The Hired Help…For Free

We are visiting my parents this weekend with a special added bonus:  my in-laws are here, too.  Pretty neat, huh?

Yes, we are in a very fortunate situation where my parents and my in-laws get along wonderfully.  Like, they visit each other even when we aren’t around.  Even though they live nine hours away from each other.

This weekend, though, we are here.  And it is fantastic.  It’s fantastic for all of the obvious reasons, like how much we love our parents and love having our kids spend time with them.  But it is also fantastic in that I get to pretty much be the most hands-off mom imaginable.  (Which, as all moms know, is never completely hands-off, but still…)  As it is, I don’t really have much responsibility on weekends.  My husband basically does all of the diapers, showering, changing, bedtime reading, disciplining and nap times on the weekends.  But with TWO of our three sets of grandparents here this weekend?!  I am made in the shade.

It’s pretty awesome to just kind of be around for all of the fun, beautiful moments but not have to do the heavy lifting.  I’m not saying that I don’t change a single diaper or wrap a towel around a shivering boy or make my little baby a sandwich.  I do those things, but I could easily ask someone else to step in and help if I don’t feel like it.  And I can easily just go to the bathroom whenever I feel like it, knowing that someone else can keep an eye on the boys.   Showering?  Oh, it happens every day when we are here, rather than twice a week.   Carlitos wants to play ‘Go Fish!’ six times in a row?  Grammmmmy!  Papppppi! Xavi has snot coming out of his nose?  Mima?  Lito? Could you grab a tissue and just…yeah…right there…his nose…yeah….thanks!

The fun without the difficult?  The good without the bad?  This is pretty nice, folks.

Now, if I could just convince everyone to move in with us…

(Sorry for such a short post, but I have other important things to tend to like my children reading the May issue of Real Simple, the February issue of New York Magazine and a book I ordered from Amazon last Christmas.  And maybe even having a glass of wine before 5:00 pm.)

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Babies and Beer in Brooklyn

When Carlitos was first born my husband and I had just turned 26.  Our friends were still living it up.  Hardcore.  Well, hardcore for artsy fartsy types.  Which I think simply translates to lots of pot.

What do I know? I was suddenly busy making sure my organic lettuce had been triple washed and that my baby’s bottles were BPA-free.

But sometimes we still wanted to let loose.  We were still so young and having a baby takes up pretty much all of your time, attention and energy.   If you never get a release from that you can go a little stir crazy.  Or just plain old crazy.

However, babysitters?  Mucho dinero, my friends.  Guess what two 26-year-olds (one in public education, no less) were not rolling in?  Yeah, money.  So if a couple invited us over for dinner, we went.  With our baby.  If friends invited us to a party in New York?  We drove up there and went.  With our baby.  Given a gift certificate to a fancy restaurant?  Yup, Carlitos ate at Cipriani in NYC at age two.

It was our reality and we didn’t think anything of it.

My point is, I get still wanting to party a little, have a drink or meet up with friends even after you have babies.  I really do.

However, we also only had one baby at the time.  And pretty much nobody else in any of our circles had babies yet.  Baby Carlitos was more of a novelty than a nuisance.  Or so I hope, I suppose.   It always made me think of that Talking Heads song Stay Up Late.  It was all kind of messy and fun and romantic at the time.

Things changed as Carlitos got older, though.  And once we had a second baby.  And once we all grew up a bit.

Currently, with a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old, I don’t take my kids to nighttime parties, events, or bars.  It doesn’t feel fair to my kids – who now have stable sleep patterns – and it doesn’t feel fair to other people trying to have a good time without censoring themselves for little ears and little eyes.

But we live in a neighborhood next to the infamous Park Slope in Brooklyn and frankly, I think too many parents haven’t used common sense on this topic.  In fact, I think there seem to have been way too many parents forcing lots of kids, babies and bulky strollers into way too many bars.  Caring more about their rights to happiness than the rights of those around them.  And now, due to acts of entitlement from parents, there is backlash.  Lots of backlash.  Which ends up, as backlash is wont to do, sounding like whiny entitlement from the other side.  It seems like some people would prefer never to come into contact with children.  I’m not sure what prompted them to come to Park Slope if that’s how they feel.  It’s their choice, obviously, but it is just a strange choice, like going to a Ryan Gosling movie and being annoyed at how many drooling women there are in the theater.

In any event, I didn’t care much about this debate until it directly affected my life.  Yes, keep in mind that I said ‘affected my life.’ Here’s the thing, I tend to eat based on cravings (even when not pregnant) and I was craving a burger.  It was a Sunday so we looked up places in our area with good burgers.  There was one with great reviews and within walking distance! Score! Until I read further and realized we couldn’t go. See? Greatly affected my life.

Why, you ask? (Well, if you have half a brain I’m sure you can guess based on the topic of this post.)

Yup, because we have procreated.  And do not have a live-in nanny or nearby family  with whom to leave our kids if we want to go somewhere alone at the last minute.

It was 5:30 pm.  No babies or children are allowed in this restaurant after 5:00pm.  Meaning we would have had to be there by 4:00 pm at the latest in order to finish our meal in time.  4:00 pm for dinner.

Basically, they should simply say they don’t want kids eating there for dinner.  But that would sound much more controversial, so they give a 5:00pm cut-off and say it is simply to keep babies out of bars at night.

I call BS.

