Walked In On…

So my daughter “walked in on us” the other day. Funny since (sorry hubby) it’s not like statistically speaking, there are a whole lot of chances for that to happen. (so sue me. kids. work. blog. puppy. life. oh, and swine flu. my uber- excuse for everything. )  It happens to every parent, I’m sure. (Though if it happened with me and my parents, I must have VERY successfully blocked it out.)

Anyhoo, I guess we got lucky, as we were still in what I will delicately refer to as the “planning stages.”  And under the covers. And, needless to say, in the dark.   (seriously, have you read anything about me and my body image?)

Plus, hubby reacted perfectly.  Instead of jumping so high he hit his head on the ceiling, he casually greeted her with a “What are you doing out of bed, sweetie?”

She wasn’t falling for it. “What were you doooo-ing?” (you have to draw out that “dooo” sound and lilt up on the “ing” to get the intonation. Try it. Got it? Good.)

I decided to let hubby handle it.

“You caught Daddy kissing Mommy.”

Brilliant! Not a lie….just not exactly the truth.

“Naked?” she asked.

“I’m naked,” I said (and please, spare yourselves the mental picture.  It ain’t pretty.  Remember: under the covers, under the shield of darkness.) ‘But Daddy is still wearing his pajama bottoms, see?”

“Why are you naked?” Yeesh, won’t this kid give it a rest?

“I was on my way to the shower when Daddy started kissing me.”

“Do you do this….usually?” Evidently she was NOT ready to give it a rest.

“Well, it’s really cozy under our new comforter.  Why don’t you come in with us?”

“Naked?” ahhh, heading towards giving it a rest.

“OK!”

And with that, hubby got up to get ready for bed, daughter whipped off her nightie and got under the covers, I got a chance to cuddle with my little girl, and all was right with the world.

Crisis averted.  Innocence maintained.  And lock purchased.

Please, please, leave a comment telling me I’m not the only one who may have scarred her child for life.  This happens. Right? Right? Right?

Oh, and please don’t mention to hubby that I posted about this.  This would NOT make him happy.  No, not at all.

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Book Giveaway: See Mom Run

Have you ever wondered what would happen if two hyphenated last namers got married?  Like, let’s say Harrison VonHarrison-Lundquist married Muffy Worcester-Wolfe. (All names are completely fabricated. If anyone out there has either of those names, I’m sorry…in so many ways.)  Would they name their children Maximillian and Genevieve VonHarrisonlundquist-Worcesterwolfe???

Notice the last names I’ve fabricated.  Not so very ethnic, are they?  Jews don’t hyphenate.  Take me, for instance.  My maiden name is Rabinowitz, my married name is Friedman.  I considered hyphenating for about twelve seconds.  And then I realized I’d be Nancy Rabinowitz-Friedman; I might as well introduce myself has Nancy Double-Jew.  Twice the guilt!!  Twice the neuroses!   So when I got married I just decided to get rid of my middle name, Jean, and replace it with my maiden name.  That way, the clerk explained, I would legally be able to use either my maiden name or my married name. If I hyphenated, he told me, I would always have to use both names.  Quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

For a moment there, I considered going with a one-name moniker:: Madonna, Cher, Bjork, Elmo.  I tried Nan – but that sounded like a pug-nosed, perky cheerleader.  And I feel pretty confident with my big-nosed, sarcastic, pessimist persona.  I thought  I could take my new initials, NRF, and call myself Nerf.  Only that sounded like a squishy ball, and frankly, I didn’t need any name-based reminders of my physique.

Maybe my husband and I should have combined our names to create a new one. We could have been the Friedowitz family, or my personal favorite, the Rabinimans. Then again, maybe not.

So I stuck with the old switcheroo – sometimes one name, sometimes the other.

