NYC Moms

A Day Without Children

2009-07-13T05:00:00-07:00

I recently attended a week-long program that my company holds every year at Vassar College. In order to attend, I had to take my children to stay with my family in the Detroit area while I was away. I missed them terribly while I was gone, and at one point, it seemed, in every conversation I had with one of my colleagues, I spoke of how happy I would be to see them again.

Over and over, I repeated my planned travel schedule to anyone who would listen: program ends on Thursday, return to New York City for one day on Friday, and fly to Detroit on Saturday to reunite with the kids and spend a week with my family in the Detroit area.

After hearing this travelogue for the umpteempth time, one of my colleagues said, "Oh! So you have a day at home, in your house, by yourself!"

I shrugged. That was true, but I wasn't really thinking of it that way. I was too busy thinking of how much I missed my children. My co-worker continued,

"I haven't been in my house alone in I couldn't tell you how long. Let me guess. You're going to walk around naked, aren't you? That's what I would do!"

I laughed. I hadn't been alone in my house since the last time I'd taken the kids to Detroit for an extended visit with my family, and that was about three years ago. And it had been a long time since I'd walked around the house naked...

In that moment, I decided to enjoy my day at home alone without children, instead of basically treating it as a day of mourning until I could see them again.

So what did I do?

1. I walked around naked. A lot.

2. Surprisingly, I bonded with my cat. Turns out she's not quite as wacko when she gets a reasonable amount of attention and affection. Who knew?

3. I went to a morning Bikram Yoga class at my favorite Bikram Yoga studio in Harlem. Much different vibe than the weekend evening classes I normally attend.

4. I enjoyed a long, leisurely workout at my gym, including steam and sauna.

5. I saw a movie for grown-ups -- The Hangover -- and laughed louder than I have in a long time.

6. I finished reading the book "Slumdog Millionaire" (originally titled "q&a") -- great read!

7. I called the kids and told them how much I looked forward to seeing them after our week apart, and heard lots of stories about my sister's cute new puppy.

8. I silently gave thanks for the simple pleasures I was able to enjoy that day.

Original post to NYC Moms Blog.

The Last Minute Sabotage

2009-07-12T05:00:00-07:00

Last week I found a word on Urban Dictionary that defines me perfectly: chronoptomist. Well, maybe not their specific definition, which involved getting weed, something I don't get (in the literal sense, and in that I just don't understand why people do it - I already have no memory and constant munchies). But the implied definition, that I always think it's going to take me less time to do things than it actually does, is me all the way. My kids are consistently five or ten minutes late for school. The problem is, we live too close to school. It is at the very most, if we're dawdling, a ten minute walk away. If we lived farther, especially if we had to drive, I would build in extra time for the unforeseen: slow traffic, an accident, lack of parking, etc. But there's really nothing between our house and school that will slow us down enough to make them late.

So how does it happen then? It's the kids' fault (isn't it always?). Our mornings are actually kind of mellow. Nine days out of ten, I don't even have to be showered before dropping them off (if you've ever tried to make an appointment with me before noon and I've been reluctant, now you know why), and my daughter gets a bath the night before. Only Jake has to shower when waking up. He recently started making breakfast for himself and his sister, so after showering and getting dressed he rushes through breakfast so that he can spend some time with his video games before school. He's an early riser, so there are days when he has an hour between breakfast and school in which to play, or watch TV. I'm often asleep through all of this.

I get up in time to make sure that Fiona is up in time, but it takes her about five minutes to get ready and another five to eat a tiny breakfast. Then she gets out her crayons, or her dolls, and plays. So, usually at least half an hour before we have to leave, we're all ready. I'm emailing and tweeting and having a little breakfast, they're relaxing. So what the hell happens to throw us off schedule? Well, that's where the chronoptomism comes in. I know where my shoes are. I know how long it takes to put them on. I know where my jacket is, and if I need one. I know that I don't have to go to the bathroom. And I've had a great streak of knowing where my keys are.

It's not me, it's the kids. The little saboteurs are the reigning king and queen of last minute poops, lost shoes, lost backpacks, one glove, remembering at the last minute that they're supposed to bring in paper towel rolls or old clothes for an art project/snacks for a party I didn't know about/a permission slip they can't find, or just losing their shit and getting into a fight on the way down the stairs (it takes time to yell and threaten properly when that happens).

A lot of this stuff could be taken care of the night before, but that never happens. I rarely do something ahead of time that I could instead do in a panic at the last minute. And if I ask them if they're ready to go out the door, of course they're going to say yes, because they don't want to stop what they're doing. So, we end up late, time and time again. A nice, pleasant morning ends with me screaming like a drill sergeant to Move it! Move it! Move it! And I hope not to run into the principal on the way in. And every day I vow to do better tomorrow. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But summer camp has started, and the kids can't be five or ten minutes late, because they get picked up by another parent for the carpool, and for some reason I've given more weight to not making a parent wait than I've been giving to getting them to school on time. I don't know why. It's totally irresponsible. So, we've been going outside ten minutes early, to wait and talk and goof around on the steps, and put on suntan lotion. The last minute stuff still happens, but as long as it doesn't last for ten minutes, it won't make us late.

I don't understand why I can't do this for school. I don't understand why I'm having more respect for another parent than I am for the kids' entire school. We could easily walk there ten minutes early and just hang out outside for a few minutes. I need to be a chronpessimist. It just doesn't have the same ring to it, but I'm really going to try come September.

This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog. Amy also edits the NYC section of Famplosion, blogs about parenting in Brooklyn while keeping herself sane and comfortable at Selfish Mom, and attempts to keep one step ahead of the stalkers and paparazzi at Filming in Brooklyn and Examiner.com.

Summer Sunshine -- Uh Oh!

2009-07-11T11:37:00-07:00

All parents know what it's like to have a stranger on the street tell you to bundle up your child in the cold or put a hat on. And surely you can appreciate the frustration that ensues when you know the reason your child isn't wearing a hat or gloves is because he refuses even though you’re aware that his hands and ears feel like popsicles. So now that it's summer it's time for the less obvious advice and perhaps a little guilt or self doubt.

Recently we were walking along the street taking in the sights of a street fair. I'd walked through while they were setting up early in the morning and my son was completely engrossed watching the tents being set up. As we walked by, I pointed out the different merchandise that would soon be on display for interested buyers. He was practically in a trance and, to my surprise, not even bothered at being in his stroller for an hour.