Also?  I refuse to give this location my patronage (or link to them, as you may have noticed).  You don’t want my family coming in for dinner?  Even a 5:00 pm dinner?  Great.  Done.  But don’t expect me to pay a babysitter and then come spend my money in your establishment.  When I spend money on a babysitter and then a restaurant it will be somewhere I want to support and feel welcomed.

I think their rule is extreme and silly.  So, I am being extreme and silly in return.  See how now I seem like the whiny one?  Oh, who asked you.

Then there was a new biergarten that came to town this August.  A biergarten, guys!   A few blocks away!  We were so excited!  Date night!  And no cab fare!

They did something interesting and made their stance clear from the beginning: We are pro-family, pro-kid, pro-stroller.

I cringed.

Why you gotta mention the strollers?  This spells trouble.

Sure enough, by September they had switched sides with force:  No children permitted after 4:00 pm.

Nobody likes a flip-flopper, guys.  Did you not live in this country during the presidential race of 2004?

Well, cross that one off the list too, I guess.  Who needs carb-laden beer and pretzels anyway?  Not this curvy girl.

Personally, I think all of this is a shame.  I really believe that too many people (in general, not just in Park Slope) let their children act up in restaurants.   If your baby or child starts crying or having a tantrum you should leave.  Period.  I feel really strongly about that.  Other people are spending their money and time trying to have a nice meal, too.  It’s not fair to subject them to yelling and crying.  Getting food wrapped up to go and rushing out of a restaurant before dessert arrives?  Those are the kinds of sacrifices we signed up for when we became parents.

And as far as bars go, I don’t think babies or kids belong.  Of course there are exceptions here and there.  Maybe your best friend is having an engagement party at a bar and you can’t get a sitter.  Bring the baby but only stay an hour.  I mean, I get that things come up in life and there should almost always be flexibility.  But this situation has obviously gone way beyond exceptions to the rule.  People seem to be bringing their offspring to bars on the regular.  Buy a six pack and have some friends over, guys!  It’s cheaper, anyway.

Think about how crazy it is that bars have to put a ban on kids!

But the restaurant thing irks me.  Why should all of us with children not be able to go out to dinner as a family because of the lack of discipline and sacrifice on the part of some parents?  If a parent is letting their kid run around a restaurant or yell, ask them to please not be disruptive to other diners.  Handle the situation itself rather than banning all of us.

Italy – where you are still allowed to bring your kids to restaurants, even when you order wine with your meal!  So retro!

I’ve been in plenty of restaurants where groups of middle-aged women are guffawing so loudly and repeatedly that I can’t hear what my dining partner is saying.  Do we ban all middle-aged women in parties of four or more from restaurants?  I’ve been in plenty of bars where the perfectly askew ski hat on the guy next to us  is so annoying that it is downright distracting.  (Dude, it’s August, why are you even wearing that thing in the first place?!)  Do we ban all hipsters from bars?

Nope, of course not.

Honestly, this situation, like almost everything these days, seems to have become super polarized and extreme.  Why have we all lost the ability to simply use common sense and common courtesy with each other? I really don’t think it needed to get to the point where groups of people are being banned from eating establishments.

But it has.

So, if anybody wants to pitch in some moula, I will gladly host any parents with kids at our house for delicious fare, fabulous cocktails and a really good time.  You even get to help pick the playlist!  It will be the best restaurant/bar EVER.

*The teacher in me says “Here’s a link if you want to learn more!” I’m not the author of the article(s)  below, but it’s still decent writing, I guess… I mean, if you like writing that isn’t mine.*

Brooklyn Brewhaha: Babies in Bars; CNN; Ravitz, Jessica

Shots and Tots in Brooklyn Bars, Revisted; New York Times; Goodman, David J.

Park Slope Parents Still Bringing Babies to Bars; Gothamist

As Biergarten Welcomes the Juice-Box Set, Some Barflies Jeer; New York Times; Sangha, Soni and Yee, Vivian

Parents Fume Over Brooklyn Biergarten Kid Ban; Daily News; Yaniv, Oren

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Forward

I have been having fantasies lately.

Prints.  Carpets.  Color.  Organization.

Yes, décor fantasies.

The thing is, I got pregnant at 25 years old.  Then we got married once Carlitos turned one.  We lived in Washington, D.C., and then moved to Maryland.  Suddenly we were in Harlem.  Next up, Brooklyn.

Basically we have done everything backwards.  Or wildly?  Certainly ‘our way’ if nothing else.  But it has been somewhat difficult.

And not always so pretty.  Yes, I mean months without sleep, moves, one salary…life.  But, I also literally mean it is not always so pretty.

The hand-me-down, clearance or street-found furniture we had as single 20-somethings turned into the furniture in our apartment while I was pregnant.  Life has been too busy with changes in family size, jobs, cities and homes to deal with redecorating, let alone to finance something like that.  Plus, each home has felt temporary.  We are renters and always seem to be in an apartment that we know won’t ultimately fulfill all of our needs.

So I never feel settled.

Recently everything came to a head.  I’ve watched my sisters-in-law move into new apartments and create spaces within them that are glamorous, elegant, creative.  Oh, and clean.  For awhile now we have also been dreaming of having some sort of backyard for the boys.  And a third bedroom.  High prices in Brooklyn make that seem unlikely for us. Then, of course, there are the roaches that are the size of limes…with wings.  They like to pop in and say hello after hard rains.  How do we know it’s raining, you ask?  Oh, because it rains inside of our apartment whenever it rains outside our apartment.

