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
I feel like alone time is in short supply these days. Here’s how I know. The other day I was trying to use the bathroom with 10 month-old Summer (hungry and whining) on my lap and Dylan jumping all around me, demanding that I join in for a rousing chorus of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It’s a lot of pressure to try to do my business in the W.C. while singing and consoling.
But it’s not just the bathroom – I’m even more greedy. I want actual alone time in my entire apartment. Let me clarify. My husband watching “The Office” while I sit two feet away engrossed in my email doesn’t count as alone time – not for either of us. But Rick doesn’t even seem to need it. He never has. This is a quote from him: “I don’t want alone time. When I’m not working, I just want to hang out with you and the girls.” Seriously? How is that possible? I’m here to tell you that although I can be very fun and fabulous, I’m definitely not that great. Really, I’m not.
As much as I adore Rick and love to spend time with him, I really need quiet, relaxing time just to myself. When I used to commute 2 1/2 hours a day, Rick thought my commuting time should count as my alone time. Umm… I don’t think so. Sitting in traffic and listening to 1010 WINS on that annoying, repetitive news-traffic-weather loop just didn’t do it for me.
What’s nice about being truly alone (or almost alone since the kids are technically sleeping in the other room) is that you don’t feel guilty for not talking to your spouse. We don’t have to discuss what to watch on television. I can decide. There is no pressure to pick out a new faucet online to replace the one that keeps periodically shooting off the spout, drenching the entire bathroom in water. There is no one there to see me spill chocolate sprinkles, yet again, on our couch. I can just spill. And I can just be. And after awhile, I can look forward to Rick coming home.
mama bird notes
One of the mama bird readers and I both stumbled upon a great product at the New York City Parent PLAY/ Bashed event this past weekend. It’s a company that makes incredible sweets – free of peanuts, tree nuts, eggs and milk. Find out more by clicking on “drooling over this” under the menu bar. While you’re drooling, check out the lip gloss for only one dollar. I don’t know how they make money but who cares.
One thing that astounds me about parenthood is how long you can go without knowing another mother’s name – a really ridiculous amount of time. Several months ago, I took my daughters on a play date to another mom’s apartment. I met the mom at a kids class and she was nice enough to invite us over on a crummy, rainy day. Her name? No clue. I kept meaning to ask and then it just seemed too late. During our play date, I scanned the apartment for a piece of mail, a personalized picture frame, anything that would hold the answer. But I saw nothing. I mean, I couldn’t dig through her drawers. Nice lady. Whatever her name is.
And it’s not just the names. You can know everything about a child and know almost nothing about the mom. Take my friend Julie. I have known Julie for three years. I can tell you endless facts about her daughter Ella. Ella is an extremely picky eater, loves lollipops, currently hates dresses (although her parents did manage to get her to wear one for her birthday), big telletubbies fan and has fabulous red hair. But Julie? One day I just happened to find out that this former prosecutor used to be a ballerina. Ooh la la. Then two days ago, I discover that she is fluent in French. How many other sophisticated secrets is Julie keeping? Now I’m not sure I’m even savvy enough to be her friend.
But sometimes it’s just not about the names or the professions or the past lives. It’s about having someone to talk to about pacifier addictions, toddler tantrums or preschool admissions stress. Of course, often there are husbands around. But most sweet hubbys want to stop talking and fix the problem – even if there isn’t an immediate solution. So a mama needs a few gals around.
Several weeks after I gave birth to Summer (the artist formerly known as Presley), another mom, whom I didn’t know, approached me at the playground and asked if I was ok. The truth? Not really. And I couldn’t fake it. I told her about my nauseating fatigue and horrible mastitis, a very painful infection from breastfeeding. A week later, I ran into her again. She said, “I’ve been thinking about you. How are you?” Thankfully, I was much better. I was truly touched that she cared enough to ask. On that day, our names didn’t matter at all.
Have you ever noticed that there are good compliments and not-so-good compliments?
The other day I went roller blading with my husband. As we sped along the Hudson River, I said to him, “Wow, do you remember how bad you used to be at roller blading? You were really bad.” I’ll admit it. This is not a great compliment.
