Saturday snapshot

Steve walking with the girls at the YMCA (from last Saturday). Our two girls are so different: Mia insists on walking, while B wants to be carried like a princess. Don't worry--even though it looks like she's about to hit her head, she didn't.

The life of a little sister (in 34 seconds)

As a firstborn myself, I admit that I didn't have much empathy for the plight of the little sister, until I had a second daughter of my own. Now, as I watch my poor secondborn toddle through life in the shadow of her scene-stealing big sis, I feel a kinship with little sisters everywhere.

Little sisters, I totally get it now. You have every toy snatched away, every quiet moment interrupted, and every milestone upstaged. Everything you can do, big sister does bigger and better. And she doesn't miss an opportunity to demonstrate this fact to the world. And yet, you keep on trucking, quietly winning people over with charm, dimples, and sheer dogged determination.

This 34-second video shows the dynamic on a very small scale. The life of a little sister: you really, really want to do something (like go down a slide). Your big sister, then all of her friends, nearly fall over themselves trying to get past you so they can do it first. You don't mind; in fact, this jostling is your idea of fun. Anything to feel like a big kid!

After waiting patiently, you finally get your turn. You enjoy it immensely, mostly because for a brief moment you are allowed to do something without being knocked down, pinched, poked, shoved, or steamrolled.

Then you stand perfectly still and look all around to make sure said sister doesn't clothesline you in her excitement to get back to the slide before you do. (Note the crazy jump B throws in at the end--an extra measure to divert any undue attention from Mia.) And the whole scene starts over.



To my three little sisters, Laura, Kendra, and Sarah: what can I say? Without big sisters to stand in their way, little sisters wouldn't be the tenacious, clever, durable creatures they are. You're welcome.

P.S. Sorry for the sideways vid. Making a mental note to work on my phone-video technique.

You, too, can have a glamorous delivery day!

Most of the time, I’m thrilled to be parenting in the age of the social network. I can ooh and ahh over faraway friends’ baby pics, commiserate with my online mom pals when I’m having a bad day, and get great advice on everything from potty training to pacifiers from experienced moms I know and trust.

But then I saw this news story about how half of new moms are now primping in the delivery room, because they know their birth photos will be all over Facebook within hours. Another article offers “pointers for a glamorous delivery day:” get a blowout, bring lipgloss and mascara, and if necessary, flatiron your hair between contractions (I wish I were kidding about that one).

Of course, celebrities lead the way when it comes to post-partum perfection, putting even more pressure on the rest of us regular moms. Earlier this weekend, celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe debuted her days-old son Skylar, looking as meticulously made-up as a runway model (and just about as thin, too).

Now, I’m all for looking and feeling your best. Every expectant mom deserves unlimited mani/pedis, massages, and as much pampering as she can get, especially in her ninth month, when she feels about as attractive as a beluga whale.

But in the delivery room? Flatironing between contractions? Seriously?

Does living in the social networking era mean that new moms don’t even get a few hours off from the pressure to be glamorous, thin, and camera-ready? Don’t we get a day to revel in the joy of motherhood without worrying about the perfect blowout?

If there were ever a time to let go of the need to be viewed as an object of desire, it’s in the delivery room. (You are desirable--that's how you got knocked up in the first place, remember?) Moms who’ve just given birth are beautiful, period. It doesn’t matter if they’re sporting a designer hospital gown or false eyelashes or whatever else they packed in their delivery-day makeup bag.

And flatironing during labor--come on. Those things get up to 400 degrees. If they came with comprehensive warning labels, I'm pretty sure DO NOT USE WHILE ATTEMPTING TO PUSH OUT A BABY would be warning number one.

I know many people out there will disagree with me, and say that they deserve to feel pretty, that they want to look back on photos of themselves looking gorgeous on this monumental day in their lives.

OK, fine. But I still think it’s sad. If our culture recognized birthing women as the beautiful, powerful, awe-inspiring beings that we are, maybe we wouldn’t feel as much pressure to look like supermodels in the delivery room.

Maybe we’d realize that this special day should be about bringing a new life into the world, not broadcasting a primped, beautified vision of perfection to the world. Maybe we’d view flushed faces and tired eyes and sweaty hair as badges of honor. Because they are.

Maybe it’s not realistic. But, for the sake of new families everywhere, I honestly hope the pressure to be glamorous doesn’t overshadow the real beauty of giving birth.


Me on Mia's birthday. Makeup-free, decidedly untrendy, and happy beyond words.

Ballet beginnings

Bianca's first ballet class today. Adorable and bittersweet (made more so, possibly, by the fact that she starts "real school" on Monday). Is she really this big already?

She did great, and she was ready. I've been wanting to sign her up for ballet since she was 2, but I'm glad I waited until she asked for classes. When I started talking to her about how to behave in ballet class, she came back with "I know! I know! Don't disturb other people!" Think we've had a few of those conversations before? :)

Nightie couture

Bianca dresses herself these days...and, after reading this amazing book by Alyson Schafer (about avoiding power struggles with your kids, among other things), I don't fight her over clothing choices. She's old enough to choose her own clothes, even if they're not always the ones I'd pick. And I love seeing the pride on her face when she puts together her "perfect" look.

So this is what she chose to wear to preschool this morning. (I packed regular clothes in her backpack.)

I love that she's still free and innocent enough to want to wear her mom's old nightgown to preschool. I know that will change soon enough.

She eats!

If you saw my last post, you know that we're having trouble getting Bianca to eat more than a few bites these days. Not true of Mia! She's been asking for a spoon lately, so I gave her one with some yogurt. Another little experiment. And she rocked it! She's a spoon-eating prodigy! Or maybe not--maybe it's a completely age-appropriate thing for her to do at 16 months. I forget. Anyway, yay! She's totally capable of eating with a spoon and I had no idea! What other tricks is she hiding up her sleeve, I wonder? Can she change her own diaper? Balance a checkbook? Tie her shoes? The possibilities are endless!

Kitchen "help"

Our latest experiment…are kids really more likely to eat food that they help prepare? Apparently, kids are something like 47% more likely to eat food if they help make it. Or 26%. Or somewhere in between. I can’t remember the exact statistic—-but I know it’s supposed to help. And at this point, we’ll try just about anything.

And B’s getting to an age where she can actually HELP in the kitchen. When she was 2, “helping” consisted of covering every visible surface with flour and dropping eggs on the floor. When she was 3, she progressed to cracking eggs (mostly in bowls), helping stir, and getting things out of the fridge for me. Not always the right things, but sometimes. Now, at 4, she can pour pancake batter, scramble eggs, even cut up some fruits and veggies with a dull knife. (Fortunately, every knife in our house is dull.)

But is she more likely to actually eat the food? Hmmmm. Based on our recent trials, I’d have to say—maybe. She’s approximately 13% more likely to eat 7% more food, as long as there’s a full moon and a double rainbow and a goldfinch singing on our deck. That translates into a couple of extra bites on alternating months. In other words, not really. We'll keep trying, though--I’m enjoying the extra kitchen help!