Well, not news, so much. More like, observations. But LIVE Real Mommy observations!
Reporting Live from the trenches! The trenches of the Mommy Mecca: Whole Foods.
Yes, I am currently sitting in the Upper West Side Whole Foods on my break. I am sitting here with my iced coffee and ‘Cranberry, Something I don’t Recognize, Almond, Blah Blah, Vegan, Raw, Organic, Blah Blah, Flaxseed, Local, Unpasteurized, Gluten-Free, Cane Sugar, Blah Blah, Bar.’ (A Whole Foods Favorite.) I am feeling pretty darn together. I’m on break from my job. I have no stains on my clothing, I have on mascara, I have a pretty purse (Thanks, mom!) instead of a giant diaperbag, I’ve got my laptop….Yup, all in all I am feeling good.
And then she rolls up.
Couldn’t weigh more than 102 pounds…soaking wet. She is steering an UPPAbaby stroller. (This year’s version of the Bugaboo, perhaps? I just know I’ve never seen it before but it looks like you could possibly take it on a little excursion to the moon.) Her elegant trenchcoat and scarf laid nicely over the handlebars. The newborn inside is sleeping soundly. But should she awake, she has a mini Whoozit right by her side. And should that bore her, she can begin learning her colors with her felt tabs in a rainbow of colors. (Again, something I have never seen before. Where have I been?) I think it would be inappropriate to check the baby’s clothing tags, (even I have some standards) but I am guessing half BonPoint and half Mini Boden.
Obviously, because this isn’t my life we are describing, the baby is sleeping peacefully. The mother uses this time to delicately consume her array of Indian and Mediterranean cuisines and Volvic water. And lest she be bored – you know, since the baby is sleeping so soundly and all – she has brought along her newest shiny New Yorker magazine to keep her company.
The moment she finishes eating, the baby opens her eyes and smiles. No tears. No grunting. Just batting her eyelashes at mommy.
The formula gets poured into the bottle and the little darling drinks it down.
I am not kidding you. I am sitting here describing this scene as it plays out. This is Live and this is Real.
Well, this woman’s version of real, at least.
Personally, I am just doing my best not to stare. I mean, seriously? Maybe I am a terrible mother, but I can tell you I never had anything like this play out with my first little newborn.
Three and a half years ago someone was probably watching me and blogging:
She is sweating. Trying to fit the stroller through the Chipotle doors. Her baby is crying.
Uh, miss, your baby’s blanket fell out and is wrapped around the stroller wheel.
She takes her baby out to calm him down and the stroller falls over backward because of the gigantic diaper bag still hanging on the handlebars. As she bends over to try to pick up the extra outfits, diapers, burp cloths, and other random pieces of paper and cloth and toys, beads of sweat start actually dripping off of her forehead. And she hasn’t even ordered her burrito yet!
When she finally gets to her seat, carrying a baby, a burrito and the fallen, dirty blanket, and pushing the stroller with her hip, she covers herself with a burp cloth to nurse the baby.When she is done he spits up all over her shirt…because she was using the burp cloth to nurse instead of to protect herself. I thought the baby had on a cute tie dye onesie, but now I see it is just a colorful combination of spit up and squash. Oh, wait, newborns don’t eat squash yet. Oh man. Gross.
And wait, now she is sweating even more! Oh. Oh, no. Those are tears. Sad.
Oh, ma’am, is that your baby’s pacifier on the floor? I think it fell out of the pocket of your sweatpants?
So, yeah. That is pretty much what someone would have recorded had they seen me in public with my first newborn.
And please understand. I am not describing this other mother to be mean. I am just amazed. Like, how in the world do you have it that together right away?
We are 3.5 years into this whole ‘having kids’ thing AND are on our second baby. We should have things under control by now, right?
And yet, here she is a couple months in reading The New Yorker.
If the pile of still unread New York, Real Simple and US Weekly magazines in our home ever fell on you, it would probably break your femur.