A couple of hours later I had to run some errands so I decided to walk through the street fair again, now that it was up and running, and grandma was with us. My son loves music so naturally we stopped in front of the three piece band giving a, not so good, blues serenade. As I watched my son rock back and forth in his stroller, clapping along, I noticed the midday sun beating down on his pale white legs and arms. He had also decided he didn't want to wear his hat anymore, after only a few minutes outside, so his head and face were also soaking up the UV rays.

I had a flashback to a woman I'd seen a little earlier in the day stopped under a shady awning, slathering her kids with sunscreen. All of the sudden, my mind raced. "Am I a bad parent? Am I abusing my child because I haven't put sunscreen on him? Is he going to get skin cancer later in life because I am not protecting him from the sun?" I thought of all these things but couldn't really do much because I didn't actually have sunscreen with me. Sure I have a bottle of it in the diaper bag along with insect repellent, band aids, Neosporin and other essentials. But I was only a few blocks from home so I didn't schlep it along.

I felt panicked and wanted to leave immediately but in the interest of avoiding a decision that my son would protest, I waited until the song ended. Then, I turned the stroller around and we started to head towards home. I suppose it was too late to think about walking in the shade now. As we walked, my mother said to me, "I noticed a woman lathering sunscreen all over her kids." I, of course, didn't let her know we were rushing home because I was feeling unfit as a mother for exposing her grandchild to the harmful rays of the sun. I just said, "I know, I was thinking that I should have done the same." That was the end of our discussion.

Maybe she read my mind and knew? Maybe she was making her point simply, or maybe she was conceding that she hadn't thought about it either? But I think it's a safe bet I'll think about it before we head outside for the rest of the summer.

This is an original post to NYCMoms Blog. Debra lives in the Upper West Side with her husband and toddler son.

Traveling with Baby, or not?

2009-07-11T04:12:00-07:00

Haven't we all gotten the pang? The feeling deep in your belly when you see an adorable baby and want (another) one of your own desperately? Their delicious scent, adorable smile and seemingly edible tiny feet are captivating.

I traveled home from Istanbul yesterday, and saw many cute babies in the airport. I was kid-less (my two are away at sleep-away camp) and I breezed through the airport with Ayelet Waldman's book "Bad Mother" in one hand, and nothing but my purse slung over the other. Ms. Waldman's has a chapter in her insightful and funny book on motherhood entitled, "Baby Lust". Ms. Waldman is a mother of four, yet she still fights that urge to have another she says, "Never again to feel the sandbag weight of a baby slung over my shoulder? Never again to hold miniature, translucent starfish fingers in my hand? Never again to match my breath to a baby's shallow wheeze?"

Yes! I have had those feelings many times. Probably hormonal, but very real feelings of wanting another. I give a talk a few times a year to groups of new moms called, "Traveling with Baby". I advise moms on which strollers are easiest for travel, to ship "gear" ahead if possible and give tips for fussy babies on airplanes among other things. I am enmeshed in the baby world because of City Baby, yet my kids are teens at this point.

I watched young moms struggle to get through security--folding strollers, showing liquids, passing the baby back and forth like a hot potato. Part of me is envious, but truthfully a larger part of me is relieved that I don't have to do that again. The endless amounts of "stuff" and packing and naps and spit up. I am grateful that my husband and I can travel with our rolling bags and that our kids can pull their own too.

Original NYC Moms Blog post. Pamela is the co-author of City Baby: a resource guide to having a baby in New York and is the co-founder of Mind Your Own Business Moms (MYOBMoms.com) a business dedicated to helping moms re-enter the workplace.

Tragedy

2009-07-10T11:04:00-07:00

My family has been in utter shock for days. A friend of my daughter’s, a senior in high school with excellent grades and lots of friends, committed suicide.

This must be the ultimate parental nightmare. Not only is your child dead, but she chose to end her life. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), suicide is the third-leading cause of death for 15- to 24-year-olds, surpassed only by accidents and homicide.

The American Academy of Pediatrics cited these factors as reasons that young adult suicide has risen:

It's easier to get the tools for suicide (Boys often use firearms to kill themselves; girls usually use pills);

the pressures of modern life are greater;

competition for good grades and college admission is stiff;

and there's more violence in the newspapers and on television.

My daughter’s friend was a competitive ice skater and anorexic. She was seeing a therapist and had been a patient at The Renfrew Center. But while ice skating and anorexia are linked (two of my kids did competitive gymnastics, another sport with high numbers of anorexics) there is not usually a link between anorexia and suicide. In anorexia, you are slowly killing yourself, but the sufferer doesn’t see that she is starving herself. Anorexia is ‘an endless cycle of restrictive eating often to a point close to starvation in order to feel a sense of control over the body. This cycle becomes an obsession and is similar to any type of drug or substance addiction.”

Some suicide markers were absent in this instance; the parents are together, they knew their daughter was troubled, and they were seeking help. According to my daughter, “ice-skating moms are psycho” but she acknowledged that this girl’s mom was “really nice” and that she kept saying she should have been home to prevent it. But you can’t watch your kids’ every move, and even the most vigilant of parents will miss things in their children’s lives.

I wish someone had gotten through to this girl. And I wish I knew what to say to my daughter.

This is an original post to NYC Mom's Blog.

What Happened to the Girl I Married?: Join us for Silicon Valley Moms Group's next Book Club on Friday, July 17th

2009-07-10T06:00:00-07:00

Let's face it - sometimes a couple's relationship changes once they have kids. Join us Friday, July 17th as we discuss the book What Happened to the Girl I Married by Michael Miller and talk about what we think happened for our next book club.

About What Happened to the Girl I Married (from the author's website): In What Happened to the Girl I Married?, Miller steps out of his corporate executive job and into his wife’s uncomfortable shoes at home. With no staff or administrative assistants to support him, Miller’s “ah hah moments” begin on day one and become more profound with each step down the path. Through his journey, Miller offers a new found appreciation for the tireless efforts of stay-at-home mothers and clues as to why women might lose themselves in the job. For the men they married, Miller lets them connect with his evolution through humor, man-isms and motivations for change that are hard to resist.

In his journey to enlightenment in What Happened to the Girl I Married?, through both laughter and tears, Miller provides readers with:

A revealing perspective on the job of a stay-at-home parent and appreciation for it’s unique challenges
(from a man who never had it)
Creative imagery and colorful examples to help communicate the job’s complexities and the feelings they can generate that are sometimes hard to put into words
A non-threatening way for the partner of the stay-at-home parent to examine how their words and actions might be contributing to a loss of self worth and identity
Ideas for small, manageable changes that can have a big impact on the relationship, and how the stay-at-home parent feels about themselves and their job
A simple terminology that both partners can use to help get their love affair back on track and keep it that way

What Happened to the Girl I Married? is an honest and enlightening love story that’s funny and thought-provoking throughout. The story’s messages help heal old wounds and offer both partners a language to get back on a loving path together – and stay on it.

