I got a story published in a great new literary magazine called Sliver of Stone.  Let me know what you think.

Yesterday I was thanking my mom for all her hard work and complaining to Victoria about how much I don’t enjoy parenting. I love being a parent, I made that clear. Love it like a lawyer probably loves being a lawyer: all the status, the money, whatever. But the job, day to day, totally sucks. That’s what I was saying about parenting. I was feeling bad about it.  Guilty.  Worried. What’s wrong with me?  Then Victoria comes home with the July 12, 2010 New York Magazine. The cover story: All Joy and No Fun.  I know I’m not the first to discover that parenting can be a drag, but there, in front of my face, was this whole article saying acknowledging my feelings.  Studies show that people without children are happier than people with children.  Turns out, though, that it depends on how you define joy or fun or happiness.  In the long run, when bad memories help us become nostalgic about the past, having children makes us happy.

Dear Mom,

Thank you for parenting me.  As I remember, childhood was pretty good. You were attentive and sweet mostly and while I don’t remember making sculptures out of popsicle sticks or homemade Play-Doh, I do remember  getting lots of your attention.  How did you do it for so many years?

I am having trouble right now.  To be frank, Tashi is bugging the shit out of me.  And Sebastian is a monster.  But the real problem is how Tashi is always underfoot.  I remember this being a problem of yours too.  It is the one thing I remember us consistently fighting about.  You stepping on my toes.  It didn’t bother me, but I remember you getting a little hysterical sometimes, like when you would take a step onto my toes and then fall down.  Well, what goes around, comes around, as they say.  Tashi is just like me.  Somehow she manages to be always under my feet.  It’s hard when I’m wearing my platform flip-flops.

Oh, I know I shouldn’t complain.  I see how sad it makes you now-a-days when I don’t want to sit on your lap.  I saw it on Sunday, when you gave me that look and then patted your thighs and I said, “Oh Mom.”  But Mom, I can’t eat a meal without my little curly girl climbing on top of me.

And why did I think shopping for first-grade school supplies would be fun?  That fiasco was my own fault in so many ways.  First because I’ve raised a spoiled, rotten, persistent princess and second because I let myself get overly excited to get the supplies in the first place.  My elation came crashing down seven minutes into shopping when Tashi begged for the pretty pink scissors.  I agree, they were pretty, but I had already crossed scissors off the list because she has six pairs at home.  I said, “NO NEW SCISSORS!  You have six pairs at home.”  I felt strong for the first hour, but each time she begged I felt her wearing me down.  I stood strong though, thanks to you and all that I learned watching you fend me off all those years.  Still, it was exhausting and I don’t look forward to doing shopping for school supplies again next year or the next or the next.  I know, just eleven more years.

Another thing:  Why did I think bike riding with a 6 1/2 year-old would be fun?  It’s not.  We had fun though, you and I, didn’t we, when I’d jog and you’d ride next to me and we’d talk?  Well, I’ve been trying to replicate those good times.  Today, when we rode to camp because I crashed the van into a parked Jaguar and now it’s in the shop, I said, “Right turn!”  Tashi screamed, “Why are you always talking about bike stuff?” I said, “Bike stuff? I’m just telling you which way to turn.”  My point is, she was being a bitch for no reason.  And she was swerving into traffic.

She’s tired, I know.  She slept in bed with me last night because Victoria’s out of town and also because there was a big spider in her room, which was no Daddy Long Legs.  I killed it and then took it’s picture and we looked it up on the Internet.  Can’t say exactly what kind it was because I’m no arachno-specialist, but it was brown and hairy with a very big butt.  Also, Tashi didn’t sleep that well on account of it being crowded and with Beast breathing in our faces all night.  He gets protective when Victoria’s not around.  So I should have some compassion.  I remember how I could never fall asleep because it was so much fun being in your bed with you and Chaucer whenever Dad had poker night.

I know I should quit my bitching.  It wasn’t that bad sharpening all 48 pencils and putting Tashi’s name on them with the Sharpie.  She did a bunch of them herself and only cried twice because she messed up and couldn’t erase.  For some reason she thought her initials were N-H.  When I asked how she got that she said, “Nataaaasha.”  And it’s okay that I didn’t get to read the New York Times last night because I had to turn the light off for her.  And we did make it to camp safely, although we were an hour and a half late and I didn’t get to work until noon.  No big deal. I’m just writing to say that I like being a parent.  It’s the parenting that’s annoying.  I appreciate you doing it for me.  Thanks Mom.

Love,

Andrea

Look what Victoria did when Sebastian got his leg caught in the crib.  She doesn’t even know Karate.

Today while Tashi and I were walking home from Sophie’s house, because Tashi had a sleepover, she told me she watched Peter Pan, the real movie, which meant it had actors instead of animation. I asked which she liked better, cartoons or real people and she said, “That’s a hard one.”

She told me Peter Pan was very sad. I asked why and she stopped walking. She said, “Peter came to the window and Wendy was having a party.” Her face got squished up and then she put her hands over your eyes and cried, real tears. She said, “Peter couldn’t go in.”

I watched her in pain and started to cry too. Then we both laughed.

We talked about how movies that make you cry are really good, even though they make you cry.

She asked me if Peter Pan was real and I said no. She asked if Mama Mia was real and I said no. Then she asked about the Sound of Music and I said, yes. I think that’s a true story.

