After yesterday’s emotional post (thanks for all the love in response, gang), I thought we could amuse ourselves with another favorite type of post, in which I share what people have Googled in order to stumble upon this site.
boy need hausfrau porn: With grammar like that, boy gonna be double sorry he came to an English teacher’s blog.
baby tube feeding: I did have one of those, both nasogastric and PEG/mic-key. Neither is that fun, but you get really good at either. It might be a temporary thing, in which case, yay! Most preemies only need them for a little while. Or it might be something your child needs forever if s/he has certain medical conditions. Either way, it’s great that your child can get the nutrition s/he needs. Just be careful not to let the docs overfeed your kid through the tube. You want to preserve their appetite when possible. And please, please don’t listen if a doctor tells you it’s normal that your child is vomiting constantly. Get another opinion. Keep getting opinions until you find someone who can keep your kid growing, but not puking. Else you’ll be wiping up creamed spinach barf for years to come.
2) pictures of adults wearing footie pajamas:
baby commando crawl within 8 months:
If you’re concerned about your baby’s development, you should of course talk to his/her doctor. That said, I think most people obsess about this stuff for no reason. And crawling is especially tricky. Some babies never crawl and many certainly haven’t done it, commando or otherwise, by eight months. The question to ask yourself for crawling and other tummy related skills is: Are you giving your baby enough tummy time or are you giving in when it cries because it hates tummy time. My advice (far too late if you’ve come here about your eight month old) is to start them on tummy time from birth and let them get used to it from the beginning. And don’t force it for way too long, but don’t be a sucker if they whine, either.
hipster mom: This is a really good question. Am I a hipster mom? Pretty sure living in suburbia disqualifies me. But in general, I think a hipster mom dresses in clothes that look like they could come from a thrift store. She drinks fair trade coffee and is into baby wearing, probably with a piece of cloth she sewed herself. She reads things like the wonderful Tove Jansson books to her kids (seriously, check them out). They don’t watch TV, unless it’s vintage Electric Company. She wears choppy, possibly colorful hair, big glasses, and hats. Tattoos may be involved. Quirky eye-liner is a possibility. In my suburban set, I might be a bit of a hipster mom, just like when I go back to Brooklyn, I’m a total suburbanite. In general, I think I’m best identified in contrast to my environs. Like at Dartmouth, I was a super-lefty feminist who sometimes wore a dog collar. But if I’d gotten into Brown, maybe I would have worn cable-knit and become a Republican or something (perhaps that’s taking things a bit too far).
weaning off oxygen in preemie: It will happen. It may take what feels like forever. There will be many ups and downs. But it will, in almost every single case, finally happen. And then the days of carting around a tank and taping stuff to your screaming child’s face will fade into nothing and you’ll remember his babyhood as his babyhood, not as some drawn out medical procedure.
hausfrau tube: I thought maybe these porn seekers wanted to see women doing things with a tube, like maybe a vacuum or something. It turns out, they mean tube as in YouTube. Hausfrau porn, is of course housewife porn. I did some research. Sometimes she’s hot and bored with housework, and sometimes she’s middle aged and deliberately frumped up. I like to think I fit more into the former category (I’m definitely bored with housework), but you’re not going to find porn here. I’m sorry.
Hipster clothes for big kids: Fedoras. Ironic blazers. Vintage graphic Ts. All Stars. Flannel. Skinny jeans. Glasses. Boots and dresses.
darknipple breast girl: Is this me? I like the one word darknipple. It’s like a name for a secret agent. Or a superhero. Agent Darknipple. She comes out under the cloak of night and attacks with breastmilk.
hipster glasses: I don’t wear glasses. But this is the number one search item that directs people here, so I take pity on them and post this:
tanglewood with kids: It’s awesome. Do it. You can bring your children AND wine, and if you sit far enough back you can still hear the incredible music and drink in the lush scenery (and your wine) even while your children frolic about.
rescue dose beyamethasone: Dear resident who typed this. Please go home and sleep now. You’ve spelled betamethasone wrong AND I really don’t think you should be googling this. You must have better sources of info than the general internet.