What’s in a name?  A lot.  If there weren’t, there wouldn’t be websites devoted to helping us choose names for our kids, or forums online for women deciding whether or not to give up their maiden  names.  Hilary Rodham Clinton wouldn’t be, well, Hilary Rodham Clinton.  She’d be Hilary Clinton or Hilary Rodham.  Not both.  Names are complicated.  Maybe that’s why Elizabeth Taylor never changed hers.  Imagine if she had, she’d be Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky. (I think she stayed Taylor not for the celebrity, but because somewhere in her mind she knew she’d one day marry a man named Fortensky – and she just couldn’t bear to called that.)

Once we had kids, it got a bit complicated, but I figured it out. Generally, anything professional – writing, producing – I used Rabinowitz.  Personally, I used Friedman, since I wanted to share a name with my kids. Aside from getting doubles of every catalogue in the universe, it’s worked out pretty well for the past 12 years.

But this fall, when I decided to publish as Nancy Friedman for the first time. I don’t know why I did it. I guess I just figured that at this point, I’ve pretty much stopped working, and most of the people I know, know me as Nancy Friedman. So why not publish that way?  Plus, I think it kinda bugged my husband that everything else I’d ever written had been under my maiden name. And I wanna keep him happy.

Now is where the giveaway kicks in (yep, you had to read this far to find it!).  I’m giving away two copies of the new anthology See Mom Run, edited by Role Mommy Founder Beth Feldman. It’s a collection of essays by moms…including me.  And it’s really, really, funny.  I promise. Just leave a comment below with your “dancer name” for a chance to win. What’s a dancer name? It’s the name of your first pet, follwed by the name of the street you grew up on.  If you were a stripper, it would be the name you’d dance under — hence “dance name.”  I’d be Honey Whig.

Hey — maybe I should publish under that next time!

Good luck!

Contest ends Friday, January 29th at 11pm.  Must be 18 years or older. US residents only. Two winners will be announced Saturday, Jan 30th.

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You Need a New Bra!

I have big boobs. That’s just a fact.  And lest you think I’m bragging about it, let me tell you the truth about big boobs: after you have children, after you nurse children, after gravity takes its toll, after forty, big boobs are saggy boobs.  Perky and 36DD are simply not words you hear together, unless some major surgery and some sort of foreign gel or liquid is involved.  So when I go bra shopping, it is not about fun,  fashion and sexiness.  It’s about hoistin’ those babies up.

Until today.

Because today,  I went to the new {intimacy} flagship store on 62nd and 3rd and had a fitting by none other than The Bra Whisperer herself, {intimacy} Founder and Chief Bra Fitter, Susan Nethero, (a five-time Oprah guest. FIVE!). And man, was it amazing. Turns out, I was wearing the wrong size.  Evidently, while my boobs may be gigundoid, I need a 32, instead of a 36.I am petite!

Susan Nethero

(that alone made it worth the trip across town.  Me? Petite? Ha!) Turns out, wearing the right bra can make you look taller and thinner.  Turns out, just because I’m huge, doesn’t mean I have to wear boring lingerie.  I can hoist ’em up and look good doin’ it.

First,a  few facts: {intimacy} is a lingerie store renowned for personalized service, expert fitting, huge selection (mostly high end – don’t say you haven’t been warned), and excellent, knowledgeable customer service.

Second, in the spirit of full disclosure, I did get some lovely free lingerie from Susan and the folks at Intimacy during my visit, but as usual, they didn’t tell me what to say or obligate me to say anything at all. And I’m the kinda girl who just won’t say anything if I don’t have anything nice to say.

Third, you need a new bra.

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Wii For Old Folks? You mean my excuse doesn’t work anymore?

For quite some time now, I’ve been blaming my total lack of video-gaming ability on my age.  I am so bad at Wii that according to my Wii Fit, I should be stumbling all over the place, barely able to walk and talk on my cell phone at the same time. But I don’t really care what the Wii Fit says, because I just tell myself (and all of you), I’m past forty!  It’s chronologically impossible for me to learn this stuff.  So what if my son has shown me 47 times how to play The Legend of Starfy, and I still can’t get past level one?  So what if I get trapped in the same damn room in Fossil Fighters every time I try. Or if Super Mario Brothers for me will forever be Mario, Renzo, and Bob, the tennis counselors at my camp?  Age, for once, is on my side. I am not of the generation to master vidoe games of any kind. Put that in your remote and click it.