Read along with us: Buy your copy of the book today and get ready to discuss with us on Friday, July 17th. See you at book club!

Past Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

Testimony by Anita Shreve
Comfort Food by Kate Jacobs
Much to Your Chagrin by Suzanne Guilette
It Started with Pop-Tarts by Lori Hanson
Who By Fire by Diana Spechler
The White Trash Moms Handbook by Michelle Lamar
Writing Motherhood by Lisa Garrigues
The Vaccine Book by Dr. Robert W. Sears
The Other Mother by Gwendolen Gross

Love/Hate Relationship with the Ice Cream Truck

2009-07-10T05:00:00-07:00

Everybody with kids New York City surely knows about the ice cream truck that magically appears as soon as the temperature rises above 65 degrees.

Lucky for me, or not so lucky for me, we have an ice cream truck literally a block from our apartment. We have a dog and typically we go for a walk every night after I get home from work to take the Rock man out and of course most nights I do my very best to avoid the ice cream truck. The kids are getting to smart though and they know the route to walk to stumble across him and then proceed to beg for ice cream. Not always a scene I am in the mood to deal with after a long day of work, not to mention the internal debate I go through on if the ice cream coming out of these truck is actually sanitary…

However, there are other times when the ice cream truck manifests into my savior. On those nights when the kids are fighting, I can tell they are tired and in general nothing is going smoothly, the simple suggestion of getting some ice cream is just the magic anecdote. Immediately the mood lifts, the kids are rushing to get their shoes on and we actually just really end up having an enjoyable time sitting on our apartment stoop being messy and savoring our little summer treat. All the fighting subsides and peace prevails. The power of ice cream.

Original post to NYC Moms Blog.

When Toys Lose Their Magic

2009-07-09T11:12:00-07:00

"Go play," and its counterpart, "Go play with your toys," are two phrases that can often be heard 'round these parts. As parents, we invest in playthings for our little ones (or over-indulge, depending on the amount of restraint one shows) and then we're often frustrated when they don't translate into the long minutes (even hours) of playful bliss that were sold to us as part of the package. It's not just the thing that you buy or make for the child that enthralls you, it's the possibility that they will be transported to a timeless place once that darling little thing is in their grip.

But our toys have been losing their magic--how about yours? Recently I realized this was because we had gone on auto-pilot with them. We were using them as a distraction. Here--You build with the blocks while I sit next to you and watch, and perhaps I will talk to the other parent or let my mind wander while you do so. Or--You go play in your room while I clean the apartment/make dinner/fill-in-the-blank. Now, there may be a time and a place for this posture towards toys, but when it's the only posture being modeled, it's no wonder the juices of imagination begin running dry.

I learned this the morning my two-year-old and I played with the green ball. The green ball is a big bouncy one, the kind you buy from a big cage in the grocery store, but because of the altitude change when we moved from the Mile-High City (Denver, CO) to Brooklyn, our big green ball is filled to less-than capacity. We played with the green ball for an hour, and I saw that what had been missing was me being inventive with her about how such a toy could be used. For an hour or more, we explored every way of playing with the green ball we could think of. We sat on it and bounced up and down. We bounced it off our foreheads. We rolled, caught, threw, and my girl laughed infectiously the whole time.

Now, I probably can't do inventive play like this every waking minute, but making room for it brings our toys to life and teaches my kids that there's more than one way to use things, that experimentation is fun, and that adding more playthings is never the answer to bringing back the magic. Learning to love what you've got and make your fun with what you have on hand is the real treasure.

What toys can you go play with today--theirs or yours?

An original NYC Moms Blog post. Jen Lee is the author of the brand-new collection, Fortunes. Find your fortune at jenlee.net.

The Truthiness of Facebook

2009-07-09T05:00:00-07:00

A few days ago I received a message on Facebook from an old high school acquaintance. "You look as pretty as I remember you from [our 5th grade class]". Blushing a bit, I was impressed that he would have remembered me from so long ago. It felt so nice and out-of-my-ordinary that someone might think of me as "pretty"....most days I would take it as a compliment if someone described me as "sane", or "not homeless looking". Then my thoughts turned to my appearance at the time: makeup free, hair in a ponytail, t-shirt and "mom jean"-style khaki shorts....not to mention the spit-up and snots on said t-shirt. Of course, what my "friend" was commenting on was my profile picture: from 2 year ago: at my baby's Christening, I was wearing makeup, earrings, and a necklace...a sufficient difference that it might qualify for the witness protection program. So I got to thinking...is the way I represent myself and my life on Facebook is more "truthy" than truth?

Stephen Colbert coined the term "truthiness", which is loosely defined as truth we want to exist, even if it is not. And I've come to wonder if my Facebook "profile", by matter of omission, isn't more "truthy" than "truth". I mean, I'm intentionally not putting up bad pictures of myself. You won't see my seventh grade school picture - at least not on my profile. And my family pictures are all cute, smiling kids....no hint of tantrums, fighting, or whining. And if I'm going to be really honest, most of the time - at least one of my three kids will be fighting or whining. In this case, not so much lying as misrepresentation by omission.

If I think of Facebook as a personal/social resume of sorts, then I guess it makes sense. Certainly, I wouldn't put some of the less-than-stellar job responsibilites up front on my professional resume. That's not to say I would lie about them if asked directly, but since I've had enough "good" jobs that I can cover the page without resorting to 16 point font, it doesn't feel so wrong to leave the bad ones out. Likewise, the 20 pictures of my kids I have up on Facebook should be enough for anyone wanting to catch up on my life.

And really, if my Facebook profile were going to be more of a documentary than a comedy, it would be a lot less fun to see. Staying at home with 3 kids, I like to hop online for a quick diversion, with nothing too heavy - and I assume most people feel the same way. So, I will continue to post the "good" pictures and relay the funny stories, while keeping the darker side of life to myself. The lesson I try to instill in my 5 year old apparently applies to Facebook as well: if you don't have anything nice to say (or post), don't say anything at all.

This is an original post for NYC Moms Blog.