mom hausfrau tube: see above.
women post and there familie post nude: If you must know, despite my proclivities for nudity I am usually dressed as I type these posts. And my family members are in their pajamas. Nosy hole.
how do we wean our preemie off oxygen: Carefully. S/he’ll let you know when s/he’s ready. And under doctor’s supervision, obviously. Get a good pulmonologist. If you live anywhere near Boston, go to Larry Rhein.
husband sleeping carelessly: That sounds true. I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it sounds like something husbands would do.
michelin boy: I think you’ve come to the wrong blog. We’re a fairly slender family.
hipster glass: Am I dating myself if I still think a hipster glass is a can of PBR?
yuppie parents: I can help you with this one, too. Buy a stroller that costs more than $500. Hire a decorator to do your child’s room. Drive a luxury SUV. Enroll your children in lots of lessons. Buy them fancy clothing. (Note: I am guilty of some of these things. This is why I am trying to coin the term Yipster, for yuppie-hippie-hipster, which I think REALLY embodies me as a parent/human).
fucking hausfrau over 50 years tube:
I beg your pardon! I consider myself to be a young-looking thirty-six!
feeding on cpap: It can be done. Including breastfeeding. Don’t let them tell you otherwise.
commando crawling with gastric tube: Totally doable.
photos of three week old babies: here you go:
puppet body pattern breast: I wish I could sew. There are a LOT of breast puppets on the internet, but a quick search yielded no patterns. I’m sorry.
whats a yuppie parent: see above
liebchen vom lande boob: I don’t know what this person wanted, but I think it sounds like a charming, buxom German cartoon character.
three weeks old baby: apparently this is something for which I am known.
oma hausfrau tube: My Oma wasn’t that kind of girl, thank you very much!
state of wonder review: I wrote one.
godasbig.com: Not sure what this is or how it landed you here, but I will tell you religion is something I don’t really do.
rescue betamethasone dose: see above. The jury is out on whether rescue doses actually work (or it was when I was up on this stuff two years ago). Most docs think it’s worth trying. Any possible side effects aren’t going to matter if s/he can’t get over that breathing hurdle.
three week old baby: I mean they’re cute at three weeks but get over it already. You’re as bad as the porn dudes. And dudettes. I don’t want to assume.
brockton fair 2014: You missed it. It was awesome. You should totally go next year.
Hopefully I’ve helped those wayward searchers. And to those of you who look for me on purpose, thank you. A million thank yous.
I don’t want this to seem like one of those blogs where we are so happy all the damn time that we poop rainbow sparkles. That would be a major misrepresentation. But we do make an effort to be a happy family, and while sometimes this ends in colossal wingdings over the fact that it’s raining and we can’t go on the swingset and it’s never going to stop raining and therefore life is ruined, every once in a while we pull it off.
It was a big day in that it was both picture day and my day to volunteer at Das Big Boy’s public preschool–yes, he goes to two schools because I can’t tear myself away from the child-centered, flexible private one even as I’m now using the structure and services of the public one, where it does matter if you get out of your seat to bang on the teacher’s piano or pretend to be Maxwell McSpooky or dump out a tub of counting monkeys.
Picture day meant DBB needed to wear a particularly awesome outfit, brilliantly selected by Herr Husband. It also meant I had to iron for only the second time since we moved into this house (HH had an early work meeting, and therefore couldn’t–or didn’t–iron the shirt. So I did.) Many of you know just how remarkable this is.
But things only got better from there. We had a great before-schoool playdate at Rocky’s so Rocky could be the goddess she is and watch Little Liebchen while I read to the preschoolers. And the reading itself couldn’t have been cuter. They all filed into school in a neat little line and were eerily quiet in the halls. Then they sat in a circle, introduced themselves to me (DBB insisted his name was Charley, which is his teacher’s name, and giggled when I told him I remembered naming him something else. He also tried to point out to me that his classmate with glasses looks like Maxwell McSpooky.). Then they all engaged in my reading of George and Martha, and clapped for me. I left feeling appreciated by my cuddle monkey (who shouted, “Mommy!” and ran to give me a big hug before, not during, the story) and his class. And I feel like he’s in really, really good hands with Charley, who is warm and fun and funny, and gentle and charming in his efforts to get DBB to focus.
