Urban Mama

Ten Things I Love About My Newly 10-Year-Old Son

My son is 10 today. As we like to tell him (after hearing the saying from a good friend), he's the one we've loved the longest. He's the one who taught us, through trial and error, how to be parents. He's such a funny, curious, loving child, and it boggles my mind how much of his father (and me, if I'm being honest) I can see in him, yet he's also so much more than either or both of us. On the occasion of his 10th birthday, here are 10 reasons he's an amazing kid.

1. He has a whip-smart sense of humor. I'm not an overly braggy mother (I tend to inwardly roll my eyes at parents who constantly say their kid is the smartest/most beautiful/most talented), but he really is a funny kid. It can definitely veer on the "sophisticated" (sarcastic) side, but he's known for making his teachers, friends (and family, natch) laugh with his one-liners.
2. He loves nature. I never had a fascination with the outdoors as a kid, but this child just loves learning about animals, habitats, meteorology, and astronomy. He and his father make regular trips to visit the natural history museums in DC and NYC, where they geek out together about all of the latest exhibits.
3. He is kind. Kindness, as my friend Patience writes about, is important to cultivate in children. Of my three kids, he's the one most likely to ask me how I'm feeling and whether he can do anything help. Recently, when I was going through a lot of health issues, he came home from school and made me a cup of hot cocoa and a quesadilla. Those foods don't usually go together, but it was a lovely "get well mama" treat.
4. He remembers his Abuela. Because he was 6 1/2 when she died, he's the only one of my kiddos who really remembers Mami. They had a special bond. She lived with us for two years in Brooklyn, and she would pick him up from pre-school every day at 4PM. Afterward they would go to Miss. Ellie's bodega or the long-defunct Peaches Ice Cream shop together for a treat. When he was not quite 5 years old, my son announced to his grandmother: "Abuela, I'm going to be a doctor when I grow up, so I can make you all better." Oh how she loved to tell that story. I do too.
5. He reads for pleasure. We weren't sure it was going to happen, because as a kindergartner, first and second grader, he only wanted to read non-fiction books about science and nature, but at some point near the end of second grade, we discovered the joy of Harry Potter together, and he's since become as addicted to fiction (mostly fantasy, graphic novels, and sci-fi) as I am. It's lovely to go into a bookstore with him and know
6. He's a good sport. Notice I didn't say he's good AT sports, because that wouldn't really be precise. But he is a good sport during the various team sports we make encourage him to play every year. So far, he doesn't seem destined for any athletic scholarships, but he isn't afraid to participate and play for fun.
7. He's a great friend. He's created these fabulous bonds with four or five boys, and they're all awesome kids. One BFF he's known since he was born and is more a cousin than a friend. That one we're sure will be our son's close friend for life. Seriously, they're future Best Man kind of friends.
8. He's curious. His favorite shows are "Mythbusters" and "How It's Made." He tinkers with everything and has to know how they were built or how they come apart This is definitely a trait he inherited from his father.
9. He makes connections. I remember my high-school English teachers telling us that making connections between art, literature, music and the rest of the world, the rest of life, was an important skill, and I can see how that's true with my own kid. The other day we had an in-depth conversation about orphans in books and movies, and it was like a dream come true (I love talking about the plucky orphan archetype).
10. He loves his siblings. Sure, he fights with them occasionally (especially his sister, who's three years younger than him and three years older than "The Baby"), but he's such a good big brother. Honestly, I'm sure my younger two will grow up singing his praises, because he's not the cruel, "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" type of big brother who delights in his younger siblings' misery. He's never decapitated his sister's dolls or dared his brother to paint his face green. Oldest brothers can be a dictatorial and mean, but not him.

Pictured: The birthday boy with his baby brother and cousin.

 

Twelve for 2012

Happy New Year, friends. I say friends, because those of you still reading this rarely updated blog truly are my friends. I might seem like a slacker when it comes to Urban Mama, but the truth is that I'm juggling so many other projects I tend to only get here once a month. Since it's January, I'll share my annual checklist of things to do.