Wanted: Second Grade Class List

2009-07-08T05:00:00-07:00

Playing with peers is overrated. Over the weekend I brought my three children to an amazing kid-filled fourth of July party, full of people my children had never met. We'd all assumed that they would pair off according to age. Of course my five and a half year old would LOVE their five year old, of course my eight year old would bond with their nine year old. And of course, we were all wrong. My five and a half year old loved their seven year old who was over the moon at having such an adoring fan. My eight year old was kind of curious to hang out with their twelve year old, who got to be an expert on everything and ignored the thirteen year old to hang out with this younger creature.

It got me wondering...and not for the first time...why do I always look to my children's classmates for playdates and out-of-school experiences? The closer my younger daughter is in age to her playmate the more likely there is to be some enormous grabbing squabble or hideous competitive impasse. My eight year old daughter was completely iced out by some mean eight year olds this year. If she could have spent all her recesses with six year olds and thirteen year olds she would have been in heaven. And they would have enjoyed her company too. She's mature and doting for the younger ones, and curious and faithful to the older ones. Alas, the school schedule just isn't set up for that. She has a lot to offer kids who aren't her age.

So one child is entering kindergarten, and another is entering fourth grade. I have a desk drawer full of kindergartner's contact info, and several years of papers filled with contact info for the kids who've been in my older daughter's classes for the last five years.

In the last few weeks of school the mother of a first grader stopped me to tell me that her daughter had 'adopted' my youngest as the younger sister she didn't have. We chuckled at how cute this little bond was, and then? We didn't exchange phone numbers, and we didn't pursue getting the girls together outside of school. And the next time I organized a playdate for my daughter I limited my calls to the kids her age, and then limited that list even further by assessing the various degrees of fighting that could be predicted by the various chemistry of these children. I ended up with about three viable playdates, and two were out of town. Now I feel like a complete idiot.

What I really need is to contact that mother of that older girl who loves my younger girl, and arrange for our girls to get together. And if I was really clever I'd just get my hands on the class list of those incoming second-graders and let my fingers do the walking.

An original post for nycmomsblog. This mom's favorite things can be found at parentalapproval.blogspot.com.

Bye Bye Blankie

2009-07-07T05:00:00-07:00

When my kids were babies, I prided myself on never using a pacifier. I wasn't one of those moms whose kids walked around with a tooth-deforming hunk-o-rubber in their mouths. No, my children would be soothed by a washable, all natural cotton security blanket.

By the time they were four, my kids were still hanging on to their "blankies." I asked their pediatrician when I needed to take it away: "When they're 40." he said. He explained that since it wasn't doing them any harm -- and since he'd never heard of a kid going off to college with a security blanket, I shouldn't worry about it. He added that it wouldn't even be so bad if they kept a little square of it in their wallets as adults. "Hey," he said "anything that makes them feel more secure, as long as it isn't hurting them...why not?"

Luckily, I had selected Comfort Silkie on the recommendation of a friend, so I could buy them by the dozen, yellow for him, white for her. My kids slept with them, they were quieted by them in the car and on airplanes.(I think they saved us from the wrath of those-in-the-next-row on many a flight) No dental issues, and no worries about having to take them away. All was right with the world.

Yeah right.

'Cause it turns out that my son - who just holds his blankie, really could keep it until he was forty, but my daughter, who sucks on hers (yuck!) needs to lose the blankie before the braces come on.

So much for feeling smug about that pacifier.

We've been talking about this for months -- "You have to give up your blankie. When are you gonna give up your blankie? Do you think you can give up your blankie?" She never gave it up.

Until last week. Last week my daughter announced that she was going to sleep with her heretofore completely ignored bunny, Bunston. I imagined sleepless nights, crying fits, hysteria. So what happened, I was so nervous about it all, I coulnd't sleep, but my daughter, she slept just fine.

I know I should be happy. I know I should be proud that she just did it - no drama, no nothing. (Hey, better late than never.) But I'm a little bit sad. You know when your kids first start talking and they say things like "Mazagine" instead of Magazine, or ambliance instead of ambulance, or how they can never, ever say the word butterfly? My kids even called our national bird "the balding eagle." The blankie is in the same category as all of those cute baby-isms: it's an indelible part of their babyness.

By the time they're nine, most of that baby stuff is over. Suddenly, instead of adorable mispronunciations, there's this know-it-all surety, and just a hint of 'tude.

To me, the blankie was the last vestige of babyhood. And since I have twins, I only get to go through that baby stage once. Bye bye blankie means bye bye babyhood. And while I don't miss the diapers, or the late night feedings, or the seeming inability of either of my twins to have been able to understand the word "later," I will miss the special baby bond between mother and child. I will miss the image of my baby daughter curled up in her crib that her blankie could still evoke. I'm amazed myself, but I will miss that smelly, ratty blankie.

Except that I don't have to miss it -- I've kept one, high on a shelf. Whenever I'm feeling nostalgic for the innocence and closeness of their baby years, I'll just haul it out and snuggle with it for a moment. Hey, it's like the pediatrician said -- I don't have to give it up until I'm forty. And since that's never gonna happen (I've just celebrated my fifth annual 39th birthday), I'll keep blankie -- and babyhood -- forever.

Original Post to NYC Moms blog

Nancy R. Friedman writes for Traveling Mom, and at her own blog, Ageless Body/timeless Mom.

The grit in our lives...

2009-07-06T05:12:00-07:00

I grabbed a great picture the other morning. We were waiting for the F train and the girls were sitting together on the steps. They happened to both be smiling at the same time and the occasionally reliable camera on my phone actually caught the moment! It was amazing, so I tossed it up onto Facebook to share it with everyone. My caption for the photo described how I was too stunned by seeing both of them smile at the same time to think about how much sludge was collecting on their tushes. Every time they sit on the subway steps I cringe a little, but I've come to terms with it and realized that I'd rather just let them get a little dirty than walk way down the platform to sit on the bench (and you should hear the stories they tell about what kind-of germs and bacteria are on New York City subway platform benches).

As the comments trailed down in Facebook, I joked that I should photoshop out the steps and put a nice grassy meadow in the background. But, one of my friends disagreed, and said,

"I like the subway steps - gives it that urban grit feeling that reflects our lives so well."

She then goes on to describe her favorite picture of her daughter that shows her dancing in a performance at a big street fair, in front of a dirty metal storefront grate. Then she concluded,

"Let's face it - our kids are true New Yorkers and this is their life!"