At pick-up, I got the longest story about school I’ve ever received (Awesome!). “I was supposed to take my picture but I ran down the hill and didn’t do good listening and Charley had to chase me and he was not happy and I couldn’t sit still.” (Awesomeness is a work in progress).
Thus we undertook our final adventure in celebration of DBB’s birthday: a train ride to Boston to visit the Children’s Museum and Daddy’s office. The kids loved everything: the giant climbing structure, the bubbles, the golf ball shoots, and the little kids playroom. Just a lot of giggling and play and DBB making me nervous by climbing so high in that Lord of the Flies tower.
Then we had a picnic at Daddy’s office. We ate cheese and bread and honey and drank wine and the kids trashed the place and we were all gleeful.
Just a nice reminder that a pretty simple day with family and friends can be joyful.
Edit: Obviously I know that by writing this I’ve invited tantrums galore, marital bickering, and illnesses or some other form of misery.
No, not my children. Me.
Remember how I wanted Doc Martens? I bought them. And then Stitch Fix sent me a red plaid shirt (it’s not flannel but sort of silky and low cut and that makes it sound weird but it’s great). And I wear those two high school era items with black leggings (which are more 80s than 90s but I’m not wearing floopy jeans like I did in my misspent youth.) And I look like an angry teenager (who’s lived in a tanning booth smoking cigarettes and doing meth or whatever would give a teenager skin like I have). And then I go to preschool pick-up and everyone thinks I’m either trying too hard or insane. What they don’t know is that it’s a healthy mix of the two.
The Docs, disappointingly, are a half size too big, but Docs only come in whole sizes so I’m sucking it up. Plus, one of the reasons I’m into the Docs and other chunky boots right now is because I think big feet make your legs look small. It’s like the clown shoe version of dressing yourself slim. But seriously, have you ever seen a clown and thought, “Wow, look at those cankles.”? Exactly.
There you have it. My latest bit of style advice. Dress like a hard-living teenage clown.
You guys, Herr Husband cleaned our pantry tonight (with an assist from me–seriously. I was the one who found the copy of Are You My Mother? that I’d had to buy from the library because it was lost.). Anyway, he found–no lie–thirty-two boxes of pasta (opened and unopened). Apologies to Nanny Sunshine who once cleaned our pantry. Please know that every time Gigi comes over she says, “Poor Nanny Sunshine, after all the hard work she put into this pantry…”
I tried to argue that it made me a good mother because I was prepared for a disaster in which we needed food stores. But really, I know this is insane. Das Big Boy won’t even eat pasta unless it’s macaroni and cheese (NB, Dr. G: I only feed him the organic kind…). We also have six boxes of that (not included in previous pasta totals, which also omitted Asian noodles in what Herr Husband referred to as, “an effort to be generous.”)
Now you could go all #FailedFeminist on me, and point out that I shouldn’t be blamed for this excess, because it’s not my duty to stock our kitchen or clean our pantry. But to that I respond, a) obviously I don’t clean our pantry and b) Herr Husband does a lot of chores. Like all of the laundry. And anything involving cat poop, because like many a smart lady, I’ve ridden that Toxoplasmosis fear straight out of pregnancy and right into the rest of my life. This is particularly unfair as we have a cat with IBS who either can’t or won’t control his bowels. I digress. The truth is, grocery shopping is a chore that I actually love (as evidenced by my apparent uncontrollable glee every time I see organic whole wheat fusilli (6 boxes)), and therefore I do pretty much all of it. So yes, I am to blame here.
And now, because I believe it’s my duty to share my kids’ cuteness once per post, here is a picture of DBB at a recent bowling birthday party.