So, when a friend of ours mentioned that he and his wife were no longer moving to Chicago, but instead to New Jersey, my husband and I looked at each other.  Something clicked.  We had looked at all surrounding towns, cities and states when we were ready to move out of Manhattan a year and a half ago and ultimately ended up in Brooklyn.  I guess at the time we weren’t ready to really make the big jump.  The suburbs. Somehow, after living in New York City for two years, those two words tasted sour in our mouths, as they do to many city folk.

Something has changed in both of us, however.  And thankfully, we are on the same page.  We realized we were living a more difficult life than necessary.  And for what?  To prove something?  To whom?  I don’t recall making any promises to anyone about where I would or would not raise my kids.  But living in New York can feel that way.  Like you’re letting people down or giving up if you leave the boroughs.  We are suddenly so ready, though.

We drove out to scope out towns in New Jersey the very next day.  And fell in love with one of them.  One that literally has a shorter commute for my husband than his current one from Brooklyn.  And where we can afford a 4 bedroom house with front and back yards, a finished attic and a finished basement.  Where the schools offer everything we are able to obtain here.

I am excited for this future life change.  So excited.  It feels like a better fit for our whole family and it feels right.

But like I said, it’s giving me fantasies.

Honestly, I don’t care if our entire home is empty – save for the boys’ bunk beds – when we first move.  I want to get rid of almost all of our furniture.  Start fresh.  Even if it means buying one new piece per month because that’s all we can afford.  I can not wait to not have mismatched, hanging on by a thread pieces of furniture.

And I can’t wait to carve out a little space to make a home office.  Just for me and my computer.  Peaceful.  Inspired.

The one part I’m not mentioning?

My design skills are pretty much the worst.

So my husband, mom and third ‘sister-in-law’ will be handling the actually design choices.   I have faith in all of them to do a better job than I have done.  It would be hard not to exceed the bar I have set though.  Let’s be honest.

Mostly, I am excited and ready for all of it.  The new prints, carpets, colors and organization.  An office.  Bedrooms.  A yard.  Space.  Green.

I am so ready for this change.  So until we are ready to move, if you find me daydreaming now you’ll know why.

And if you have any good interior design links to share, please do!

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And Time Marches On

We spent two fabulous weeks gallivanting around the Mediterranean with our extended family, my father-in-law as host.  It was amazing.  A trip we will never forget.  And one that I am sure I will do a photo post about sometime soon. (‘soon’ being November if you know me at all)

Then, we returned last Sunday night and I immediately became engulfed by a sinus infection that had me truly believing my cheek bones just *may* be fractured and my top row of teeth all suddenly needed root canals.  My face was in a lot of pain.  And then my throat, followed by my head and most recently, my aching chest, which is doing its best not to cough because it is aware just how bruised it will feel after each coughing fit.

It has been lovely.

Typically, either of these items could be the basis for a babbling blog post.  But right now there is something else that is filling my brain and clenching my heart.  Something that needs to work itself out of the twisting, conflicted residence it has set up inside of me and find it’s way through to my fingertips before I can wax poetic on subjects like gondolas or phlegm.

Carlitos started Kindergarten last week.

This is something he has been looking forward to for years.  Literally.  Perhaps it is something he has been intuitively looking forward to his whole life.  We are talking about the child who forsook balls and cars for letters and numbers at 18 months of age.  The child who loves workbooks.  Who possibly loves them more than ice cream.  The little boy who, when he learns the definition of an island, squints at you and starts asking questions about what surrounds continents (knowing full well the answer is ‘water’), quickly leading you to a conundrum yourself as you try to clarify why an island is unique when all land masses on the planet are, at some point, surrounded by water.

Yes, the child that more often than most of us would like has us saying, “I…I’m not sure.  I had never thought about that.  I’ll get back to you.”

So, on the one hand, I am ridiculously happy for him.  He is finally embarking on his educational journey through the school system.  He is finally reaching a milestone he has been yearning for and dreaming of and wanting so badly he could taste it.  He has arrived.  He has begun.

And he is loving it just as much he thought he would and as we wanted him to.  Every morning he has woken up long before necessary – showered and dressed hours before we need to leave the house.  When we arrive at school I have to remind him to give us a hug and say goodbye, rather than sprint straight into the classroom.  At pick up his first words are asking to go to whichever playground his ‘school buddies’ are heading to that day or about setting up play dates.  When a girl was crying on his first day he came home and told us, in complete disbelief, “Isn’t that the craziest thing you have ever heard?! She was crying! In kindergarten!  Kindergarten is the BEST thing EVER!  Why would you cry?!”  Meanwhile, a deep grin hasn’t left his face all week.  I am sure his cheeks will be in some pain this weekend once he finally relaxes them.

How can I not be happy for him?

But.

My baby.

I don’t even quite know how to describe my ‘on the other hand.’  I suppose it’s sadness.  I mean, the tears we held back that first morning (and by ‘we’ I mean my husband and I…certainly not Mr. Kindergartener, himself) would lead you to believe so.  But it feels more complex than that.  I feel heavy, knowing that things will never be the same again.  That this is different from his other milestones thus far.  This one is a milestone that will never stop, never end.  It is a milestone that marks the beginning of a path that he will continue to march for the rest of his life.  A path farther and farther away from me.  I know that sounds immature and selfish, but it’s true.  I want him to grow up, be independent, happy, make a life for himself in a strong, sturdy and self-sufficient manner.  But that doesn’t mean that watching him start down that road doesn’t sting a little.  And by ‘sting a little’ of course I mean make my heart ache with a longing that I can’t even verbalize because I don’t even truly know what I’m longing for.