And then I heard this: baby boomers and seniors are playing video games.  A lot.  Believe it or not, more than 25 percent of all video game players are 55+ per www.theesa.com.  And not just older people…but OLD people.  See that picture?  That was taken at a senior centers where Nintendo, as part of a month-long program, brought video games for seniors (and their grandkids) to play.

Did these people use their age as an excuse? You can bet they did.  But then, guess what?  They started loving it.  They’re playing, they’re starting Wii Bowling Leagues.  They’re good at it.  Which is all fine and dandy for them, but what does it say about ME?  I cannot hula Wii style, or ski jump, or balance those little friggin balls on the 3D platform.  And apparently, it’s not my age, it’s ME! These old people may be getting exercise, being social, connecting with their grandkids but me,  I’m just a spaz.

Gee thanks, Nintendo.

Full Disclosure: While I have received goods from Nintendo in the past, no goods, services or pay was received in conjunction with this post.

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If I have to exercise, can I at least do it without having to think about poop?

After months of excuses, real (moving, swine flu, pneumonia) and not (too busy, too tired, too many other things to do) I went back to working out this week. Monday was 45 minutes on the treadmill. A puff of the old inhaler and I was good to go.
Tuesday was…oh yeah, didn’t make it to the gym on Tuesday . (see unreal excuses, above)
Yesterday was Yoga at the brand-spanking new and oh-so beautiful Pure Yoga on the West Side (still un-sceney and uncrowded. Enjoy it while you can.)
And today was Nia.
For those of you who don’t know, Nia is…well, it’s hard to describe. I think of it as guided creative movement. It’s not really dance…but it sort of is. It’s not “aerobics” but it can be very aerobic. It’s not Yoga, but there are elements of Yoga and Tai Chi and Modern Dance. There is also a lot of talk about being in touch with your body, and about a sense of play. I’ve written about it here, if you want to know more.
ANYhoo, normally, Nia class makes me feel great, invigorated, and pretty damn good about myself. But today…not so much.  Because today, my instructor decided that we should spend the whole class feeling sexy.

Huh?

I’m exercising, buddy. I’m wearing an old Alvin Ailey T-shirt, I have no make-up on, I’m sweating, I’m barefoot, I’m worried that since I’ve done nothing aerobic in two months that my pneumonia compromised lungs will collapse… and you want me to feel sexy?

I don’t feel sexy.  I don’t even want to think sexy.  All I want to think about is what I’m gonna eat when this is over.

To make things worse, he kept on using the idea of a puppy as an image. As in “scoop your arms as if you were picking up a puppy.”

Picking up, scoop and puppy. What do those two words make me think of?

You guessed it, picking up my puppy’s poop. In the living room. In my son’s bedroom. Everywhere, it seems, but outside.

So between the sexy talk and the puppy I did NOT feel empowered and invigorated. I felt sweaty and decidedly unsexy. And I kept on smelling poop.  Please, please, let the puppy not have pooped on something I’m wearing.

Ah well, enough complaining.  Time to go walk the dog.

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The Post I Would Have Written If I Had the Time

I don’t really have time to post today:
Sick dog (for a change)
Stinky Dog (just bathed him. fun fun fun)
Daughter needs socks brought to her at school on the other side of town. (don’t ask)
Dryer broken
Going back to Yoga (finally…I hope)
No food in house. (though I did get Fresh Direct yesterday…so I don’t really get it) Must go shopping.
Actual (paid) work assignment to complete. (shocking, I know.)
Much incredibly smelly laundry (sick dog is pooping inside again. Fun fun fun.)

You’re all jealous now, right? Because I have such a wonderful life.

And now, as a complete non-sequitor, the Today Show is in the background, and they just announced that marriage makes you fat. Yay! Single women gain 11 lbs over ten years. Married women gain double that. But God bless Piers Morgan…he just announced that he thinks that’s great. He wants his model-thin girlfriend to bulk-up. I think I’m in love.

