.  When we learned about this pregnancy, we knew our days of living in a spacious but inconvenient fourth-floor walk-up with no overnight parking and shared laundry facilities were dwindling.  After almost four years of renting, it was time to buy a house.

And buy a house we did, with its own driveway and washer and dryer.  It’s an old, four-bedroom, side-hall colonial with a whitewashed brick façade and impeccably manicured lawn in an excellent school district on Long Island, my husband’s native land.  I couldn’t have dreamed up a better house for our family.  When we close in three weeks, it will, without a doubt, be one of the happiest days of my life.  But right now, as we prepare to plunk all our well-loved belongings into storage and temporarily move in with my in-laws on the North Shore, I have never felt farther from that first apartment on the Upper West Side, farther from that transitional apartment in Bronxville, farther from home.  

We finish crossing the bridge and merge onto the Cross Island Parkway.  I wipe away the tears blurring my vision with a glove-compartment napkin and glance at my husband, deeply focused on the road ahead, and my daughter, drinking in the view of the Long Island Sound from the security of her car seat, and am reminded of the chorus of the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes song “Home:”

Ahh, Home

Let me come Home

Home is wherever I’m with you;

Ahh, Home

Yes I am Home

Home is whenever I’m with you.

If home is a state of mind, rather than a place, then I am determined to make this next episode of my life the homiest yet.