I guess I’m longing to hold onto every precious moment of his short life so far and hold onto him before the outside world begins altering him little by little.  He now spends six and half hours every day with new people and returns to me with new fart jokes, facts, and mannerisms.  I understand that this is life and that I can’t actually hold onto my kids exactly as I have raised them and as I know them forever.  I am not delusional.  But it doesn’t mean that a part of you doesn’t want to do that.  Because it does.

Each day he has returned to me a little less mine.  A little more him.  Able to pick and choose tiny body movements or word choices garnered from friends, teachers, lunch mates.  Using his 4-year-old whims to figure out where he wants to lead and where he wants to follow.

I feel myself tuning into him with all that I have.  Listening to every word, story, laugh, new piece of knowledge.  I am no longer playing the ‘mmm-hmm’ game when he speaks.  I am digesting this new little being.  Getting to know this slightly new him and love him because of who he is, and not just because of the intense bond between a mother and her baby boy.

I wonder if this is how it will always be from here on out, or if it is just an over-dramatized reaction on my part during his first week of Kindergarten.  But one thing is for sure, I miss my little partner in crime.  Chatty, chatty, we would definitely always get caught if we were actually trying to get away with something, partner in crime.

His brother?  He is missing his best friend.  It is pretty hard to watch.  But he is being plied with candy, scooters, skateboards, and the old Xavi standby, balls.  Plenty of balls. Oh, and he is talking up a storm.  Must suddenly be more air in the room or something.

In honor of my first born heading off to school, I took a little trip down memory lane.  Meaning, I watched the Mac slideshow of (literally) 8,000 photos played to that default song they have set up to make you cry at just about any photo.  Do you know the one?  The one that could make you cry at a picture of french fries?  And then I chose out a *select few* (cough…hundred) to share with you.

To begin with, in my defense, he was the child who made me a mother.  And furthermore, he spent 10 months inside of my body.  I grew him.  Like a chia pet or a watermelon.  That makes for kind of a ‘bonding moment.’  Even stronger than waiting in line next to someone for 10 hours to get into the midnight screening of Harry Potter: Deathly Gallow Sallow Something or Other.

Then we bonded immediately after birth when he had to go to NICU and I to emergency surgery.  Look.  I am so infatuated that I don’t even mind someone taking a picture of my nerf ball of a face.

We were both so happy to be home.  But then we seemed to spend the next 21 days or so crying all day.  Yes, we.

I am so happy to now know that we didn’t cut all of those neck holes for nothing.  His gigantic head apparently holds a gigantic brain!

Little know fact: In the original original Shameless the baby brother was actually the drunk main character.  And Carlitos played the part.

Carlitos’ existence led to a lot of fun new firsts for me, like Chuck E Cheese, for example.  Admittedly, while being a bonding moment for both of us, I *may* have been having more fun than he was.

He was the kind of baby that you had no choice but falling in love with. (What? That’s what all moms say? Nahhh.)

The kind of baby who could pull off a full soccer uniform and ponytail at age 1.

The poor kid who has to deal with ‘guinea pig syndrome’ as his new (moronic) parents figure this whole ‘parenting’ thing out.  (We fought so hard against the grandparents when they told us to please cut his hair so it wasn’t in his eyes.  We clearly had some denial issues going on.)

And who HATED the feeling of sand on his feet. (This is where I briefly wondered if he had my blood.  Thankfully, he outgrew his dislike of the beach.)

But never stopped smiling whenever we took him to bookstores.

Carlitos experienced our move from the ‘burbs to Harlem when he turned two and adjusted like a champ.  Ikea ice cream helped.

As did Coney Island corn dogs.

And now living in the best apple picking state in the country!

He also forgave me as I constantly alternated between treating him like a Big Boy…

And suddenly remembering that he was just a brand new little toddler.

No matter how old he would always try to convince he was.

He has always been a child so happy and adaptable to change that he understood New York fashion much faster than I did.

And the New Yorker mentality, too.

And then suddenly he turned into This Guy.  A creative, self-confident, goofy, smart as heck 4-year-old, ready to conquer the world.

Starting with Kindergarten.

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They Don’t Call ‘Em the Trenches for Nothin’

I hired a babysitter today so that I could work with a client, get some food shopping done and, as it turns out, even have a few extra minutes to fill the car with gas and get my eyebrows done.  Success!

The spa, it was not.  But honestly, a few hours alone – even to run errands and work – can sometimes feel pretty relaxing.  It seems like such a treat because it is hard being a working/stay at home mom.  Yes, I adore my kids.  Yes, they are relatively well-behaved. (I believe the babysitter’s exact word was ‘angels.’  Had to throw that in there.) Yes, we do tons of fun stuff.

However, being ‘on’ every minute of every hour of every day can wear you out.  As you may have heard other parents say, ‘We don’t even get to be alone while peeing.’  Truth.

But I have to admit that I forgot that this isn’t the most exhausted I have ever been.

At the grocery store today, I ran into a dad from our neighborhood.  He was alone, too, but he didn’t have the little skip in his step that I did.  His eyes were bloodshot, his shoulders drooping.