1. I will make dinner more often. I know, I know, you're all spitting at the screen in shock, but my husband is the family chef (as in I set the menu for Thanksgiving and Christmas but didn't make any of the dishes), and I tend to rely on him (or our culinary gifted friends) for dinner. Since breakfast is mostly DIY, and we're not all together for lunch, dinner is the only problematic meal when it comes to my defincies in the kitchen. I'm hoping to look for interesting recipes and make more dinners that I start early in the day.
2. I will continue to unapologetically read Young Adult books (last year I finished more than 120 titles) but will also return to reading "grown up" selections as well, thanks to a neighborhood Book Club I recently joined. (See Teen Lit Rocks for more about my YA obsession).
3. I will say "No" more often, because I don't have to do every single thing I'm offered or asked to do, either personally or professionally.
4. I will go to at least one cultural event or performance a month, not counting films, since going to the movies is my job.
5. I will write more hand-written notes/cards to people I love. Email and text correspondence is fine, but there's something special about a hand-written letter.
6. I will play, really play, with my kids more often -- instead of just read to them and set up playdates.
7. I will write what I want to write, in addition to what I'm paid to write.
8. I will allow myself to grieve, because grief never fully ends. I will always grieve those I've lost, especially Mami and my aunts.
9. I will travel whenever possible -- whether it's an overnighter, a long weekend or a Big Trip.
10. I will spend more one-on-one time with my friends and be there for my friends as they've been there for me time and time again.
11. I will try to be kinder to my body, especially when it's in pain.
12. I will be content with what I have rather than wonder about what I don't have.

Of course this list is quite late, but what are you hoping to accomplish this year?

Sick and Tired

There's something wrong, and I don't know what it is or how or when it will get better. I have crazy symptoms from swollen feet, a bloated belly (even more than usual), tingly extremities, occasional fever, inability to shake any/all bugs and utter exhaustion. Oh, and I had two ANA (Antinuclear Antibody) tests come back positive.

What does this mean? I won't know until I see a specialist the second week of December (couldn't get in any earlier). In the meantime, each day is like I've pulled a symptom out of a grab bag and hooray! <insert sarcasm> I can barely walk or get off the couch. Today I had a fever the first half of the day and my feet felt permanently on pins and needles so each step was literally a pain.

Then there's the 12 lbs I've gained seemingly overnight, and the fact that none of my shoes will fit properly, because my friggin' feet are ginormous. I know these symptoms could be something easily treatable, but until the specialist gives me answers, I'm in limbo. Part of me wants to panic, but another, more logical part of me thinks -- don't worry until you have reason to worry.

So that's the sucky news from this part of the world. But there's plenty of good news too, so I'm going to count my blessings in another post.

Remembering My Mother

Three years ago today was the worst day of my life. My mother died. I wasn't there, so I'll never know first-hand what it was like to see her pass into eternity, and part of me feels cheated that I wasn't present and another part of me feels fortunate that she was alive in my last memory of her.

As I said on her birthday, losing your mother isn't something you get over -- ever. It's not a sadness that dulls with time. The sadness is always there -- it's just a matter of degrees. Today was difficult. I felt on the verge of tears so many times and finally just let them fall while talking to Mami's very best friend Cacha -- a friend she literally knew her entire life, because Mami's mother and Cacha's had met and befriended each other before they had children.

Cacha told me, once again, that Mami was special. That even as a teenager she was so popular every body wanted to be her friend or just plain be her. She was the proverbial life of the party -- the girl all the young private-school boys wanted to dance with -- just once. When my mother eloped with my father -- a medical student who was below her social station -- her friends weren't scandalized, they thought it was fitting for a young woman as fiery as my mother.