And she was right! I thought about it some more and realized that some of my favorite photos of my kids are the true city scenes, like the one with them in colorful raincoats, also in front of a metal storefront grate. Another favorite is of my older daughter sitting on the train with her hood on, looking like a true 4-year-old bad-ass (sortof). In the end, anyone can have a an idyllic photo of their child sitting in the grass in a huge field of flowers, but I'm happy to be living in a place where the images I capture, grit and all, look a little more interesting than your average Sears Studio photo.

This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog. When not taking pictures of her kids milking rats (instead of cows ;), Dina G is a Web Project Manager. She writes about the parallels between project management and parenting on her blog The Critical Chain.

School is over...let the arms race begin!

2009-07-05T03:25:00-07:00

Public schools in New York got out for the summer last week and as if in answer to the prayers of school-age children everywhere, it stopped raining for almost forty-eight hours: just long enough for the summer-time arms race to begin.

When the boys were young, there was no question about what to bring to the various sprinkler parks where we spent most of our summer days: I gave them both spray bottles and they happily filled them up and chased each other around. The spray nozzle had different settings, the bottles were easy to fill, and big enough not to need refilling too often (a big plus, given that refills were usually my job).

Then it happened: Liam noticed one of those massive water bazookas and suddenly his lowly spray bottle wasn't enough. Noooo, absolutely not. He wanted A BIG GUN. And of course, if he wanted one, so did his younger brother (who actually, if left to his own devices, would have been perfectly happy with the spray bottle for a few more years). You know what I’m talking about: those massive plastic guns that shoot water with enough force to knock over a small child (or soak a parent from such long way away that the parent doesn’t know who to yell at); guns that have an all-too-realistic firing mechanism, sort of like a pump-action rifle.

Am I being an old fart? Should I cave into the seasonal demand for armaments? I’ve tried to make some kind of devil’s bargain – buying small water pistols like we had when I was a kid in hopes of silencing the argument, but to no avail. The small pistols break easily (I suspect my little darlings are facilitating this breakage process in hopes that the small pistol will be replaced by a water cannon) – and, most importantly, the little water poppers just aren't cool.

I’ve tried pointing out that the Big Guns take all the fun out of a water fight because you can stand so far away from one another no one gets wet; I’ve reminded them that when one of those jets catches you in the eye it hurts; and on and on. None of that matters. They want GUNS. Parent friends shake out on both sides of the debate: I’ve been told to relax, it’s just water, no biggie; and I’ve been told (pun intentional) to stick to my guns and continue to offer spray bottles.

Luckily, the argument has been shelved at least for the time being because it’s started raining again, apparently with no intention of stopping. If and when it ever stops being monsoon season in New York, I guess I’ll have to make my stand, one way or another. Maybe if I buy the boys each a really, really BIG spray bottle...

This is an original post for the NYC Mom's Blog. Deborah Quinn can be found muttering on playgrounds about those damn guns, and on www.mannahattamamma.com

My Independence Day

2009-07-04T03:34:00-07:00

Every 4th of July, since the evening of the same day in 2002, I am overwhelmed with an incredible sense of accomplishment, pride, and gratitude over how great my life has turned out. And that is because it was on that evening when I "woke up".

All my life I had been shy, and thanks to my father's lack of sensitivity, I was also an insecure little girl, who grew up to be a woman unsure of herself and the things she felt passionate about. Fast forward through a bad, loveless marriage, a baby, and eventually the courageous step of petition for a divorce, and I had become, especially through the years of being married to my dad's personality twin, a bit stronger, more sure of myself, smarter, wiser. But even after my divorce I found myself unable to find something, attain something that would really give me my footing in this world. I was still vulnerable to criticism, though I had gotten so much better at recognizing when to listen and when to ignore. I had slowly started to do away with the negative aspects of my life, though in dating I somehow always managed to date the wrong guys.

And on July 4, 2002 I woke up next to "the wrong guy". He was an attractive, tall lawyer by way of PA, who made me laugh and melt and whom I had tried for almost a year to convince that I was the right girl for him to love. He made me cry so very often and would have me staring at the phone for hours as I waited for the calls that would never come. But when he would call there I was, giddy as a school girl, by his side, happy that he had come to his senses and realized how much he needed me.

And this 4th of July, I was happy just to have been with him on a holiday weekend, something that never happen. I thought it was time to take it further.

"Let's watch the fireworks together tonight!" I said nervous and excited at the same time.

"Oh, I don't know...I...we'll see." he replied hesitantly.

My heart ached, but I pressed on. "Come on, it'll be fun. Some of my friends will be there, we'll have some drinks afterwards and hangout."

"Sure, ok."

I couldn't believe it! He had said yes. Ok, well maybe not "yes", but "sure, ok" as hesitant as it was was good enough for me and I told him exactly where I would be, and gave him a couple of my friend's cellphone numbers in case, for some reason, mine just didn't ring, but everyone else's did and he was calling me. We had been invited to a private viewing along the East River and I was going to be there, with him.

Later that night, I met up with my friends, telling them excitedly about my "Mr. Big" was coming to watch the fireworks with me. Time passed and no sight of him. I called and no answer. Checked my phone, was it working? Yup. It got darker. The fire works started. He never came.

As I sat there watching the fire works light up the river, I thought about how far I had come in my life. How I had made it through childhood despite having been separated from my mother through most of it, I had not become another statistic in my Latino family, and had instead become not only the first to graduate from college, but to become a successful professional woman. I had left home at 18 and courageously lived in Europe on my own and then New York City without any financial support from family, friends, or agencies. I had always had my own apartment and was revered by my friends as being witty, and funny, and strong, and smart and by men as being sexy and beautiful. And there I was, in a place, exclusive that night to only a few, feeling hurt and rejected and except for this one stupid boy, I couldn't understand why. And it was with that realization that I gained my independence.

In one moment I finally broke away from all the things I was told I wasn't or couldn't be, and embraced all I was and am to this day. I rejected the labels put upon me to no longer hide behind the shyness or doubt that obscured my glow and personality. I rediscovered my self and liked me, I suddenly felt confident about what I wanted and needed and later learned to ask for it, and who ever came along that felt short to those needs and wants I rejected and turned away, without looking back or second thought.

In one night, the person who I was earlier that day had died and I have never seen her again, gone with her all the foolishness she embodied.

So after time, when the boy called, and wanted to see her, the foolish girl wasn't there to answer. And, it turned out, the boy fell in love with the woman that had taken her place. But as luck would have it, this woman did not love him in turn.

And she wouldn't love again till much later, when unexpectedly, and on a blind date, she would meet the one who would have her seeing beautiful displays of fireworks for the rest of her life.