As soon as I asked how things were he didn’t hold back:

Life is crazy.  No sleep, house is a mess, everything is in chaos.

Oh, that’s right! You guys have a new baby, don’t you?

Yeah.  Eight weeks.  Did your older son regress when his brother was born?  Develop separation anxiety?

That’s totally normal.  It will get better.  I promise everything and everyone balances out and it will be okay.  Gosh, I forgot how rough it is at first.  And nobody is still hanging around to help after the first week or two.

Exactly.  We have no family around and, and…this is just so tough.  I just want a shower.

How could I forget so quickly?  The extreme, painful fatigue, mood swings, sadness, filth, messiness, fear, stress.  Sounds fun, eh? Of course there is the fresh, intense love washing over you for this little being, the tiny milestones each day and week.  The peace you feel in your heart when you watch them sleep with pursed lips and arms above their warm little heads.  There is heaven in being with a newborn.

And there is also Hell.

Or at least, there was in our house. It was tough and messy and exhausting in a way you never knew existed.  The truth is, I haven’t forgotten what it’s like.  The disbelief that it is so difficult just to fit in two showers a week or wash the dishes…ever.

But perhaps other things have clouded my perception of what is like for the average person to have a new baby at home.  In NYC, it can actually be quite common for people to hire baby nurses to live with them from the time the baby arrives.  Yes, 24-hour-a-day help.  Throw in a live-in nanny?  C’mon now, those families simply aren’t having the same experience we had.  I’m not saying they are bad or uninvolved parents, but I am saying they probably looked more well-rested than we did and perhaps you could see their living room floor without pushing aside burp cloths, diapers, dirty dishes and toys.  Perhaps.

And then there is Facebook.  According to Facebook, we were pretty much the biggest failures ever.  Somehow everyone I know who has had babies in the last five years or so has uploaded the most magnificent photos of their baby, themselves and their homes within weeks of giving birth.  I am praying that outside of the frame lies a mess as impressive as ours was, but who knows.  I am hoping that there was some good lighting, angling and even photoshopping to make the moms look that tiny two weeks after giving birth, but who knows.  I am thinking that maybe they have wrapped their baby in a towel and made a makeshift crib at some point when they realize they forgot to pack a blanket and the pack’n’play, but who knows.

I do know that our house was a disaster.

(If you look closely, you can see that we actually had a visitor with our house in that state. Embarrassing.)

I do know that I looked like, well, I had just gained 65 pounds during pregnancy and lost ,oh, about 8 of those pounds in the days after giving birth.

(About three days post-partum…eating sushi! My joy in this photo outweighs well…my weight.)

I do know that we did some crazy things when we mis-packed, mis-judged or just…messed up.

(I just, I mean. I can’t. Towels?  Paint cans??? How were we allowed to have a second one?!)

I also know that it was such a relief to hear this dad say those things.  I wasn’t happy that he was suffering, but I was happy to hear that we hadn’t been alone.

And thankfully, he was talking to someone who understood where he was standing.  Because I was able to tell him, “It gets better.” (Yes, I think we need to share that phrase.)  New parents need to know that the joy and love remain just as strong, but the living part?  That does get better.  Easier. Which I wouldn’t have even been able to tell this neighbor if he hadn’t been so honest about his current reality.

This is making me think of another post already about the truth about pregnancy…

Here’s a teaser:

Horizontal stripes and a cupcake? Yup.  Proudly, it seems.  Thank God I didn’t live in NYC or use Facebook during my first pregnancy.

It really does, it gets better.

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Green Tomato Stacks with Goat Cheese, Peaches and Balsamic Reduction (Two Ways)

I always thought I’d be famous.  People even told me my name sounded famous:

Annie Sims Messenger.

Obviously, I agreed.

Although the talent that would lead me to fame remained undiscovered, my faith in my own future celebrity never wavered.  I knew something would pop up in time for me to be strutting red carpets in my vibrant years.

Now, at age 31, with two children that have filled my heart with love but my rear with cellulite, and a husband whose ‘unspellable to most’ last name I chose to take, the odds are starting to stack against me.

Plus, I always sing my heart out at Karaoke and have yet to be snatched up by a talent scout.   Not a good sign.  (To all talent scouts reading this post: for future reference I like to frequent Japas27 on the Lower East Side.  I’ll be the one alternating between Journey and Bon Jovi with passion oozing from her vocal chords.)

I am starting to face the cold, hard truth: My face may never grace US Weekly magazine, my Jimmy Choos may never stride down red carpets while swishing bolts of Badgely Mischka tulle, my eyes may never burn from flashing bulbs as I selflessly throw myself in front of my precious children as the paparazzi tries to figure out how I like my Starbucks.

The world may never end up being graced by my sparkling talent in…well, whatever it was that would have ended up shooting me to stardom.

So, I have decided to expand my horizons.  Or rather, become more flexible with my previous definition of celebrity.

I am adding ’15 minutes of fame as a chef’ to the list of acceptable routes toward my name in lights.