My mother wasn't rich or pioneering or particularly intellectual. She didn't quote poetry or perform great works of charity. She rarely wrote much, except for the occasional letter. She never quite got the hang of budgeting or housekeeping or of loving without criticism. She had backward double standards about what was "men's work" and what was "women's work," and she thought married women should consider every other woman in the world a potential threat to her marriage. She thought I should greet my husband with full makeup and a smile, not yoga pants and a frazzled look of relief.

But... she was an amazing woman all the same. She had this fiery spirit that could not be contained. She had a full smile that could be fake to those she didn't care for (and I would be lying if I said she loved everyone she met, because she didn't), but when it was genuine her smile glowed. She had this loud, bordering-on-cackle laugh, and a terrible singing voice that she would belt out whenever she damn pleased. She didn't love to cook but could make a mean picadillo, lasagna, and a bunch of typical Colombian dishes that reminded her of home.

And you know that super sappy Lee Ann Womack song, "I Hope You Dance"? My mother danced. She danced plenty -- whenever she got the chance.

So I have no physical inheritance to speak of, but I had a mother who danced and made people notice and remember and miss her and want to be her friend for 60+ years. She had a first boyfriend who called her on her very last birthday and sang on her voicemail. She wasn't perfect, but there's no such thing.

She was so, so beautiful, flaws and all, and I hope that I can live the kind of life that's worthy of being her daughter.

Book Club Pick: "Cleopatra: A Life" by Stacy Schiff

When I received "Cleopatra: A Life" via my From Left to Write membership, I just knew my husband was going to steal it. See, he's the nonfiction junkie in the house, and "Cleopatra" is exactly the sort of book he gobbles up on his daily commute. So for the first time ever, my husband is guest-blogging with his thoughts on the book.

Stacy Schiff’s "Cleopatra" deserves every bit of the praise it has received since its release.  Because Cleopatra stood at the intersection of a three-thousand year old kingdom and thousand-year empire, centuries of imperial propaganda and sexism have, until now, obscured her actual motivations, feelings, and emotions.  Schiff has collected and sifted primary sources – and quoted the most colorful ones – to humanize the woman, letting the reader understand Cleopatra’s fears, loves, and desires amidst some of the greatest wars of the West and the greatest riches of the East.  Schiff begins by describing the perversities of Cleopatra’s Ptolemaic empire.  Installed by Alexander the Great to rule over conquered Egypt, the Ptolemies enjoyed three hundred years of court intrigue, royal incest, and assassinations that went off like clockwork.  This is the background that places Cleopatra, barely out of her teens, in the Egyptian desert, her brother having exiled her from the pharaoh’s palace in Alexandria.  From there, Cleopatra brilliantly exploits the arrival of Julius Caesar, fresh from his victory in the Roman Civil war, the first of her Roman lovers, and the father of her first child. 

Throughout the rest of the book, Schiff, though brilliant writing, pithy conclusions, and humorous asides, exposes the reader to the world of first-century BC Rome (“still the kind of place where a stray dog might deposit a human hand under the breakfast table”), the unexpectedly liberated role of women in cosmopolitan, polyglot Alexandria, and the intrigues that gripped Rome as the Republic came to an end.  Throughout, Schiff produces a history that is not told by great men of that age and their male chroniclers, but one that puts the reader in Cleopatra’s mind so that we can appreciate her charm, sense of humor, and formidable ambition. 

After the Battle of Actium in 31 BC gave Octavian sole control of the nascent Roman Empire and left Marc Antony a broken man, Schiff describes how Cleopatra, furiously planning for their survival, “did the thinking for them both.”  Not surprisingly, the most dramatic portion of Schiff’s tale comes here at the end, between Actium and the asp, when Cleopatra struggles to save both her Greek-Egyptian empire and her Egyptian-Roman household.  Here, Schiff’s skill as a storyteller and historian shines brightest.  She movingly retells Antony’s death in Cleopatra’s arms while also managing to describe Cleopatra’s thinking as she tried to rouse loyal tribes and allies to fend off the inevitable Roman invasion of her Egypt.  “[S]he was formidable – spirited, disciplined, resourceful – in her retreat,” Schiff writes.  “Two thousand years after the fact, you can still hear the fertile mind pulsing with ideas.”  Two thousand years after her death, the fact that we can hear Cleopatra’s mind at all is a tribute to Schiff and her amazing book. 