I think the pic is adorable, but befouled by HH’s Birkenstocks. Now look, I “rocked” (can you rock Birks?) purple Birkenstocks with wool socks in 1994 as well as the next fake hippie adolescent, but that doesn’t make them ok, right? And then ‘Burban Bestie informed me that I was wrong. That Birkenstocks are indeed in style. Oh my. What a lot of learning I have to do. Still, don’t expect me to bust out a pair anytime soon (Full disclosure: I also had them in blue, and in black clogs, and I only finally got rid of them in 2009 when we moved to Brooklyn). But all of my footwear convos with ‘Burban Bestie have made me yearn for the other shoe of my tortured teen years: the Doc Marten. So perhaps you’ll see me stomping around in those instead. And then I’ll really be ready for the apocalypse, what with my hoarded food and steel toes.
Watch out, zombies/angels of judgement. I’m ready for you.
Deine Hipster Hausfrau
The origin of this post is actually last night’s post, when I was crafting Rainbow Fish’s birth announcement. I had originally planned to inform you of his length and weight (I’m guessing 1.5 inches and 1 ounce). But I took it out because I don’t love birth announcements with weight and height info. Maybe this is because my two children combined barely topped eight pounds. But I also feel like we fixate way too much on children’s size in general, and it sets us up for a life of judging other people’s sizes. Except we all at least know it’s not polite to do that with adults. There’s a weird value judgement attached to baby size, but it’s the inverse of grown-up: everyone wants their kids fat and their adults skinny. And it’s crap. We can fix this in two ways:
1) I can say, “Oh my god, guys, can you believe that I’m 95%ile for height and 25%ile for weight? Isn’t that crazy?!” [Note: I actually looked this up]. And you can all want to pelt me with rotten fruit, which is rotten because I’d rather eat candy but I’m genetically lucky to be someone who loses weight by breastfeeding.
2) We can stop talking about kids’ size all the time, and stop idealizing fat babes and skinny adults. Neither are an accomplishment. Everyone is different. Stop calling my kids peanuts and I won’t call yours Mack trucks. And let’s stop talking about (or secretly judging) each other’s bodies, too.
But, now that I’ve ranted about this, I have to tell you that I also hate these sensitivity memes. Like 10 things to never say to an anxious person, or 10 things you should never say to a sober person, or 10 things never to say to your Uzbek neighbor. It’s not that I don’t like sensitivity. In fact, I’m politically correct and proud. It never hurts to be nice or to be sensitive to others’ needs. But you can’t assume that all sober people, anxious people, or Uzbeks are the same or have the same needs, and assuming you shouldn’t say certain things to them takes away their ability to speak up for themselves and make their own personal needs known. There might be a list of ten things never to say to a preemie parent (I’ve heard lots of horrid things, including, “Nice for you because you didn’t gain lots of weight, right?”). Obviously not a great thing to say. But I had the opportunity to educate that guy. And to tell him that I weighed more when I gave birth to my preemie than when I gave birth to my almost term baby, and that no, it was not nice, because my kid almost died and spent four months in the hospital. In general, I like to share about my experience and I don’t want some HuffPo writer telling people what they can’t say to me.
Even thought I spent the first half of this post telling you not to talk about kidsize or adultsize. But I’m not telling you what you can’t say to certain people. I’m telling you to get over your obsession with size and focus on something interesting, like books or cheese or why I can’t stop wearing mildly skanky outfits on public play dates with my dear gal pal Rocky (a supermom and ass-kicking boxer who totally rocks.)
What self-respecting thirty-six year old mom wears tall boots and short shorts to the park, or a strapless dress to an indoor playground?
That’s right: Deine Hipster Hausfrau
Meet Rainbow Fish Husband Hausfrau. He came into our family because someone in this family has been diaper free for a month! (Jokes about me or Herr Husband, commence now.) Rainbow Fish is actually more charming than I thought he would be. He likes to come look at me and make kissy faces and I’m rather smitten. And the level of care he requires is probably in line with my abilities. Das Big Boy was terribly excited to get a fish and now seems marginally interested, which seems about right.