And with that announcement, I give you my newest creation and (unofficial) entry for Top Chef:

Green Tomato Stacks with Goat Cheese, Peaches and Balsamic Reduction (Two Ways) :

Ingredients:

~ green tomatoes

~ flour

~ seasoning – salt, pepper, dried basil, curry powder

~ goat cheese

~ peaches

~ balsamic vinegar

~ vanilla

~ brown sugar

To Make:

Wash the green tomatoes and slice them into 1/4 to 1/2 inch slices.  Add about 1/4 teaspoon of each seasoning to the flour and mix.  Cover the bottom of a frying pan with canola or vegetable oil and heat on med-hi until small bubbles form around a wooden spoon handle when placed in the middle of the pan.  With half of the slices, pass them through the flour mixture until coated and then place gently in the frying pan.  Flip once the bottom edges look golden brown.  Put the other half of the slices on a grill, flipping once grill marks appear on the underside. Be sure use a paper towel to pat excess grease off of the fried tomatoes once golden brown on both sides.  Let both styles cool.

Add about 2 cups of balsamic vinegar to a small saucepan, along with 1-2 tablespoons of brown sugar and a teaspoon of vanilla and heat on medium. Whisk every few minutes as it reduces.  When bubbles are small, sturdy and shiny, turn the heat off and let cool.  You can taste to see whether you would like it more tangy (add balsamic), sweeter (brown sugar), or thicker (cook a few minutes more) and let cool completely once it is to your liking.

Dice the peaches (about 2 or 3) into 1/8 inch cubes.

To assemble, spread a thin layer of goat cheese, sprinkle with the diced peaches and then drizzle with the balsamic reduction.

No need to serve with utensils!  These are easy to eat with your hands in a bite or two.  The perfect item to pass around at everything from a fancy cocktail hour to a corn hole championship BBQ.  …or to have Padma and Tom consume in two perfectly sized (and delectable!) bites in your first Top Chef competition.

If you would prefer, you can easily make one style only, rather than ‘two ways.’  I should note that I brought these to a cookout and the grilled versions were everyone’s favorite when forced (perhaps aggressively) to choose.

If possible, green tomatoes stolen picked from your mother’s garden (gratis!) somehow taste better.

It’s funny how nature doesn’t need false eyelashes and rouge to look so darn pretty, isn’t it?

You do NOT need to buy some fancy schmancy grill thing just to make sure tomatoes and such don’t fall through the cracks.  We grabbed this one for about $4.50 at the local hardware store.  Worked like a charm.

This is pre-flip.  Notice the oil only comes about halfway up the slices.

Small, shiny, hard-looking bubbles, see? Notice the sauce line on the inside of the saucepan, also.  You can see how far down the vinegar has reduced.

Millions of peaches, peaches for me…

In true Top Chef fashion, I packed each item in tupperware or saranwrap and transported it to the party site before assembling.  Pro Status.

One way…

Two ways.

I’m sure Padma’s manicure would look more professional, BUT that stack looks like the real deal, does it not?

Enjoy!

(I would be flattered and thrilled if you chose to try this recipe and/or share it!  However, I will have to balsamic reduction* and feather you if you don’t give me proper credit for creating it or links to this site.  Be forewarned…)

*I like my balsamic reduction quite sticky.

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Let’s Keep it Classy, Facebook

I do not love my friends.

I do not think kids with cancer are beautiful.

I do not recognize any movies from my youth.

I do not want that man to get the transplant he needs to live.

I do not wish we had a cure for…well, anything life-threatening.

Basically, I am the worst human being ever.

Or so says Facebook, anyway.

Listen, as you may know, I LOVE the Facebook.  I love telling friends and family and readers how I’m feeling, what my kids are up to, how we are spending our days. If I stubbed my toe.  And yes, even what or where I am eating sometimes. (Although you’d die if you knew how much restraint I actually use in that arena.  Laughable only because I know I still share about food A LOT.)

I also love reading all about friends, family, readers and old classmates or neighbors.  Do you ever wonder if anyone has actually taken the time to scroll through all 213 “Photos of You’?  Yes, they have.  It’s me.  I usually give myself away when I can’t help but comment on a photo from two years ago of your adorable puppy or sunglasses-wearing toddler.  But I promise, I am not a stalker.  Or SWF.  Or into you.

I just truly find people interesting.

One of my majors in college was Cultural Anthropology.  I figure that now that I have a degree in studying people and cultures everyone has to stop simply calling me ‘nosy.’  I am a cultural anthropologist, guys.  It’s way more dignified and official than that.

Communication is also an area where I excel and show great interest.  There is no denying my need to talk, listen and share.  To begin with, I have a blog.  Classic sign of a communicator.  But if you know me in real life, you know that I ‘communicate’ just as much in spoken words as I do written.

So, yeah, Facebook is right up my alley.  As are Instagram, Twitter and even Pinterest.

I know there are lots of people who find Facebook – and just about anything anyone does on there – annoying.  To them, I say: For the life of me, I can’t figure out why you have a Facebook account.  I don’t like feeling pain so I do my best not to punch myself.  These things seem like basic common sense to me.

No, I am not one of those people who is trying to find issues with Facebook.  I see it for what it is and enjoy it and participate accordingly.

But suddenly I am made to feel horrible about myself at every turn as soon as I sign on. Click ‘Like’ if you love your mother!  If you hate cancer! If you think bullying needs to stop!  If you don’t want this baby to die! If you think murderers are bad!

I have yet to click ‘Like’ on any of these posts.  Let alone within the three second time limit.

I do love you, mom. Even if I didn’t click ‘Like’ as Facebook told me to do. (Because we all know clicking ‘Like’ on a Facebook post is equal to calling your mom on her birthday and remembering her favorite type of flowers when it comes to showing love, right? Of course!). And sir, I hope you still got your transplant despite only receiving 34,999 ‘Likes’ and missing my 35,000 click of approval.

