So when are you too old to have long hair? My friend Sarah asked this question a few weeks ago. I don’t really know the answer. I have long hair now and I’m going to be 40. O.k., it’s still three years off but as Sally (aka Meg Ryan) once expressed, it’s out there.
A mini skirt? I’m definitely too old for that. What about signing up for Facebook? This social network on the web is the online stomping grounds for high school and college students. But now, it’s apparently also becoming a business networking tool for the thirty and forty something crowd. So I created my Facebook profile. I felt like a cool hipster until I realized that I was creating my profile on a Saturday night, at the same time all the ultra groovy girls were out doing way more fabulous things. Damn. Now I need to search for Facebook friends other than my 20-something babysitters.
It seems like you’re never too old to do a lot of things. My mother, at the age of almost 65, plans to attend Smith College to earn a master’s in social work. This accomplished woman already has a masters from Yale and a PhD. Girlfriend apparently likes to study.
My father has one more year until he retires. Then he plans to learn how to play the piano, hold orphan babies in Romania and perhaps, join the senior ice hockey league on Cape Cod. I hear my dad was pretty good on skates back at Denison.
My uncle, who’s in his late 50s, just moved to Roatan with his wife and twin babies. No, Roatan is not a town in Connecticut. It’s off the coast of Honduras. That is one adventurous spirit. They are ballsy.
But it’s always nice to be reminded that your entire life can be an opportunity to do and try new things. I really like that. You’re never too old to reinvent yourself. Or to just be yourself. Long hair and all.
mama bird notes
For New York City mamas – it’s a mama bird giveaway. You could win 4 tickets to the Big Apple Circus for this Wednesday, November 7th. 6:30 pm at Lincoln Center. This is not an ordinary circus. The show promises hilarity on the ground, gymnastics in the air, soaring ballerinas and grandma the clown. I’ve seen the show. They deliver. Email me at Kelcey@mamabirddiaries.com by Tuesday at noon to enter this big apple giveaway.
Finally, looking for a stylish way to display your child’s artistic talent, click on “drooling over this” to read more.
Did you see the abs on Paula Radcliffe? In case you missed them, here is a picture. This British long distance runner won the women’s division of the New York City marathon this weekend. But that’s not even the most impressive part. She had a baby in January. That’s January of this year. Apparently, a little marathon training will flatten a post pregnancy belly.
I am really in awe of these marathon runners. Gosh, I feel really good when I just get through an hour and a half Ashtanga yoga class. I can’t even imagine the feeling of accomplishment when you run 26.2 miles. That’s a lot of street to cover. Maybe I could forget the 26 and just do the “point two.” I wonder how much flat belly you get for point two. I’m guessing not a lot. Plus, I doubt you would draw big, boisterous crowds calling out your name, cheering you on in a point two race. And doesn’t that seem like the best part? “Go Kelcey. You can do it. Only point one to go. Hey, great abs!”
My friend Lanie has run a few marathons. Why must she make me feel so damn lazy? I’m just content to watch the New York City marathon. Dylan, Summer and I headed to the upper east side on Sunday to experience the energy and frenzy of the race. I love the shouting and cheering and me not running. 3 year-old Dylan didn’t quite grasp the excitement. The crowds and the noise were too overwhelming and too close to nap time. 10 month-old Summer seemed contently indifferent.
But to me, the marathon is magical. When you watch it, you really feel like you can tap into all that energy and accomplish something. I hope I get inspired by yummy mummy Paula Radcliffe. If she can give birth in January and win the New York City marathon in November, I can certainly tear the plastic wrap off my power Pilates workout tape. And maybe even start thinking about what else I want to accomplish by next November.
I get a bit irritated this time of year when perky blond news anchors promise me an extra hour of sleep courtesy of daylight savings. Of course, in full disclosure, I used to be one of those cheery news people and I would tell viewers, with a big broad grin, that they should look forward to an additional hour of dream time. Obviously, I didn’t have kids. Now I do.
This weekend, we will all turn our clocks back an hour. But once you have kids, there is no extra hour of sleep. Young children don’t know it’s daylight savings. Although I’m going to have a good, long conversation with 10 month-old Summer about how she can sleep late on Sunday morning. But you know how she is. She likes to set the alarm so she can fit in a jog before “Meet the Press.”
I remember obsessing over daylight savings when Dylan was a baby. I was part of a weekly playgroup and all of us moms talked at length about how to handle daylight savings. Should we put our babies to bed a bit early? Try to transition them slowly throughout the week? With all the discussions, you would think we were trying to come up with a new Iraqi constitution.
So of course, now that I’m a teensy bit older and magnitudes wiser, I no longer stress over these types of things. Or maybe I do. Right now, I’ll ask anyone who turns my way at the playground how to wean 10 month-old Summer. She doesn’t take a bottle. Never has. Doesn’t like the sippy cup. The straw cup is her beverage holder of choice. How am I supposed to convince her that a straw cup is a much more satisfying way to receive her milk than my breasts? As for Dylan, I could give you all the tedious details of how I’m desperately trying to entice her to regularly use the potty. But really, why would you keep reading?
