Formerly Gracie

This past Saturday, I was having a late night nosh with new friends when the conversation turned to…

What else? Brunch. In particular, favorite places to brunch. It’s one of the first things I like to know about people when I meet them.

Hello. How are you? What’s your name? Where’s your favorite place to have brunch?

Brunch is, by far, one of my most favorite things in the whole world. I love it better than Christmas. (So you can only imagine how I feel about Christmas brunch!)

The following morning I woke up with a craving for a latte and a warm, fluffy chocolate croissant, but there was no time for that. We had to get the kids ready for church and out the door.

All through Mass, my mind kept wandering back to spinach eggs benedict, roasted potatoes, coffee…

I was so looking forward to when I’d get to sit and relax at my favorite brunch spot, where someone else would be doing the cooking and the schlepping.

Unfortunately, Avery woke up that same morning with a craving for chaos.

He did just fine at Mass, but the second we stepped into the cafe, he resumed his reign of terror- running away, banging on the display cases, screeching as loud as human ears can take…

We coaxed him several times to (please) stop, which he clearly took as a dare. Fed up and knowing exactly where this was going, I stormed out of the restaurant before we could be seated. “We’re leaving,” I announced to Mike and the kids.

“But I’m soooooo hungry. Why won’t you feed me? Please. Please. Please. I’ll be good.” he cried and begged as Mike carried him to the car amidst the curious gawks and sympathetic looks of strangers.

Mike pitched me his “It’s-up-to-you” look and at that moment, I wanted so much to cave– to just say, “Oh okay. Let’s go back in, but only if you *promise* to be good”.

If only it were that easy. Instead I found myself at one of those pivotal parenting moments when there is no turning back. I had to stick to my guns or risk forever losing any mommy cred…

(i.e. teaching him that you can be a total punk, but if you whine and beg and invoke enough sympathy among strangers, you get your way.)

So we went home, stopping at a produce stand along to way to pick up apples and broccoli, which are a poor, poor substitute when what you really want (all you really wanted) was a warm, fluffy chocolate croissant.

All of my life, I’ve been told that parenthood equals sacrifice. So when I became a mom, I willingly gave up the huge things: My career. My social life. My flat (enough) tummy. Sleep.

I thought I could at least hold on to the little things such as ENJOYING A FREAKING PASTRY.

*What? Has that not become a thing yet? Well, it should! Also a children’s book, by the way.

I was winding down after a fun filled moms’ night out, when I heard a familiar pitter-patter coming down the hall. I ignored it at first, hoping he’d realize nothing was going on and go back to bed. Instead, he lingered at the doorway for a while– quietly observing, wondering if I noticed.

Instead of barking my usual mantra at this hour, “It’s late! Go to bed!”, I caught him by surprise by asking if he wanted to cuddle next to me while I tried to figure out the webcam on my laptop…

I know I’m going to regret this tomorrow morning when it comes time to wake up and head to church, but for now… at this very moment… we’re having too much fun.

“Is it my turn snap some pictures, Mommy?” he asked trying to put off bedtime a just little bit longer.

I’ve missed this. Our time together. Just he and I.

I think he does too.

Hosted by Krystyn, from Really Are You Serious?

Don’t be fooled by my housewife persona. Beyond these dirty sweats and unkempt hair, beats the heart of a modern woman.  A liberated woman with an open mind and a worldly point of view. A woman who hesitated when her son asked for the Cinderella toothbrush…

I actually responded, “Are you sure? Really? What about this ‘Sponge Bob’ one? It’s…umm, nice too”.

Yeah. Not my proudest moment, but mostly because I can’t stand Sponge Bob. I got him the Cinderella toothbrush. It now lives in a drawer with his Cars toothbrush.

When Avery was a toddler, he used to push around a doll stroller to the raised eyebrows and concerned glances of friends and neighbors.

“What does his dad have to say about that?” people would ask me before alluding to particular future tendencies of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” nature. (We were living in Texas, after all… )

Of course, I would then feel morally obligated to inform them it isn’t an interest in doll strollers, or even dolls, than makes boys gay. It was more like an interest in BOYS that makes boys gay.

Then, there would be blushing, covering of tiny ears, and fewer invitations to join Bible study. Come to think of it, none of them seem all that upset we moved away. Hmm…

Mike and I have never paid much heed to gender stereotypes. As a baby, Avery had just as many dolls and tea sets as he had cars and tool benches. Yet, all on his own, he gravitated towards construction vehicles, monsters, train sets, and all things “boy”.

We, in turn, were more than willing to indulge his interests (in a big way), but only because they were things he liked, not because we thought that’s what boys ought to like.