ANYHOO- here’s the post I would have written if I had had the time. It pretty much sums up how I’m feeling today. And while you read it, imagine me doing lunges. That’s what I did. (Imagined me doing them. I didn’t actually do them. Puh-lease. Did you see that list of things I’ve got to do?)

Click and read. Click and Read.

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Santa Isn’t Jewish

Happy Everything to Everyone.. Here’s my annual Christmas for Jews post!  Enjoy!
Santa Claus isn’t Jewish.

That was my daughter the other day, explaining to her friend why, though she believes in Santa, he isn’t coming to our house this, or any other, year.

Well, can’t say she’s wrong, can I?

I was relieved to hear her give her friend such a casual explanation, because I’ve been wondering how my kids feel about the fact that Santa doesn’t come to visit us.  Even in New York, which feels like a Jewish town, it can make you feel a bit left out.

There have been quite a lot of posts floating around lately about how the spirit of Christmas has been watered down by the whole Happy Holidays phenomenon.  Say again?

Since Thanksgiving – hell, since Halloween!!!, every store, every streetlamp, every …everything, it seems, has been festooned with Christmas paraphernalia.  And the music.  Endless loops of Frosty the Snow Man, and Baby it’s Cold Outside.  Not that I’m complaining. (Well, maybe about the music) I realize that Jews make up less than 1.8% of the US Population and I don’t remotely expect equal time. In fact, I kind of like the decorations — they’re festive and twinkly, and make even the dingy bodega on the corner look sparkly and happy.  It’s just that I don’t buy that people who do celebrate Christmas are somehow being pushed out of the mainstream.

Christmas is the mainstream.  And that’s as it should be. We live in a country that’s predominantly Christian, so Christian holidays and customs get a lot of play.  As long as I’m allowed to be Jewish, to practice my religion as I see fit (which to me mean lighting Shabbat candles followed by a nice roast loin of pork – wrapped in bacon), and as long as everyone else is allowed to be whatever they are, too,  the number of Christmas decorations at the Hardware store really doesn’t matter to me. In the immortal words of every professional sports coach in America — “it is what it is.”   (Is it just me? Or do losing coaches always invoke that phrase at press conferences?)

But that’s me.  My two eight year olds are a different story.   Can a little menorah compete with the majesty of an 8 foot tree? No. Can Mom and Dad giving little trinkets complete with  twenty tons of presents? I think not.  Can anything complete with the myth that is Santa?  (For a while when I was a kid my brother tried to convince me there was such a person as Hannukah Joe – who came in through the window, cause he didn’t want to ruin his seersucker suit.  I may have been five years old to his fourteen — but I wasn’t buying it.)  So with no Hannukah Joe, no elves, no endless and incredibly annoying endless loops of the MOST annoying Christmas music on nearly every radio station 24/7,  no appliqued Hannukah sweaters (for once, a plus!), no stockings hung by the chimneys with care. (really, do Jews ever get their clothes sooty?  I think not.), no claymation figures singing about snow and red noses (I love those specials)

Without all of this…stuff… I worry: do my kids feel marginalized?  Do they feel that the kindly old guy in the red suit — who brings gifts to ALL the good little children is somehow telling them they’re rotten?

So when I overheard them nonchalantly talking about how Santa just isn’t MOT (member of the tribe),  I heaved a sigh of relief.  Maybe they’ve already realized what Christmas in New York teaches Jews in this city:  it’s OK to be whatever you are.  It’s OK to enjoy the celebrations of others, to go to Rockefeller Center  and ooh and aah at the  tree.  And it’s OK to be MOT, too.  And to know that  while Santa Claus is coming to town, he just isn’t planning on stopping by. It isn’t depressing, it isn’t a slight, it isn’t marginalizing, it just “is what it is.”

And if they want to get their clothes sooty on Christmas Day?  What do I care?  It’s not like we’re going to a party.