This is an original NYC Moms Blog

Carol will be watching the NYC fireworks with the love of her life along the Hudson River this year. You can read more about her NYC Adventures at The Adventures of an NYCity Mama.

American Girl meet Gay Pride

2009-07-03T05:15:00-07:00

I love this town. Often, I think I couldn't live anywhere else. My husband and I have had battles and headaches over staying or going. Do the kids need a yard? Should they be riding bikes with abandon? The expenses are crazy etc,., We have stayed even with the litter, stink, smaller spaces and abundance of concrete. Still, you don't need good weather to have an adventure here. In fact, you could be going to the American Girl store and have your mind blown.

To give some background: Our daughter, earned an American Girl doll as a reward for a personal achievement which took months. (Okay, it was eating fruit). So, with triumph we head down to the store on 49th street and Fifth Avenue. As an added surprise, I also booked a lunch for three; daughter, son and myself (husband found some wily excuse to opt out) at the rip-off Cafe. It was a Sunday, so the store was teeming with doll-love. Little daughter jumps onto the escalator and heads directly to Historical Dolls. Within minutes, her painstaking decision is complete. It will be solicitous Felicity with her cat green eyes and four oddly placed curlicues. Okay, and Patriot the horse too. A girl has to have something to ride in this world. Our daughter hugs the box to her chest and I pull out the plastic while the salesgirl explains how she bought Josephina for her mother.

We have about an hour to kill between acquiring Felicity and going to lunch at the Cafe so we head to FAO Schwarz to get my son a toy. It is an easy bus ride up Madison Avenue to 58th St. My son makes a beeline for the Playmobil area. In minutes we are also the proud owners of two miniature clowns and a monkey for his circus toy. We find that we can't take a bus down Fifth Avenue back to American Girl due to the Gay Pride parade. Although I had noticed barricades earlier, by noon the parade is in full blossom. So I grab the little mitts of my certain-to-be left-wing children and head down Fifth Avenue. We can handle this, I think. We are open minded city folk! We follow two young women in bikini tops who are arm in arm. One sporting a rainbow mohawk. I explain how sometimes people love each other in a husband and wife way who are both men or women. Somehow, I find my resolve waning. There are many men in flamboyant costumes with fruit on the their heads and other motifs. Tourists madly snapping photos of posing trannies. Tons of motorcycles revving. The crowd chants about marriage and rights and we forge ahead.

I can see the American Girl store in sight at about 51st street when I hear my son yell, "Mommy, a tushy!" I turn to the left and see a group of leather clad men in black leather caps, vests and chaps with completely bare and hairy asses. "OH MY GOD!" I shriek, and then try to save the moment by adding, "Some people wear crazy costumes." "I saw tushies too," my daughter says. "We're almost there," I say. Rubber necking like mad, I pull their little arms towards the red awnings of American Girl Place, a store that has morphed from a commercial lion's den to a haven in one block. We tumble inside and ride up to the Cafe.

'How many people can they fit in there?' I think as we add our three to a line snaking through Bitty Baby. After 30 minutes, we enter the black and white striped restaurant. My daughter gets a baby seat for her Felicity. It strikes me as a little humiliating since Felicity's supposed to be an independent lass of 9 years old or so. They give a 'well-loved' plush dog with a baby seat to my son--the only boy in the place. There are tables of girls in poofy dresses with matching bows. We gnaw on pretzel bread and stare blankly at each other. There is the muffled clanging and racket from the parade below. Then my son says, "Hey, Mommy, can I go over to the window? I might be able to see some tushies from here."

This is an original NYC Moms blog post

The Dental Dilemma

2009-07-02T05:30:00-07:00

There are a lot of things in New York City in which parents generally expect to spend "more than the norm". Birthday parties, babysitting, shoes, are a few that come immediately to mind. But following a recent visit to the pediatric dentist, as the receptionist handed me the bill, I wondered whether they use gold in the fillings here, instead of silver.

We took my daughter to her first dental appointment at the age of three, as recommended by her pediatrician. The dentist kept my husband waiting for an hour with no explanation or apology, took our kid into the office and counted her teeth. That was it. And then she gave him a bill for $150-dollars. Huh. Evidently, I'm in the wrong business.

Not interested in further wasting our time or money, we began looking around for another pediatric dentist. Our insurance company made a few recommendations, but they were all in Manhattan, and as we live in Brooklyn, we'd hoped to find someone closer.

About six months later, a friend asked me if my daughter and I would like to join her and her daughter at a "dental fair" at the Brooklyn Public Library. Their family's pediatric dentist would be there, and we'd have a chance to meet a woman who is evidently the Goddess of pediatric dentistry. She must have been, after all, they were willing to spend a Sunday afternoon at a dental fair she'd put together. Sure enough, we showed up and were treated to a program that included free floss training, a dental puppet show (who knew molars could be so funny?), and a free Dora The Explorer toothbrush and Colgate Fun-paste. No map needed, my daughter was ready to cross toothbrush bridge and climb clean mouth mountain in a flash!

We made our first appointment with the new dentist just before my daughter turned four. Her office was nicely appointed but not pretentious. In the waiting room, there were a few of the mounted magazine covers in which she'd been mentioned within their pages under the category of "Best Of" of Pediatric Dentists. Her Harvard Dental school degree hung on the back wall. We waited for more than an hour and a half to get into the exam room. Was this a trend?

As we were shown to a room, my daughter was nervous, so I tried to reassure her. Then the Dr. entered. She spent time getting to know my daughter. She asked about my kid's nail polish (not mentioning all the chips), she asked her what she liked to do after school, and then she told her what she'd be doing during the appointment. She asked her what flavor medical glove she'd prefer-orange or bubble gum, and asked her what kind of toothpaste she'd like. She had a wonderful chair-side manner, no doubt. No fancy office with TV screens to help draw attention away from the task at hand, but by the time the appointment was finished, she'd spent more than an hour and 30 minutes with us, had counted my daughter's teeth, brushed and flossed them, taken x-rays, given her a fluoride treatment, and discovered two cavities that needed filling. That'll be $450-dollars and we'd need to return in two weeks. Ouch! Oh, and did I mention she doesn't take insurance? Actually, I'd learned from previous research, it seems like a lot of pediatric dentists that we'd been recommended don't take insurance.

My daughter had not liked the bright examination light, or "Mr. Thirsty" (that thing that sucks the saliva/water out) at the previous appointment, so we came armed with a few things (suggested by the dentist) when we returned. That included, sunglasses for the glare, a doll who would also be getting her teeth checked, her favorite toothpaste, and "Duckie" the security blanket. The dentist was late once again.