Over the past few weeks, I noticed that the tides turning. It only began with a Cinderella toothbrush…

After that he wanted the story to be read to him every night. Then, he begged for the movie. He wanted some Cinderella socks and a Cinderella backpack for school. He talks about Cinderella nonstop– asking what she eats, where she lives, who her friends are…

The other day, he asked if I could find him some Cinderella pajamas. I regretfully informed him that I think there’s only Cinderella nightgowns… for girls… but in all fairness, I checked if that’s what he had in mind.

I’m all for boys taking ballet and girls playing hockey, but does my son really want to wear a nightgown?

After much thoughtful consideration, he declined, but suggested that his sister, who is barely seven-months-old, probably wants one. “Get it for her RIGHT NOW…” he demanded, “Ansley needs it!”

So last night, as I was giving him a bath, I ever so nonchalantly asked, “why this sudden unrelenting and obsessive fascination with Cinderella?”

It came down to this, in not so many words:

“The chicks dig it. I dig the chicks. So, I dig what the chicks dig.”

Watch out, ladies. One day, my son will be breaking cartoon hearts all over this fair land.

My husband has a cinematography degree from the country’s leading film school. I do not. The man can wax philosophical about color balance, perspective, and exposure for days. Meanwhile, I’m always the one behind the camera.

It’s the biggest paradox of my life, but it seems I’m not alone…

I’m so thrilled to take part in “Mommy and Me Mondays”. It will be fun project to try to capture a photo of me and the kids each and every week… even if it only serves as proof that all of the those socks and t-shirts didn’t magically wash and put away themselves.

Ansley at her 6-month photo shoot on Sunday, and not a moment too soon. She turns 7-months-old today. Yikes!

Mmmm-wah! Mommy loves you, Baby Doll!

Hosted by Krystyn, from Really Are You Serious?

When I first read  “Remember when flying used to be fun?”, Sharon Van Epps’ recent post on air travel for the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, it was with plenty of eye rolls and groans.

It wasn’t because of the post itself (which was actually brilliant, by the way). It was because I was three days away from boarding American Airlines Flight 1441, direct service from DFW to SFO, with my two small children. I would be flying alone with them and very much unassisted, as Mike had returned to work earlier in the week.

My kids are pros when it comes to traveling, Avery especially, having done so much of it in the past two years. I knew that once we were seated on the plane, we’d be fine. It’s getting there that’s the hardest part…

The problem is I never know what to expect anymore when we fly. I  can review the airlines’ policies/restrictions before every trip, just in case something changed since the last time we flew (even if it was only a week ago). I can allot plenty of time to get through security. I can have ID and credit card in hand and a huge smile on my face when I approach the ticketing counter, but none of this stands a chance against some gate agent’s grandiose notions of authority or a TSA officer’s random foul mood.

It just so happened that the morning of our departure Avery felt the need to get in one last tantrum before leaving my parents’ house… of course. So we were already running behind schedule when we had to repack our bags to meet the weight restrictions, barely avoided being side-swiped upon entering the airport, and then completely missed the turn into the departure level.

I made it through security single-handedly. Literally. As in I had to fold the stroller, remove shoes and sweaters (even the baby’s…), and hoist all of our stuff on to the conveyor with one hand, while holding my infant daughter with the other.

Meanwhile, three extra TSA officers merely looked on as they discussed the nation’s security issues of the day such as, “what to eat this weekend” and “which 80s hair band is the most bad ass?” (Discuss)

In spite of this, we still managed to arrive at our gate happy, intact, and with plenty of time to spare.  They were just starting to board the flight. I waited for first class passengers to line up before I approached the gate agent and politely asked… not demanded or even loudly protested… asked if we could board as well.

“I’m traveling alone with my two children,” I added as if that wasn’t already obvious by the six-month-old and three-year-old I had in tow.

The gate agent sneered as she scanned our boarding passes, but not before being so kind as to put me in my place…

“We don’t typically do this sort of thing, but I’ll let you go…this time. Just so you know, it’s not fair that you get to go first before all of these other people (dramatic sweeping gesture) that arrived at the gate before you just because you have kids. But I guess you don’t really care about anyone else, do you?”

Actually, I was thinking of everyone else when I asked to board first…

Would American Airlines rather that I bonk everyone in the head as I make my way through the aisle with my daughter’s massive carrier? Perhaps an additional whack from Avery’s backpack filled with Matchbox cars and board books could soften the blow.

…but I suppose the gate agent hadn’t thought about that.

No, I believe it’s the airlines who stopped caring about the other passengers. Not me.