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Mean Mommy Confessions

The whining, the nagging, the rudeness, the backtalk.  Ah, yes.  The joys of parenting.

I’m sure that whoever you are, your kids are PERFECT.  But it can’t be just me.  Can it?

Please tell me it’s not just me.  That I am not the only mother being driven crazy by her own kids.

Mama, mama, did you see my drawing, mama?
Do you like it, mama?
Mama, mama, I made my own bed, come see, mama.
Mama, mama, I ate all of my lunch.  Isn’t that good mama?
Mama mama mama mama….

It’s enough to make me want to change my name to…Dada.

This summer, my son has decided that he is going to call me mama.  And he is going to call me that twice at the beginning of each sentence, and once at the end.  Basically, the format is:
“Mama. mama (insert need for approval) Mama.”

Then there’s the food.  His favorite used to be grilled chicken.  Suddenly, he deems it “gross.”  He used to eat watermelon.  Now it’s too wet for him.  He used to like cheese sticks.  Now, only fine French cheese will do.  He’s even turning down most types of cookies.  Can you say “control issue?” Meal time has become a game of Russian Roulette — and I’m the one with the gun at my head.

Click here to read the rest of this post at NYC Moms Blog.com.

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Ageless Body? Yeah, right.

Long ago, I discovered the secret to buying (passably) flattering bathing suits: the worse you look the more you pay. (Hence, the Karla Coletto bazillion dollar(and worth every penny) bathing suit.)  I then learned the secret to feeling young and attractive: hang out with the septaugenarians.  I’ve bemoaned the new fahion-math: in Hollywood, size six is the new size twelve. I’ve questioned the new age-math (not new-age math, mind you, but new age-math) which tries to tell us that 40 is the new thirty, and 80 is the new sixty.  By that logic, I’m actually getting younger every year.

Still, nothing prepared me for my recent beach-side discovery:  post-forty, bodies age exponentially.

Think about it: what was your body like at 20?  Was it so different at 25?  At 30? Probably not. As a matter of fact,  I was actually in better shape at 32 than I was at 22.  At 32 I was working out, jogging, eating right.  At 22 I was living in Paris, smoking, drinking wine, and thought exercise was something I only had to do in America, and only then when some oversized PE teacher was forcing me.

Now think of your body at 38.  Then at forty.  Then at 42. (If you haven’t reached this milestone, don’t read on: you might not want to know what’s next).  Still the same body?  Not so much, huh?

Last year, I noticed that my knees were wrinkling. Knees!! What the hell can you do about that?  This year, my quads have joined in.  Mind you, I weigh less (thank you Weight Watchers) this year than I did last,  and the muscles are still under there: yoga and Nia, and weight training, and even ballroom dancing sees to that.  But my skin doesn’t care.  My skin is aging.  Fast.

So is the rest of me.  Today, I went to Tip Top Shoes to try to find stylish shoes that don’t bother my back or my bunion. There, I said it.  BUNION.  If that doesn’t say “your body is aging” well, what does? (By the way stylkish shoes adn bunion really don’t go together. I don’t care what Mephisto says.)

Then there’s the fact that I can no longer drink alcohol.  I was never much of a drinker.  Maybe a few glasses of wine once or twice a month.  But now?  ONE glass, and I’m out of commission for three days. Jeez.

It isn’t that I don’t want to get older (well, I don’t, but that’s not the point) The point is, why is it happening so fast?  I pretty much looked the same from the time I was 20 until I was thirty.  There were little changes – maybe my skin wasn’t quite as vibrant – but overall, the changes were just a difference – not a decline.

So all this leads me to one thing:  should I change the name of my blog?  Let’s face it, agelessbodytimelessmom.com is quite a mouthful, quite a thing to type in, and awfully hard to remember, from what I gather. (Does no one get the Deepak Chopra reference?  Anyone? Anyone?)

I have been working on a manuscript for a while now, it’s called: From Hip to Housewife in Two Kids Flat.  So I’m asking here — should I change my website’s name to FromHiptoHousewife.com?  FromHip2Housewife.com?  Or just keep it as is.  Because, let’s face it, despite my best attempts, I’m not exactly ageless here.  