This time, as we waited in a different exam room, hanging on the wall were a number of posters. In one of them, there was our dentist, captured in a scene from Sesame Street and the Kids Weekly Reader--in which she was answering kids dental questions while examining a Muppet. In another poster, she'd been turned into a cartoon character and had appeared on the Clifford the Big Red Dog series, giving Clifford a dental exam. No wonder she was always late to our appointments--how on time can one be when you're busy examining a giant red dog?

This appointment was rough, but the dentist was patient through all of my daughter's screaming and crying. She had great euphemisms throughout the cavity-filling experience that included putting a "tooth raincoat" onto the teeth to keep them dry, and using a "tooth towel" to clean and dry them. She let my daughter use a mirror to see some of the things she was doing in there, and finally calmed her down. It was only thirty minutes in the chair. And then we got the bill for $300-dollars. Sigh.

Since then, my daughter has developed something of a love-hate relationship with her dentist, as have I. We've been back for another check-up, in which another cavity showed up, requiring some more work, and some more hefty bills.

We've asked, since when do dentists fill baby teeth? We've been told that because these cavities have all appeared in her very back teeth--the ones that don't fall out until the children are ten or eleven--that it's now more the norm to fill them and make sure they aren't allowed to fester for years on end as that could lead to problems in her adult mouth. And yet, it's hard to fathom that we end up spending more on her teeth, teeth that she'll eventually lose, than we do on our adult teeth.

But during the last visit, her dentist mentioned people have been asking when she's going to retire. And for a moment, I worried that we'd have to find another pediatric dentist, and that it would be next to impossible to find one as good as we'd found. She reassured me that she loves her work, and has no intention of retiring anytime soon.

Sometimes my daughter asks me randomly when she's next going to have to go back to the dentist. I try to reassure her with an answer of, "Not for a while." In the words of Mason Cooley, "If suffering brought wisdom, the dentist's office would be full of luminous ideas."

This is a NYC Moms Blog original post. Eden is still dreading and debating her daughter's next dental appointment, currently scheduled for Columbus Day.

Living La Dolce Vita

2009-07-01T06:38:00-07:00

Three months ago while I was in the middle of preparing dinner my husband called from work and told me that he had been laid off. You'd think in this economy I wouldn't have been surprised, but the mass lay offs at his company had come in January and he had survived, so come April, and the brand new fiscal year, we thought he was in the clear. As I slowly recovered from the initial urge to throw up he told me that his company had a very generous severance planned for him, as well as a three month "transition" time before he would be officially unemployed. In other words, he lost his job but he was being given the gift of time. At that point one thing was clear to me, we were going to get the hell out of here come June 30th and plan a trip - a long far away family summer trip.

It probably sounds ridiculous that in the midst of financial uncertainty my reaction was to plan a major vacation, but there is one thing I've realized in the all of the career ups and downs we've been through and that's that money comes and goes but time only goes by. We've been through this before (pre-kids) when the dot com bubble burst and the company went bankrupt after working 80 hour weeks, including sleeping overnight at the office. We took off for Japan and Thailand to recharge and get some perspective. In 2001 we actually won a trip to China, but we were never able to take it first because of September 11th and then because my twin pregnancy was deemed too high risk for long flight travel. We were officially grounded.

So now its been seven years since my daughters were born. For the first 4 years we never went anywhere without them, and never for more than a week staying with family. Fun, holiday vacations for sure but the kind of trips that work and school allow. For the past two years my husband and I have gone away together for four days once a year. The kind of trip that grandparent babysitting will allow. So this chance, this opportunity to have an entire month if we wanted to take our girls and show them something of the world that their imaginations had yet to uncover seemed too priceless to pass up. And things began to fall into place - camp refunded our money, extended family generously gave us a place to stay in Italy, we were able to use miles for one of our tickets.

When we told our daughters that this is what we were going to do - go to Italy for the month of July and explore the country, their first reaction was "What about camp? We can't miss color war!!!" Guess what, we told them, camp will still be there. The ability to have a whole month off to travel? Well that may never come around again. I don't think they entirely get it yet, but they've been studying their Italian picture dictionary and reading Magic Treehouse books about Italy and starting to get excited because everyone around them is so excited for them.

And maybe its the fact that my girls are seven now that made this trip even more appealing. Soon enough they'll be going to sleep away camp and not wanting anything to do with us. And they will have a way bigger say in how they want to spend their own time. For now, time is a shared family expense, and if they can see the value in using that time to the fullest then I will at least feel like we provided for them in a less tangible but more meaningful way. At the very least they'll learn that when life gives you lemons you should make limoncello (or in their case some sorbetto limon)!

This is an original nycmomsblog post.

Rebecca Levey is a freelance writer and mother of twin girls. She lives, works, parents and tries to maintain her sense of humor in New York City. She and her family will be writing about their travels and eating adventures through Italy this summer at her blog www.beccarama.com

School Daze

2009-06-30T04:40:00-07:00

The last two weeks have been filled with lots of tears. Mostly joyful and signaling new beginnings, but exhausting nonetheless. It started with my daughter's first dance recital—at the Brooklyn Museum! Two days later it was her first piano recital at school, immediately followed by her kindergarten graduation. All the stuff good memories are made of, yet reminders that the little girl born six years ago is growing up.

I hadn't expected Michael Jackson's death to affect me so deeply, and perhaps had it not happened on the eve of Isabella's final day in kindergarten, it would've been different. Both events signaled the end of an era so to speak. I now get why my husband was in a funk when George Harrison died. Closer to my mom's age than mine, he grew up with the Beatles. Well MJ was one of the big icons of my youth.

I've been struggling with the reality that I turned 35, and while it doesn't sound old, it does sounds quite grown up. I have two kids, a career and a husband. That means I'm an adult, right? My closest friend whom I met on the second day of high school often say we still feel so young. Jackson's passing feels like the door is really closed on that part of my story.

And then there was the last day of kindergarten. As I peered through the classroom window and watched Mlle. Bouteillion wave one final au revoir, I couldn't control the tears that streamed down my cheeks. My little girl had been forever changed during this past school year. She learned to read, write and had the foundation for counting currency laid. Six may as well be 16. First grade feels like it'll be college. No more drop off at the classroom door—parents are relegated to a kiss and wave in the schoolyard.

Just writing this post, I realize it'll all seem different with the dawn of a new day tomorrow. For now, though, I'm letting myself have my moment of silence. Reflection is good. It reminds me of all that has passed, and thankful for all the future has in store.