To My Mother On Her 70th Birthday

My mother would have been 70 today. She loved her birthday. She was the kind of woman you didn't dare give a kitchen appliance or home accessory to as a gift. And you never, ever forgot her birthday, because she wasn't quick to forgive that sort of slight, no matter how unintentional.

Mami died three years ago this Oct. 2 -- just 10 days after her 67th birthday. I can't help but think of what she would think of these past three years. She would've been pleased to know my husband and I finally made it to Europe together for our 10th anniversary. She would've been thrilled to become an Abuela for the 9th time in June. She would've been especially impressed that my sister did Weight Watchers so successfully she got back to her high-school weight (me, not so much). Her grandchildren continue to impress all of us with their clever, sweet, ambitious personalities. She would've adored my daughter, who is just like her -- fiery and petite, beautiful and opinionated.

I miss her every day. Sometimes, out of nowhere, the ache of losing her will overwhelm me. It can be something as silly as hearing Sofia Vergara's Colombian accent on "Modern Family" or something as heartbreaking as seeing how much my mother-in-law delights in my kids. Whatever the unsuspected trigger, I will immediately feel sad and the tears come before I even have a moment to process the grief. When Mami's best friend told me two days ago that she was moving back to Colombia now that her three best friends are gone (Mami to cancer, another to an Alzheimer's nursing home, and the third to a new relationship complete with young children), I wept. 

But today I hope not to focus on the sadness. I want to celebrate Mami. I am once again wearing dangly earrings in her honor. I put on lipstick and blush for no reason whatsoever. I went to Nordstrom and bought a new lipstick called Peony, because she loved flowers and makeup. I will dance with my children. I will call my siblings, as it was her greatest wish that we remain as close as siblings can be when they're scattered across three states. 

And I will cry. Because it hurts, it hurts, it hurts to be motherless.

I leave you with a video of one of Mami's favorite songs, the folkloric "La Pollera Colora"

 

 

 

Sept. 11: Ten Years Ago Today, I Remember...

On the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, I was newly married and newly pregnant living in a two-bedroom apartment in Ft. Greene, Brooklyn. My husband had just started law school the week before, and his class didn't start until later in the day. He woke up first and turned on the bedroom TV to NY1, the local cable-channel devoted to New York news, weather, and politics. The first Tower had already been hit (we're late sleepers), and I heard a frightened "Oh my God! A plane crashed into the World Trade Center," which woke me from a freaky pregnancy dream. From our West-facing, fifth-floor apartment, we could actually see the Towers burning from our windows. We spent the entire morning looking out our windows with binoculars and watching both of our TVs -- one on CNN and one on NY1. Our family and friends tried to reach us, most of them worried about my husband, because they didn't know where in Manhattan his law school was located. Everyone apparently knew better than to believe I, a pregnant, sleepyhead freelancer at the time, would be anywhere but bed that early in the morning. They were right. I was safe; I was home, and I had my husband there by my side.

Ten years later, I can recall nearly every detail about our morning. We watched the Towers fall simultnaeously with our own eyes and on the surrounding televisions. We wept for the tens of thousands we presumed dead. We thanked God that my husband's schedule started so late in the day he was still in bed with me when the terror began. I do not know what I would've done if he had been stuck in Manhattan that entire day, if we had been apart while our beloved City bled and burned. In my opinion, if you lived or worked in New York on Sept. 11, no matter where you came from or where you've moved since, you will forever be a true New Yorker. People say New Yorkers are rude and crude and couldn't care less about anyone but themselves, but that couldn't be further from the truth, and 9/11 proved just how heroic and selfless New Yorkers are; how proud we are of our glorious City.

