tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85274292024-01-31T04:39:05.373-05:00A 30-something new mom ruminates on life after baby, life before baby, how spitup and burps have replaced meetings and conference calls, how to navigate the complexities of suburbia and the myriad possibilities of everday life. The Mommy Diaristhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097600823511618522004-12-02T13:06:00.000-05:002005-11-16T15:20:01.583-05:00

Sitting in a circle singing an annoyingly perky song to a toy clown is not how I used to spend Wednesdays. But I have to admit that by the time they blew the bubbles, I was into it. Daniel was not. They scared him and made him cry. But he perked up again when the hand puppets and the parachute came out. And so it is that for one hour each week of what I still consider My New Life, my infant son

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097849121410377132004-12-01T10:04:00.000-05:002005-11-16T15:25:30.746-05:00

It's just like dating. I go there in the hopes of meeting someone. I’m feeling desperate, so in the beginning I’ll give anyone a chance. Never mind that all the warning signs are there – Conversation is stilted. Or they talk too much. Or they’re boring or opinionated or, simply, irritating. And you know if this was Life Before, they wouldn’t be in it. But this isn’t normal life. This is playgroup

Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1101780138952449332004-11-29T20:49:00.000-05:002004-11-29T21:02:18.963-05:00

Every time I go to another mom’s house and see the toys they have, I feel guilty, like my child is toy-deprived. Never mind that he’s only five months old and just starting to really enjoy his toys (his favorite is his piano/exersaucer. He gets to stand up in it and spin around, lighting up piano keys and making music, rattling and shaking things. He’s like a little king ruling over his universe,

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1099408766707324282004-11-28T10:16:00.000-05:002005-11-16T15:19:25.203-05:00

So I’m at playgroup and we’ve spent time “playing” (which, for Daniel, means sitting on my lap staring at the insanity going on around him and wondering why some kid is trying to eat his rattle). Now it’s time for lunch. This is when all moms, kids in tow, head to the café. This is followed by ten minutes of madness, as everyone tries to get enough chairs, high chairs, strollers and various

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1100745606814531482004-11-17T21:32:00.000-05:002004-11-29T16:08:36.573-05:00

So there I was in a ritzy, super-trendy store with chandeliers and shiny, happy, commission-based salespeople and tiny racks of tiny clothing that cost enormous sums of money. And everywhere you looked – jeans. Shelves upon shelves of them. Rows of them. In every corner. And I ask you this - why does a store that specializes in jeans need a chandelier? But I digress. I was there for a new pair

Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1099929345844579242004-11-08T10:54:00.000-05:002004-11-18T08:05:15.160-05:00

In graduate school, I could load the back of my car and trunk up with all my possessions. I only did it for the drive home during summer and Christmas break. But I used to love the idea that I could, at a moment’s notice, pack up and be gone. It didn’t matter that I never drove to New York City or LA or across the country on the Trip of a Lifetime (which involved me with my hair streaming out

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1098980411975752372004-10-28T12:16:00.001-05:002004-10-29T08:35:16.310-05:00

The thing I want to know is this -- When did I become this SUV-driving, grande-nonfat-decafe-latte-drinking, suburban-living, non-9-5-stay-at-home-with-baby, grocery-shopping-five-times-a-week, pop-tart-eating adult? (Okay, so the pop tart didn't fit in there, but they're so damn good). Really. When did I become a True Adult? And why do I sometimes still feel like the 17-year old with the big

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1098722825533786402004-10-25T12:40:00.000-05:002004-11-01T13:47:50.266-05:00

Halloween used to be my favorite holiday. That’s back when it involved lots of alcohol, a blonde wig and American flag jeans. Aaaah, the good old days. You should have seen me. I’m not sure if it was the jeans or the blonde wig, but I really did have more fun. But things are different now. I'm an adult. I have a baby and live in the suburbs and will attend the neighborhood's fall family

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097177554304843312004-10-07T15:20:00.000-05:002004-11-01T13:44:35.256-05:00

It should have been included in our closing costs. Or in the mortgage. At the very least, we should’ve been told so we could budget for it. Granted, it’s only certain times of the year. But this must be the season because it seems as if every other day there’s a knock on the door and there stands some small, sweet, angelic-faced child asking me for money in return for some product I don’t want.

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1096653176948344692004-10-06T12:52:00.000-05:002004-11-01T13:43:22.866-05:00

Oh my god. The worst has happened. I have not only been invited to a tupperware party, but have heartily accepted. I was even gleeful. What is going on? Am I that bored that a party with a bunch of women sitting around getting excited about plastic containers sounds good to me? It’s something I’ve always made fun of. Me, Ms. I’m-So- Cool-And-Hip-Not-Like-All-You-Boring-Mainstream people. Next

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097004097523659102004-10-05T13:48:00.000-05:002004-11-01T13:47:02.063-05:00

I am convinced that there is no more scary place than a lovely, tree-lined neighborhood filled with lawn mowing dads, cheery Baby-Bjorn wearing moms and tail-wagging yellow labs whose owners strategically place plastic cups (the same used at keg parties in my former life) beneath their raised tails to catch the dog doo as it comes out. No, I didn’t make that up. Take my neighborhood. It's a

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1096568076564160012004-10-03T13:13:00.000-05:002004-11-01T13:50:04.336-05:00

Here’s another entry from my glamorous life: 5:30am Thursday: I stumble downstairs to find piles of dog vomit strategically placed around the living room -– between couch cushions, on the carpet. The only surfaces spared are the hardwoods. They, of course, being easiest to clean. But I’m one step ahead of my little furry friend. Last night at midnight, seeing him lick the floor and then race

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1096639688746283022004-10-02T09:06:00.000-05:002004-10-15T14:47:52.443-05:00

In my twenties, I sat in coffee shops. One in particular stands out. It was cozy and homey and also served bagels and I always got a bit grumpy if my usual seat by the huge window was taken. It was on this cool intown Atlanta street with the requisite art gallery, trendy eateries and homeless person (named Ron, with one crazy dreadlock shooting from the left side of his head, a snazzy blazer and

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097079923221108292004-10-01T12:22:00.000-05:002004-10-15T14:46:51.286-05:00

Damn I’m moody. I’m like a seesaw. Up down up down. I can blame it on the lack of sleep. I am fully justified. The ironic thing is that Daniel is actually sleeping now. He sometimes cries a few times in the night, but not for long. And he generally falls right back to sleep. It’s not like in the beginning, when I was getting up to feed him every hour and a half, feeding for half an hour, then

Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04867892544604034356noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8527429.post-1097091885181689382004-09-30T15:44:00.000-05:002004-10-11T20:05:35.383-05:00

Is Ernest Borgnine broke? Or maybe he’s just craving the spotlight again. Perhaps I have it all wrong and he’s actually a do-gooder out to help people get rich. All through a machine that rents movies. Or an ATM. Or something like that. I’m not sure what his particular schpiel is for, but I know there are lots of cheesy graphics and flashing lights. And old Ernest certainly looks earnest. But

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