Perhaps, “Wow, you are a kickin’ roller blader now. Look at the moves on you,” would have been a much nicer way to say it.
I really should know better. I was running around doing some errands this week and I bumped into an acquaintance who I usually only see at parties now and then. Apparently he is used to seeing me a little more polished and put together because on this particular day, he said, “you look so casual.” That was it. Not “casually beautiful” or “casually gorgeous” or “casual like a super model” – just casual. Hmm… What is the proper response to that? “Yes, you are right. I am casual in these yoga pants and sweatshirt. And you my friend, are so super fancy in your work clothes.” I didn’t say much of anything but casually hurried off to do my errands.
Today at my daughter’s preschool, one of the staff said, “we all here think you look like a prettier version of Meredith Grey from ‘Grey’s Anatomy.'” O.K., that seems like a real compliment. I’m not sure I look anything like her. Here you decide.
This is Meredith Grey. This is me.
I don’t see it. But I’ll take the compliment. Anytime someone says your “prettier” than someone else, well, that sure sounds good. Of course, it’s at the expense of someone else but I’m sure actress Ellen Pompeo can bounce back. If you see her, tell her how great she looks.
But the best compliment I got all week was from 3 year-old Dylan. We were walking down the street and she suddenly stopped, kissed my hand and said, “you are the best mommy in the entire world.” Now that girl knows how to give a compliment.
mama bird notes:
In our beauty diary this week, Alex, a self-described product junky, is mooching shampoo from her daughter Noa. To find out why, click on “the beauty diary” under the menu bar.
Along with some beauty product, who doesn’t love a new bag? If you subscribe to the mama bird diaries by the end of November, you will be entered to win this new, smart, stylin’ Hayden-Harnett bag. $300 value. Washed leather in a fab eggplant color, vintage look, too cool for school. Just enter your email address on the right hand side of the screen, under “subscribe to this feed” and follow the directions from there. It’s free and no email addresses are ever shared. Would I do that to you? Now for all you faithful readers, who are already subscribed, don’t worry, you are already entered. So good luck mama birds.
There was a time in my life when I never thought much about Spanx. Perhaps if I had a wedding, I might throw a pair on. But we were simply acquaintances. Then I had two children and well, Spanx became like a close friend. You know one of those people who makes you feel a little uncomfortable at times but you still go out with him or her practically every night anyway.
Here is the scenario. I’m going out to dinner with my husband or perhaps to a friend’s birthday party. First, I put on my outfit minus the Spanx. I feel comfortable. I feel good. I look in the mirror. Not so good. I look at my sagging, little belly. I sigh. I strip down, put on the Spanx and then get dressed again. My skin feels a little itchy under the tight nylon and spandex combo. The waistband is digging into my mid-section. But I look in the mirror. Ahh… that’s the girl I remember.
If I really had balls, I would take a picture of my tummy with and without the Spanx just to really show you the difference. But I just can’t do it.
Along with my collection of Spanx, I’m always on the look out for a good “poochie” top. I think my friend Julie came up with this term. A poochie top is a shirt that doesn’t cling too much to the stomach. But it’s a delicate balance because it can’t be too free-flowing either or it will make a girl look pregnant (when she’s not). Basically, a good top will hide the pooch but still look sleek and cute. It’s tough to find and sometimes I feel like I’m on a post pregnancy scavenger hunt. My old body-hugging t-shirts and blouses just sit there, neatly folded, mocking me from the closet. They are so very cruel.
I did just order a Pilates core work-out DVD. Do you think 3 year-old Dylan would be interested in watching that instead of Elmo? Probably not. Maybe I’ll pop it in after the kids are in bed. Or maybe I’ll just put on my Spanx, sit on the couch and drink a glass of Shiraz.
mama bird notes
Contributing mama Daphne Biener has successfully battled the princesses in her home. But there is a new nemesis lurking out there. Can her girls be saved? Click on “contributing mamas” under the menu bar. Daphne’s in trouble and you smart mamas are her only hope.