Votes welcome.  Vote, please, and fast.  I’m not getting any younger.

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Can I Have Mothers Day Off?

Here’s a typical day for me:

Wake up. Check mirror. Cringe. But realize there’s no time to shower. I’ve got to get the kids to school no later than 8:25. Since this is NYC, I do not have the option to get in my car in my pajamas, drop off my kids, and drive home before anyone notices me. I have to get dressed and try to achieve some semblance of presentability before leaving the house. I also have to get my kids ready, which means endless repetitions of “get dressed, brush your teeth, put your socks on, where’s your homework, sit down while you eat, you have to go to the bathroom now?, where’s your other shoe, hit the elevator button, and do you have your Metrocard?” Once we finally achieve the impossible and leave the house on time, we have to walk the four blocks to the city bus stop, hope the bus comes, hope when it does come the dispatcher doesn’t hold it there while he yacks about the Yankees with the driver and leaves all us parents and commuters seething, ride the bus across town, walk the six blocks to school from the bus stop, climb five flights of stairs to their classrooms, and then do the whole thing in reverse. All before 9am.

Once I’m home, do the breakfast dishes, make the beds, pick up their toys, check my email, look in the refrigerator for something to eat, try to get some writing done, procrastinate by cleaning out the linen closet (really just a few shelves in my bedroom cabinet, but it makes me feel better to call it a linen closet), realize that the crack in the living room ceiling is getting ominously bigger, make mental note to do something about it…eventually, open the refrigerator again as if expecting new food to have magically appeared since the last time I opened it forty minutes ago, run some errands, go to the gym, shower (finally), prepare dinner, prepare snacks, pick up kids, serve snacks, help with homework, greet the husband, serve the dinner, clean the dishes, tuck in the kids, pay some bills, do some online shopping (my son is growing at an alarming rate), knit a few rows of the sweater I’ve been working on for three years, collapse in front of the TV, converse with husband, (monosyllables, at best), wash up, put on pajamas, get into bed, and try to get enough sleep so I can do it all again the next day.

So you know what I want for Mother’s Day? A day off. I want to wake up in a nether world where my kids don’t want anything from me other than to shower me with praise and love. I want to live in an apartment where the beds are made by invisible imps who don’t come to you with their problems, don’t put away your favorite jeans somewhere you can’t find them, and never ever ask for a raise. I want to go to the gym and not worry about how soon I have to be back, or whether or not it’s fair to my husband to have to stay home with the kids when he’s been working all week and I’ve been able to go to the gym whenever I want to (Ha!). I want to shower in the morning, and have time to blow-dry my hair. I want to make one thing for dinner and have everyone eat it. Or better yet, have someone else make it, and do the dishes afterward.

It’s not that I don’t realize that I’m lucky. My children are healthy. We are not poor, or starving, or displaced by war, or floods, or fire. I have a loving husband, a caring family, a comfortable home. I am not ill, or in peril. I get it: I’m one of the lucky ones. Which makes me feel all the worse that all I really want for Mother’s Day is a day off.

I want a Mother’s Day Off. A day off from the guilt, and the worry, and the responsibility. A day off from the whining and complaining, and instant refusal to try any new food, even if it’s just a different brand of chicken nugget. I want to have a day where no one talks back, everyone does as they’re told and my breasts miraculously return to their pre-I’ve-breast-fed-two-kids state, and pass the pencil test with ease.

I want a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, sunshine and warmth without that

New York

humidity. I want to be like a character in an old Fred Astaire movie, burst into song, know all the words, have a full orchestra accompanying me, and dance the foxtrot like nobody’s business.

Ok, well, maybe I’m getting carried away.

How about I just knock it down to wanting to sleep in and not have to do the breakfast dishes? Oh, and if I do decide to burst into song, I don’t want anybody to laugh.

Hey, it’s Mother’s Day. Is that really so much to ask?

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