I’m feeling some guilt.

Okay, lies, not so much guilt…since all of these “Click ‘Like’ if you…” posts are THE MOST RIDICULOUS THINGS EVER.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice.

But seriously, can we stop this silliness, guys? I think MySpace is still technically on life support somewhere out on the internets if you can’t help but post stuff like this.  I am sure they would be more than happy to have you (back).

Let’s leave Facebook for the classy, important updates like “LNO!  Watch out, tequila!” and all of our painted toes in front of any formation of warm water, okay?

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The Photo Edition

By request (Honest to God I Swear No Really), here are the photos I have from BlogHer’12.  To be honest, I don’t have that many since my camera phone mysteriously only works when I take photos with Instagram and I was trying not to completely photo bomb my Instagram account.  Someday soon I will make it to the Apple Doctors and find out why my phone hates me.

This outfit took an entire styling team.  And by ‘styling team’ I mean, I obnoxiously posted multiple photos of different outfits to my personal Facebook page and requested feedback.  Then, I ultimately went with whatever I wanted to wear anyway, despite cries that it was too matchy matchy.  I would like to think that I stood out at the first evening of events and perhaps that is why I successfully met almost all of my favorite bloggers in one single night.

This was 9:00 am on Friday morning, where I usually would have found myself half-asleep sitting on the couch and letting the boys watch ‘just one more Kipper’ before we get dressed to go to the park.   But noooo, this Friday I found myself sandwiched between two extremely handsome, elegant and friendly men.  Yes, that is me awkwardly trying to keep my sweat off of Badgely and Mischka, while simultaneously not letting my hands rest on their bottoms.  Modeling is hard, you guys!

A portion of my day was also spent exploring the Expo Center in search of magnificent companies…and garlic grilled cheese samples.  Let’s not lie, Annie.  To be honest, even if not all companies are a perfect match for me or this blog, it is exciting to see so many new products before they hit the shelves.  I wish I saw the one above and thought about how perfect it would be for all of my scuba diving expeditions in Bali, but really, all I could think about is how life saving this would be every time I go to pee while forgetting my phone is in my back pocket.   Genius.

When you need to escape the madness of 5,000 women (and about 12 lucky men), you can sneak up to some of the hosted suites.  This one was my favorite, as they had padded decorated the entire suite with white furniture, walls and fabric.  Something about it made me feel right at home…? Oh, and they had mountains of amazing cheeses (Manchego, Roquefort, Camembert, Bouchon de Chévre…yes, it was accented, capitalized level Fancy Cheese), blackberries and rosé.  And iphone chargers.  These guys were smart.

When you wanted to be reminded that you were there for a blogging conference – and not just being transplanted into a strange and unfamiliar world where you meet designers, eat fancy food and wear pants before 11 am – there were sessions (I was a good student and attended all time slots.) and events like the Voices of the Year readings.  Here is my friend Liz reading her piece about her stolen Gordita Fund in front of thousands.  Hardcore, tiny and hysterical is how I like my friends.  Okay, not all friends, but Liz for sure.

Let’s get back to the wining and dining, shall we?  Truthfully, this was the first year that I had private events to attend…and I freaking loved it!  Bring on the fancy!  I am not going to pretend it isn’t fabulous being wooed and entertained and spoiled.  It totally is.  This was a beautiful dinner at Serafina hosted by UrbanSitter.com (more on their wonderful company later, hopefully…) and organized by the super funny Ilana of MommyShorts.  I felt like a teeny, tiny fish.  But a happy fish.

And then I came home at 1:00 am to these.  Yes, the boys’ weekend was apparently off to an amazing start.  I started to feel like perhaps they didn’t even miss their estrogen-filled family member all that much.

By Saturday I was ready for sleep, water and a foot massage.  I had the next best thing as an attendee at The Glamorous Luncheon, hosted by GlamorousMoms at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. Perfect meal, perfect hostess, and perfect table mates.

Oh, and in addition to lovely swag bags, we basically got to do some personal shopping, as Shannon walked around and let us choose our own silk Karen Kane scarf.   That woman knows how to make a girl feel glamorous! She sure chose the right website domain name.

Saturday night, I opened the fridge to get some water and found the above JUG of Martinelli’s apple juice.  You know the apple juice that is super yummy but I’m pretty sure is actually so pricey simply due to the adorable apple-shaped glass bottle in which it arrives?  Yeah, my husband and the boys managed to find the steroid size.  You do not want to know what the price tag said.  On a related note, it was about this time that I became positive nobody was going to be all that excited to have Sergeant Mommy back in charge on Sunday.

And finally, here is what I looked like at the end of the day on Saturday.  My eyes actually felt as though they were made of concrete, my stomach as though it was filled with gymnasts and my feet as though someone had been squeezing them into sandpaper vises for three days.

But my heart was happy and my spirit excited.  I am ready to do big things.

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5,000 Horny Camels?

So, I went to BlogHer and everyone kept pointing at me and saying, “You don’t belong here, lady.  Go home.”  And I cried and got on the subway and headed all the way back to Brooklyn, dripping with sweat and tears.

Then I woke up.

Kidding.