For those of you with older children, you know better. Been there, done that, already forgotten about it. Summer will stop breastfeeding. Dylan will learn to use the potty. I will worry about something else.
mama bird notes
Your mama says what? The mama bird diaries brings you a new feature – the mama poll! I mean, how have you lived without it? Tell us what you really think in our anonymous poll and the following week, I’ll give you the sinful results. Since it’s anonymous, no topic is off limits. Click on “your mama says what?” under the menu bar.
In this week’s beauty diary, Alex is here to turn your beauty routine green. You’ll be an earth goddess in minutes. Click on “the beauty diary” to read more.
Finally, contributing mama Daphne Biener has some unconventional advice on how to deal with all that Halloween candy staring you down at home. Click on “contributing mamas” if you’re still craving those miniature Snickers.
What’s not to like about Halloween? Chocolate? Check. Free stuff? Check. Grown adults looking like jackasses? Check. Cute kids in funny costumes? Check. Seriously, this holiday rocks and rolls with good times. I wish all this sassy Halloween fun lasted through those depressing January and February months. That’s when we need a few saffron colored pumpkins and a little face paint. Halloween is the bomb.
3 year-old Dylan is not into it.
This was our conversation Halloween morning as we walked to the coffee shop on West 11th Street.
Dylan: Look at all that dog poop on the ground.
Me: I know honey, people are supposed to pick it up. Are you excited about Halloween?
Dylan: No. Look, more poop.
Me: Honey, what’s not to like? You get to dress up like Cinderella (Dylan insists her Tinker Bell costume is Cinderella and I’m not going to squabble over the details), collect candy, stay up late… aren’t you excited?
Dylan: No. Why don’t people pick up the poop?
Me: (loud sigh) I don’t know. The dogs’ owners should. It’s gross.
I didn’t always love Halloween. When I was 8 years-old, I dressed up as Olivia Newton-John at the end of Grease when she finally dresses like a slut and gets the one that she wants. She wore a tight black outfit, spiky heels and curled her Sandra Dee locks. Except that I wore a black leotard, matching tights and my grandmother’s short, curly wig. Nobody knew who I was. I looked like some granny at an aerobics class. Very sad October 31st.
By late afternoon of this Halloween, Dylan had warmed up to the idea a bit. We trick or treated at the stores along Bleeker Street. She never actually uttered the words, “trick or treat” but she did say, “thank you” and didn’t get too mad when everyone called her “Tink” instead of “Cinderella.” I asked her to be extra cute in the Marc Jacobs store (not sure why because it’s not like they were giving out free posh tops to the moms with the most darling kids). As for next year, no Cinderella/Tinker Bell mishmash. She says she wants to be a princess ballerina. Fine with me, whatever the heck that is.
mama bird notes
Earth friendly baby blankets made from bamboo? It’s true. And they are lovely. Click on “drooling over this” under the menu bar to read more.
Plus, your sophisticated palette doesn’t have to suffer just because you now have a few kiddos. Click on Notes on a Party to read my recommendations for savory New York City restaurants that are also kid-friendly.
I have this weird relationship with garbage men. Is that the P.C. job title? Perhaps now it’s sanitation consultants. Or maybe, “those guys who are taking away my trash but hey, wait, did my lame super throw the recycles in there too?” But honestly, that’s really too long for a job title.
So I’ll go ahead and call them garbage men. I’ve always been a bit obsessed with trash. As a child, I was on major litter patrol. It was a one kid mission to beautify America. At age 12, I traveled to Singapore with my mom and just marveled as the clean, polished streets. I think the government there has to resort to whipping and other forms of torture to make this happen, but really, you should see those sidewalks. When you accidentally drop food on the ground there, it’s not a five second rule. It’s like a 3 day rule.
I’ve never really been able to conceptualize where our trash goes. We all produce so much of it, everyday. So I feel enormously grateful that these men come along and pick it all up and take it away to that magical landfill place. But I’ll admit that a garbage man is not the sexiest of professions. It’s hard to ride around in a big, stinky truck all day and be some kind of hot, chick magnet.
Because of this – I try to make an extra effort to look garbage men in the eye and smile when I’m face to face with them. I usually run into them every morning, while waiting at a light with my stroller. But I’m beginning to notice my friendliness is perhaps being misconstrued as something more. I smile at these guys, and sometimes, they grin back a little too broadly. And they seem to do some showing off, as they heave the trash can over their shoulder, with muscles tightening, and dump the contents into the back of the grimy truck.
Is this the creative imagination of a married, 30-something woman with two kids, who is admittedly obsessed with trash collection and clean streets? Possibly. But in the end, there’s really nothing wrong with a little flirtation with your local garbage collector – especially if he has a poochy belly, a mustache and a tight stained t-shirt. That guy is my favorite. And how about the guys who pick up the recycling? Ooh yes. Cardboard and cans. Now that’s sexy.
mama bird notes