I recently read the People magazine about the babies born to pregnant 9/11 widows, and I couldn't help but think of my own 9-year-old son, who was a 14-week-old fetus at the time. Those babies, who never met their fathers -- police officers, firefighters, financiers, maintenance workers, businessmen -- were a reminder to the world that hope and life remain even in the darkest of times.

Italian Comfort Food at Rockville's Baronessa Restaurant

Originally, I was going to try Baronessa out with the husband, so we could order several dishes, compare notes and discuss the various preparations. But babysitter issues and back-to-school craziness meant I had to go with Baby J, who is in fact three-and-a-half but shall remain a "Baby" forevermore.

So on a rainy afternoon, the J-man and I climbed aboard Rosie the van and headed northwest to Rockville for our mother-and-son Italian lunch. Sadly, the drip-drip-drip of the rain and the movement of the 20-minute car trip lulled J into such a deep sleep that even transferring him clumsily into his Maclaren stroller didn't wake him. That left me dining virtually solo as Baby J napped comfortably by my side. 

The first thing I noticed when I went in was that the restaurant was nearly empty. There was one trio of co-workers finishing their lunch, but otherwise it was just the two of us and an attentive waiter... waiting for me to look over the menu. 

Before I even looked at the menu, I felt like I was in Little Italy in New York (well, except there a little rain doesn't keep hordes of tourists from dining out, so there are never nearly empty eateries). This is basically your run of the mill, white-tablecloth, red-sauce restaurant. The menu is familiar and traditional, the music is classic Italian tunes ("Volare" and "Funiculì, Funiculà" both played while I was eating), and the food is comforting and oh-so-filling.

Since it was so wet and chilly out, I started off with a lentil soup (which come to think of it, is not always on an Italian menu) and the standard Caesar salad. The salad had a bit too much dressing on it, but that didn't keep me from shoveling it in, as I'd had a greens deficit the previous day and really needed to get my salad on. The soup, however, was delicious: hearty, thick, and reminiscent of my Mami's lentil soup. I actually wondered if Mami's recipe had come from my grandmother's best friend Filomena, who was Colombian born to Italian parents. I momentarily got teary eyed when I realized there wasn't anyone I could ask about this and quickly came to, because crying into my lentil soup was NOT on my personal menu for the day. Oh, and as you can see, there was warm bread as well, which I enjoyed, because sometimes you get bread that's blah. This one was rich and perfect for dipping in soup -- not that I would do something as uncouth as that at a restaurant, but you know, if you were to dip (my husband certainly would), it would be good for that.

Next I had such a stereotypical Italian dish I'm embarrassed to admit that I ordered it! But honestly, most of the menu was standard Italian comfort food, so when in Rome (or Rockville, in this case), you go for the wine sauce. I had the Chicken Marsala, and it was so mushroomy good that I completely forgot to take a picture of it until I had finished (as in, there was nothing but a film or wine sauce on the plate), and no one wants to see that. Trust me, it was good.

After my entree, I should have called it quits, but in the interest of providing you with an adequate review, and considering I had only sampled one starter, one salad, and one entree, I ordered dessert. Again, most of the choices will be familiar to anyone who has ever stepped food in an Italian restaurant, but I wasn't in the mood for cannoli or ice cream or even cake, so I got the tiramisu. It was simple and beautiful and garnished with a bit of cream and strawberries.

I was good an only ate half, followed by a cup of strong coffee and the check. Baby J. woke up just in time to amuse the three elderly couples that had wandered in during my meal. I should also mention that the waiter explained that rainy days (not to mention the Tuesdays after holiday weekends) aren't the best time to soak up a restaurant's true atmosphere. He assured me there are many more diners during the dinner hours, especially on weekends.