I didn’t have any nightmares about BlogHer, but as you know, I did have some concerns heading into it about possibly not feeling a part of it all.  Although I can’t say I found myself in any consistent group throughout the weekend, I did try to focus on connections in general.

It worked.

This was definitely my most personally successful year at BlogHer.  I met pretty much all of my favorite ‘big bloggers’ and they were all truly kind, warm and hysterical in person.  I knew I had good taste in blogs.

Also, instead of racing through the Expo Center and grabbing all of the free board games and ipads I could, I deliberately chose about 10 companies that intrigue me or that I already know I love and took time to talk and connect.  Okay, so partially this was due to the fact that you were expected to tweet photos, ‘like’ Facebook pages and write blog posts just to be entered to possibly win a gift basket of multi-colored nose hair trimmers, but it had also been my intention this year to focus on a small group of companies.

The only products being given away with abandon were vibrators. Which probably says…well, something about our reputations.  I’m not going to over-analyze.  Since I didn’t have a single toy in my swag bags for my boys, they now have ‘dancing sticks’ in every color.  That are under strict orders to be hidden before any play dates. “So your friends won’t get jealous.”

As far as I could tell, the other reputation that precedes BlogHer attendees is that we detest hydration.  Which makes sense, because last year they probably overheard us all chanting, “Save water, drink beer!”  Apparently, we all confused San Diego with Cancun spring break.  It’s understandable.  If any official BlogHer employee is reading this, I would like to go on record as saying that was all a big misunderstanding; Personally, I do in fact love water.  I try to drink some every day.  Or funny things start to happen, like I *think* I am crying at the Voices of the Year readings, but no tears fall.

Truthfully, I had so much fun this weekend.  There were old friends, new friends, people who I hope will become friends, companies whose ideas excite me, and a large amount of learning.  I finally felt like I am doing the right thing on this here blog: building slowly, staying true to who I am, being honest and hoping you understand my lil’ bit o’ crazy when I give you a peek.

It also made me very thankful for the faithful, kind, funny and supportive readers I have.

You are The Best.

Oh, and there was a robot unicorn cake. Small detail, you know.

Which, of course, I assumed was filled with yummy rainbow cake on the inside.  Until I found these laying around near the back dumpsters…

And it’s alllll starting to make sense…

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Belonging

For eight years I spent a portion of my summer at Camp Favorite. (Real name.  I know.) When I was seven I begged my parents to let me go and they agreed to five nights.  By the time I was fourteen I was spending a month there as a Counselor in Training (CIT).

I loved it, which I guess is pretty obvious.  There were many counselors who returned each summer.  And an even larger number of campers who came back year after year, meaning that in my final year there as a CIT, there were many of us who had known each other for half of our young lives.

And yet, I did not ever truly feel like I was part of it all.  Like I belonged.  A true Camp Favorite regular.

When a counselor would remember my name the following summer I was always truly surprised.  When fellow campers followed up and wrote letters to me throughout the year, I responded eagerly with letters of my own, impressed that they thought to stay in touch.

This is not to say that I did not fully absorb myself in all that Camp Favorite had to offer.  I most certainly did.  When we had to create binders as CITS that listed hundreds of camp songs, activities, sailing terms, grace songs, arts and crafts and bike trails, I filled that sucker in faster than a raffle ticket.  Oh, I was definitely involved and enthusiastic.  I adored camp.

But I never felt like a true member of the group.

I have seen this pattern in myself again and again.  Growing up in a small town, I never shook the feeling of being an outsider, no matter how many years passed.   In college, I never joined a sorority, didn’t stay in touch with the groups within which I did make friends, and can clearly see on Facebook that I am the one missing from bridesmaid photos.  During Teach for America I not only trained and taught with my corps, but spent two years in graduate school with them.  And yet, I somehow never felt like I was ‘legitimately’ part of the crew.

So, here I find myself again.  I am about to attend a huge conference, called BlogHer, for my third time.  Yes, I’ve made friends.  No, I don’t sit in the corner.  Yes, I read and comment on a variety of blogs throughout the year.  No, I don’t go around punching people in the face when I meet them.  Yes, I have worn deodorant each year.

As I can imagine you have figured out, I don’t quite feel connected to the community, though. Or not as connected as one might assume I would feel after three years.

Clearly the common denominator is me.  The people in all of the these groups are not bad people.  And I am not saying that I am a bad person, either.  I just repeatedly notice that while it is easy for me to become friends with people, I don’t do well becoming – let alone remaining – a solid fixture in any group.   What that says about me as a person, I still don’t really know.  But for the moment, I am most concerned with what it means for me during this conference.

Many bloggers suffer from social anxiety issues.  Their ability to shine online, from the privacy of their own homes, makes sense.  But I don’t feel nervous about the social situations I will face at BlogHer, per se.  Going into a room full of strangers – while not always super comforting – does not exactly give me the sweats or shakes.  Instead, I feel some anxiety (and some sadness, truthfully) about the fact that I still feel like I am attending a conference made up almost entirely of strangers.  That I am somehow not a valid attendee.  Like a fraud, almost.

That I don’t belong.

My time will be spent hanging out with the friends I have made in the past two years of blogging, meeting as many new people as possible and participating in everything I can for three days.  While all of that is fun, and the learning that takes place at BlogHer is astounding, I am hoping to have a new experience this year.

I am hoping that I can figure out how to see myself as a part of this.  As a component equally as important and legitimate as any other.

As one of the gang.

Wish me luck!

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