She was wearing hot pink, glittery disco pants, a pinkish-purple, Puma T-shirt and hot-pink high tops. Mima took her shopping yesterday for your birthday.

She is a mix of super hip and cool and so sensitive and sweet. If I were her age, I’d definitely want to be friends with her.

Tashi had Swine Flu.  At least I think she had Swine.  Might of well have been Swine, it was for sure the flu.  I know because we spent 5 hours at Miami Children’s Hospital Monday.  I took her to Children’s because I didn’t want to have to wait, like we always do, at her regular doctor. I’m an idiot, obviously.  But they did test her for the flu and did an ex-ray for lung stuff like pneumonia and bronchitis and her regular doctor doesn’t have an ex-ray machine, so I was smart to take her to Children’s. Just that every other parent in Miami was smart like me.

My daughter is a superstar.  She had to get her nose suctioned by what looked like a vacuum cleaner with a nostril-sized hose.  The nurse shoved it in and flipped the switch.  Tashi backed up a little bit and flailed her arms.  When the nurse approached her for a second round, Tashi stood strong.  I was so impressed, I offered to buy her the biggest lollypop in the world, which I didn’t do.

I did go to a giant candy store the next day. They had everything, including candy cigarettes, which I loved as a kid with the powdered sugar that puffed out if you blew on it. But please, those things need to be discontinued.  Candy cigarettes with powdered smoke!  That’s like a candy gun with bubble-gum bullets.  They also had Razzles, which I’d forgotten about until just now. Yum–an acquired texture. Now I’m going to eat the whole pack.
They also had the biggest lollypop in the world. But get this. The biggest lollypop in the world cost $69. Fucking hell. My child is brave, but it wasn’t a butt suction. And even if it was, $69! So what if it was the size of a bike tire.  Instead, Tashi got the extra medium.

They say you should never compare your children. I made this chart of their first year’s progress.

That’s clearly a picture of Victoria and me with Sebastian sleeping between us.  I’m the one on the left with the feet in my face, except usually the feet are on top of my face.

This essay, Good Night and Tough Luck by Christoph Niemann is on the NY Times website today and it’s so good.  Christoph tells it like it is:  ”After weeks of sweet-talking, serenading, and heartbreaking Ferberizing, we think we have reclaimed our bed.  Until a short trip or a quick flu undoes everything again.”

Damn the truth.

Sebastian is seven and a half months old, but has entered a new phase, which is a total regression. He sleeps like a newborn—nursing every three hours. Victoria’s been bringing him to the bed, if he sleeps in his crib at all, and sleeping with a giant, 21 pound baby who thrashes all night, is not cozy like one might imagine. We’re exhausted.

I’m starting to think he’s taking advantage of us. I would have scoffed at this idea a month ago, as if a baby can be conniving. But this baby seems to know what he wants and knows how to get it.

Yesterday Tashi and I were reading a book and Sebastian grabbed it. Tashi said, “No Sebastian, that’s mine,” and pulled it away. Sebastian cried like he’d been dropped on his head.

Tashi then said, “I’ll give you this book when you turn two, but if you rip it, you can’t have it.”

I thought that was so sweet, but it did nothing to pacify Sebastian.

What happened to my budha baby?

Last night, Pipa and Elsa came to dinner and we made the mistake of complaining about being tired and telling them how Sebastian’s been sleeping with us. Elsa told us about a show she watched where all the pediatric experts of the world have proven that letting your baby cry himself to sleep will make him a confident and self-sufficient. “Sleeping with your baby,” Elsa said, “makes him dependent forever.”

Two days before Victoria brought me an article she printed from the Internet reporting how all the leading pediatric experts had proven that sleeping with your baby creates life-long confidence and self-sufficiency.

I tell Elsa that there’s evidence on both sides.

My dad says, “Let him cry.”

I say, “How long do you think you could let him cry?”

“I could outlast him, I’m sure I could,” he says, like he’s so tough, and I realize my dad is the absolute perfect person to sleep through a baby crying.

“Well, you’re not normal,” I say.

But last night I was hardened, having nothing to do with what Elsa told us. I know the theories, I just haven’t wanted to let my baby cry without going to him. And Victoria is the same way. Last night though, we needed a break. And Sebastian was on my last nerve.

“Let’s let him cry,” I said. “I think we’ll be better parents if we sleep.”

“Okay.”

I put him in his crib. He was on his hands and knees squawking. He looked at me with love in his eyes and smiled that funny smile of his where his cheeks look like marshmallows and his lips turn into a squiggly line and his chin pokes out. But I did’t fall for it. I said, “Goodnight sweety,” and patted his butt.

I got into bed with Victoria and turned off the light. Sebastian started to cry.

“How long do you think we can last?”

“Ten minutes?” Victoria said.

“Ten minutes?! I’m thinking forty-five.”

After ten minutes Victoria went in to tell Sebastian that she is there. That he is safe and that he should go to sleep now. This is what one of the theories suggests—reassure the screaming child.
His cries got louder and more desperate.

“At least he feels reassured,” I said.

We listened for fifteen more minutes. “Should I reassure this time?” I said.

“No way, that backfired,” Victoria said.

Victoria suggested we make love.
“Music’s too distracting,” I said.

Victoria started to pray. I caught a few words, “Maria…mujer…Jesus…”

We lay next to each other without talking for who knows how long until the cries diminished. Then built up again. Then diminished. Then stopped.

“Goodnight sweet darling,” I said.

“We did it.”

Sebastian at 7 months.