So would I go to Baronessa for my upcoming 35th birthday dinner? No. But would I pack up my three kids and husband and head there for a Sunday night meal of Italian comfort food? Absolutely. If you only do Italian when the restaurant is owned by Mario Batali or Lidia Bastianich, this isn't the place for you, but if you want some yummy traditional Italian food, this is a welcoming and family friendly restaurant where the service is excellent and the food a reminder of home.

Baronessa is one of many restaurants participating in Rockville's Restaurant Week, which runs this Sept. 10-18. If you live in Montgomery County, I highly recommend giving the restaurants in Rockville a try, since all of the participating ones will be offering big discounts.

Baronessa provided me with $25 to use at their restaurant, but the excess and gratuity was paid by yours truly. This is an un-sponsored post, and the ideas are all my own. Rockville Restaurant Week is a promotional partner with The DC Moms, of which I am the Editor.

Where She Went...

If you love YA like I do, you know the title of today's blog post comes from the second book in Gayle Foreman's excellent Adam and Mia chronicles. But right now the title is actually about me. I haven't been here for a while (no surprise there, as I can only manage to update about once or twice a month), because I've been writing nearly nonstop at a bunch of different places, including The DC Moms, a collaborative blog where I serve as Editor in Chief.

The DC Moms is  a labor of love with 30 other area women I'm lucky to count as friends. Seriously. They are not just "fellow bloggers" or "women I know" or that dreaded moniker "mommy bloggers." They are friends, writers, and mothers I respect and admire. 

While we sometimes write about DCist experiences, like surviving yesterday's earthquake (the kids and I lamely missed the ground shaking by being in Rosie the van on our way to meet our good friends at their pool club), we also wax poetic about Celeb Crushes and discuss parenting, fashion, health, recipes, you name it.

I've only written a few posts so far, about loving Michael Fassbender (although I'm right there with the other crushes too), eating fancy pizza in Leesburg, and missing Harry Potter. Check us out!

 

 

Grief Never Ends

On the plane-ride to London, I read the book "The Sky Is Everywhere" by Jandy Nelson on my Kindle. It was one of those impulse purchases courtesy of Amazon's recommendations. I couldn't stop reading, even after the husband start snoozing. The protagonist Lennie aka John Lennon to one of the most irresistible boys in YA literature (is there any other kind?) is grieving the sudden death of her talented, charismatic, beautiful older sister (again, I say from personal experience as an adoring baby sister, is there any other kind?). She constantly writes notes, poems, memorized conversations, confessions, and everything in between to Bailey on walls, scraps of paper, furniture, candy wrappers, anything she can mark on -- and then she throws them to the wind or hides them, leaving them behind for the earth to swallow up.

Toward the end of the novel, Lennie has a pivotal revelation:

"Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath. I will never stop grieving Bailey because I will never stop loving her. That's just how it is. Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy."

Reading those words, I cried (which I do with alarming frequency while reading YA books). I felt like Jandy Nelson had written them for me, just as Len wrote just for Bailey. I have re-read that line so many times, my Kindle automatically opens to it any time I click on the title. That's exactly how grief feels. It never ends.

I was reminded of this fact yesterday when I found an old journal Mami received in 2003 at a cancer awareness event attended by the late Colombian singer and breast-cancer advocate Soraya (who died in May, 2006). Mami only wrote in it for three days, so only two pages were filled. It was late October, and she had just undergone her first cycle of chemotherapy via her port; she was exhausted. Mami was nervous, she kept repeating, but she was going to put her health in God's hands. She wrote about being excited to have Thanksgiving at my sister's new house. I had just called her with our travel arrangements.

There was nothing particularly emotional in her prose, but as I read it on the DC Metro on my way to a "Rise of the Planet of the Apes" screening, I began to cry again. Two young Mormon missionaries kept sneaking glances at me, probably wondering if I needed prayer (I probably would've welcomed it). I recovered only in time to walk into the movie theater.

Because grief is forever. But that means my love for her is too.