This is an original post to NYC Moms Blog. Jennifer Perillo, a consulting food editor at Working Mother magazine, finds when laughter is in short supply, a warm batch of chocolate chip cookies is pretty tasty medicine too. Get her recipe and more at In Jennie's Kitchen.

Testimony by Anita Shreve: A Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club

2009-06-29T06:00:00-07:00

This month, for Silicon Valley Moms Group bloggers' monthly book club, we read a novel that many of us, as mothers, found tough to read. But probably every mother should read it. And their teenagers too - especially their teenagers.

Join in as Silicon Valley Moms Group bloggers discuss the book Testimony by Anita Shreve.

DC Metro Moms Blog's Amy G. leads us off with hoping she has done enough
Wife and Mommy from Wife and Mommy thinks of all the moments she knew her life would never be the same
Jennifer from Connect with your Teens discusses the ramifications and repercussions of teenage drinking
Melanie from Tales from the Crib forecasts the future
Bonggamom from Finding Bonggamom remembers temptation
The Fabulous Miss S from Fabulous Miss S screamed in her head "No! Don't do it!"
Silicon Valley Diva from Blog on the Wall shudders when she thinks back to her teenage years
Kim from Passion & Art says no one asks to be raped
Chefdruck from Chefdruck Musings gives her own testimony
Jessica from It's My Life thinks about when the best isn't the best after all
Robin from Who's the Boss gives her testimony
Gayle from Everyday I Write the Book reviews Testimony
Christina from The Carpool Reader goes through the evolution of a marriage
Linsey from Me Too You is glad she got caught

More posts will be put up throughout the day on our writer's personal sites, so be sure to check back to follow along.

.... and if you have a post up on YOUR personal site on this topic, please leave a comment here and we will add your link!

About the book - from the publisher Hachette Book Group:

At a New England boarding school, a sex scandal is about to break. Even more shocking than the sexual acts themselves is the fact that they were caught on videotape. A Pandora's box of revelations, the tape triggers a chorus of voices--those of the men, women, teenagers, and parents involved in the scandal--that details the ways in which lives can be derailed or destroyed in one foolish moment.

Writing with a pace and intensity surpassing even her own greatest work, Anita Shreve delivers in TESTIMONY a gripping emotional drama with the impact of a thriller. No one more compellingly explores the dark impulses that sway the lives of seeming innocents, the needs and fears that drive ordinary men and women into intolerable dilemmas, and the ways in which our best intentions can lead to our worst transgressions.

Past Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Clubs have included:

Comfort Food by Kate Jacobs
Much to Your Chagrin by Suzanne Guilette
It Started with Pop-Tarts by Lori Hanson
Who By Fire by Diana Spechler
The White Trash Moms Handbook by Michelle Lamar
Writing Motherhood by Lisa Garrigues
The Vaccine Book by Dr. Robert W. Sears
The Other Mother by Gwendolen Gross

Play Ball

2009-06-29T05:00:00-07:00

Freud said once that it’s not just two people in bed, it’s six: you and your partner, your parents, and your partner’s parents. It’s a bed crowded with ghosts.

Little League baseball fields seem to me versions of the same thing. Those little boys and girls aren’t on the fields with just themselves, oh no. They’re out there with the ghosts of their parents’ childhoods, with their parents' dreams for their kids - and of course, the kids' own dreams about becoming the next fill-in-name-of-favorite-ballplayer-here.

Liam has been playing in little league since t-ball, in kindergarten. He’s just finished third grade and, I’m hoping, his baseball career may be over. He got bored standing in the outfield during the interminable innings when the eight-year-old batters try to hit the balls flung at them by eight-year-old pitchers; he hated that he couldn’t hit the ball hard enough to get it out of the infield; and his perfectionist nature was easily riled by his mistakes. Of course, he didn’t like to practice, either, so most of those mistakes plagued him for the entire season. His explanation? "Soccer is my real passion, mommy,” he said to me one day after a game, as we walked in the rain to the bus.

Now who knows if that statement will prove true, but if soccer gets him out of Little League, I’m all for it: youth soccer is fast, played within a set time limit (1 hour, as opposed to the sometimes 2 ½ hour baseball games), and at the end of the game the kids are exhausted, not just bored.

If you live on the East Side of Manhattan and your kid plays little league, you probably play ball on a set of fields that are bordered on one side by the on-ramp to the FDR and on the other by the ConEd smokestacks. Pastoral, it ain't. Adding to our not-quite-bucolic joy in America's pastime this spring, as any New Yorker could tell you, is the endless, endless, endless rain. We spent hours standing in the rain watching the players’ white baseball pants slowly turn the same color as the tan muck of the base-running paths. (Could we just pause for a minute to contemplate the genius who decided that white baseball pants were the best choice for eight-year olds’ uniforms? I think we used an entire bottle of stain remover on those pants over the course of this season, and after the final game had to just toss them out.)

Liam’s team ultimately won the championship – but his team got to the championship game because of a controversial call in the previous game. In that game, Liam’s team was winning by one run, in the last inning, when the other team hit a gorgeous home run: a solid thud of the bat, the ball soaring into the evening air (miraculously not raining), and the kid started to trot around the bases, a look of pure pleasure (and amazement) on his young face. As the kid rounded third, we heard his coach say “you didn’t touch second, go back!” but the kid didn’t hear him and continued home. Meanwhile, Liam’s coach yelled at his players to tag second base, thus effectively getting the kid out, because he hadn’t touched the base. It fell to the second-base umpire to make the call...and he said the kid was out, so Liam’s team won the game.

Now, technically, yes, the kid was out; he didn’t touch the base and missed it by a wide enough margin that his own coach noticed. On the other hand, it was a glorious hit and if Liam’s coach hadn’t demanded that his kids make the play at second and then demanded that the umpire call the play, probably no one would've done anything, the game would've been tied, and who knows what would've happened.

Opinion on both teams was pretty evenly divided about this play, actually, with some parents taking the “hey, that’s the breaks of the game” attitude, and some thinking that Liam’s coach was way too invested in WINNING.

I’m not sure what I thought about the whole thing; I just know that during the screaming match that followed, when a parent marched onto the field to insist that the wrong call had been made, it was almost as if I could see the ghosts of Little Leaguers past, floating around the bases, and the ghosts of their parents, screaming on the sidelines.

Like I said, it’s a crowded game.

This is an original post to the NYC Moms Blog. When Deborah Quinn isn't watching Little League games or dodging rain drops, she also blogs at MannahattaMamma.