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During the summer, I sometimes begin to feel like the last mom in Manhattan. The parks become strangely quiet. You can actually get into a decent restaurant before 9:45 pm on a Saturday night. And the Starbucks’ line shortens considerably. But all this quiet leaves me feeling a bit lonely and restless. With relatives in nearby coastal towns, there are plenty of places for me to escape but a change of venue come with a price. Packing. I get nervous just typing the word.

Packing has never been my thing. It’s my husband’s thing. He can pack for a trip in 10 minutes. For me, it can take hours. It can take days. I agonize over what to bring. Whatever I want to bring is lying in a crumbled ball at the bottom of the laundry basket. Within moments of beginning the process, I’m paralyzed. At that moment, I can’t remember what I’ve ever worn a day in my life. Invariably, I forget something big (like underwear or my glasses) or I pack 15 pairs of shoes for a four day holiday or I bring a top that I haven’t worn in a year. That top shouldn’t be in my closet, never mind in my suitcase.

These days I have to pack for myself, my toddler and my baby. How much pressure can a girl take? Not just the clothes but the baby food, the diapers, the monitors, the sippy cups, the bibs, the wipes, the books and toys for the car …. I’m really starting to sweat. Plus, my toddler Dylan likes to peruse the suitcase and pull out items as I’m putting them in. You know, she likes to “help out.” Thanks Dylan but I got it.

Once we finally zip up the suitcases, I feel such relief. But it only lasts until we strap the kids into their car seats. That’s when the crying usually begins.


My 3 1/2-year-old daughter Dylan is bilingual – well, sort of.

Despite hiring a part-time Spanish speaking nanny, my daughter doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. Since Patricia only helps me out once a week, it just isn’t enough.

But Dylan is picking up another language: Yiddish. Unlike myself, my husband, Rick, is Jewish and my mekhutonim(in-laws) are of course Jewish and that means a whole lot of Yiddish is going on. My daughter now talks about bumping her keppe (head) and washing her hentes (hands). She can’t wait to visit her Bubbie (grandmother) and Zaydie (grandfather).

My little girl talks about making a pish (pee) in the potty and needing diaper creme on her tuches (bum). And, like every toddler, she certainly knows how to kvetch (complain) or be a noodge (a pain in the tuches).

O.K., so maybe this wasn’t the language I envisioned but so far I still understand what she’s talking about and I’ve never heard her Bubbie or Zaydie yell at her for eating cornflakes.

Although I do hear her bat mitvah will cost us a fortune. Oy vey.



So today I walked into my local coffee shop to order my much needed large, non-fat, no foam, extra hot mocha and the guy behind the counter says, “What can I get for you ma’am?” Other than that coffee, I would love, absolutely love, if people would stop calling me “ma’am.” I know it’s a sign of respect. I know no one is trying to offend me. Even so, each time I hear it, it makes me feel 40,000 years old. And for the record, I’m only 37. So you see the discrepancy there.

I really believe that here is no one (other than maybe some 85-year-old woman living in the deep south, drinking peach ice tea on her wrap around porch) who wants to be called ma’am and it probably pisses her off too. What happened to a nice “miss?” “Miss” sounds young. “Miss” sounds bouncy. “Miss” sounds like you still wear strawberry lip balm. I love strawberry lip balm. So please, call me “miss,” hand me my coffee, I’ll smile, hand you my 4 dollars and 34 cents and we’ll do it again tomorrow.


Today I told my 2 ½ year-old to stop sweating the small stuff. As you can imagine, it did not have a great impact on her latest meltdown. She was terribly upset over the fact that our lab Martini had grabbed the top of our water bottle and was using it as a toy as she pranced down the hall. Of course by the time I recovered the bottle cap, it was chewed and crushed and pretty much destroyed. This caused my daughter Dylan to immediately become hysterical. So I tried to explain that in the great scheme of life, it just didn’t matter and there would be a million (or at least thousands for sure) bottle caps in our future and they would all be shiny and perfect and fabulous. Of course, she kept crying.

I kind of understand where she’s coming from. I am definitely one to stress over and attempt to fix the little stuff. I am a stickler for details and I just love things to be perfect. Look, some things are worth fixing. We bought a rug a couple of years ago for our kid’s room that refuses to stay flat. The thing loves to bubble all over the place. I tried to live with this rug. Really, I did. But one day, I realized that life was too short to live with a bumpy, defiant rug and goddamn it, I was going to replace it. I seriously sleep better at night now.

But sometimes in life, there is so much big stuff going on, you just have to let go of the details for a while. Like this past month, an old friend of mine died of brain cancer at the age of 36. For most of his life, Steve Higgins didn’t know he only had a short time to enjoy his friends, his wife, his family, sunny days with no humidity, watching a movie or eating at a great restaurant. One day, it was just all over. So in the spirit of remembering this funny, sharp, authentic guy, I am going to try to worry a little less about the dented bottle caps when they come along. Because I’ve realized that most of the advice I pass on to my toddler, usually serves me pretty well too.


I remember a time when the bathroom was a place of solitude. No one followed me in there. No one stared at me or asked questions while I tried to take care of my personal business. I even did my own flushing. Those days seem very far away.

First it was my dog who infiltrated my private time. If I left her outside the bathroom door, she would scratch and whine until she gained entrance. Then my first daughter Dylan joined in the experience. Now there are times when my dog Martini, my toddler Dylan and my 7-month-old Presley are all witness to my bathroom activities. Last week, Dylan offered me two M&M’s if I could make a poopie in the potty. How did it get so crowded in here? Making a visit alone to a public restroom is starting to feel like “me” time.

There is one person that won’t be gaining access to these potty get togethers – my husband. I want a close family but not quite that close. He can have his not-so-private potty time and I can have mine. Trust me, it’s the only way to keep the romance flickering. As for the rest of my studio audience, someday they’ll tire of watching mommy pee. I’ll probably miss them once they’re gone.

kelcey kintner

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