Also, I’m kind of obsessed with:
Yes, I am one of the many people you know who has gotten hooked on Stitch Fix. It’s basically like getting presents except you pay for them. You tell them about styles you love and hate and they send you clothes and then you can return them if you don’t like them. I kept everything from my first “fix” and wear the clothes constantly. I only kept one shirt from my second “fix,” but I’ve worn it two days in a row so that says something. It’s a great service for people like me who enjoy clothes but whose wardrobes have fallen behind the times either because they have kids or work or accidentally always buy the same types of clothes (tank tops and deconstructed cardigans with statement necklaces over here). Full disclosure: if you sign up and use my link above I get a $25 credit, but I promise I’m not trying to scam you. My evangelism is pure.
Other than dressing myself, or, more accurately, letting others dress me, the fam and I have ventured to Provincetown with Mo, Martha’s Vineyard with the Huxtables, and Cape Cod to see my luminously talented Auntie in I am a Camera. And I’ve solo attended book events for hardcore gifted storytellers Julia Fierro (Cutting Teeth) and Courtney Maum (I Am Having So Much Fun Here Without You). All awesome. Such events and the new clothes might make my life sound glamorous, but let’s remember I have two small children and was recently compelled to utter the sentence, “That’s right, DBB, you can’t juggle Marmalady’s pukies.” And ten times a day I sing a hand washing song to the tune of the ABCs about how good someone is at using the potty.
Das Big Boy is summering at camp, which he has figured out is really school with a different order of events, some new teachers, and a sprinkler. Little Liebchen has a gazillion words understandable only to her parents, and a tendency to lay her head upon the floor and sob when she does not get her way. Wherever does she get it?
Here is what we look like as of last weekend:
We went as a family to the Brockton Fair, where we went on lots of rides and I fed my baby fried dough. Yes, I exist in an odd dichotomous universe in which my children and I either eat only organic hippie food or total crap. Also at the fair, I won the game where you shoot water into the clown’s mouth, thereby procuring a stuffed dragon for my family. It felt good to be a provider again. There may have been a post victory fist pump involved.
I’m trying to write beyond the blog again, so wish me luck with that endeavor. How do we feel about getting childcare to do work for which you will likely never be paid? Or paid enough? It fills me with guilt, but I’m not sure how else writing gets done. Thoughts?
Faithfully yours, even in long bouts of unexplained absentia,
Deine Hipster Hausfrau
One of the topics this blog promises to address is style, but it’s been a while since I’ve done so. You might be asking yourself, “Why would I take style advice from a woman with a once-a-week shower policy?”
To which I reply, “I’m not offering hygiene tips. And I like clothes, even if I only have four pairs of pants. Which is two more pairs of pants than I had before my last trip to Target.”
Anyway, these days I feel like I have two style icons: Small children and the Olsen Twins (whom I associate with small pants, floopy tops, big bags, big boots, messy hair, scarves, chunky jewelry). One of the things that’s fun about dressing kids is that it’s considered cute to mix patterns, textures, and do lots of layering. I’ve basically backwards planned this into my own wardrobe. So that’s my first style idea. Dress like you dress your toddler. If you don’t have a toddler, you can try dressing like I dress my toddlers.
Recently, I tried on this crab sweater (right) at a favorite boutique. I liked it because it looked like something Das Big Boy would wear. In fact, on Wednesday I frightened a small child at Das Big Boy’s preschool in the following manner. We’ll call him Cyrus because his name is Cyrus and that’s so damn cute. Keep in mind Cyrus isn’t even in DBB’s class and likely doesn’t know who I am.
Me: Cyrus, guess what?
Me: I recently tried on a shirt exactly like that. But it looked terrible on me because it looked like a four-year-old boy should be wearing it.
Cyrus smiles politely and starts looking for an exit.
Me: But I love it on you.
The problem was, it looked good on Cyrus, and it would have looked good on an adorable, sassy twenty year old. But I looked like a mom trying to dress like her children. Which I was. But it turns out I can’t be so obvious about it.
Which is why I wrote about it tonight.