A Laptop Naptime Mama

2008-02-16T15:13:00.003-05:00

People often ask me how I’ve managed to write and sell two novels while a.) being a stay-at-home mum, and b.) being at stay-at-home mum with a four year old son who is homeschooling/unschooling/not-bothering-with-that-whole-school-thing and therefore is always by my side…or thereabouts.

Well, if any of you’re interested or crazy enough to want to try such a motherhood-meets-author lifestyle, here’s five insights and tips:

1. rearrange traditional sleeping schedules – I have managed to train Benny into sleeping incredibly late in the mornings. In fact, he gets up at noon. Yes, noon! This means, of course, that he also stays up late at night. Now, I know a lot of mother’s would shudder at the thought of their children staying up beyond nine because they need their “me” time with a glass of wine and watching The Late Show without the whines of “mama” ringing in their tired ears. If your such a mama, this sleep routine might not be for you. However, if you can stomach it and you can train your child into enjoying The Late Show and pouring your wine for you, I’m telling you there’s a whole lot of writing you can do between 8 and noon every morning while Sleepy Head is still in the world of Z’s.

2. sneakily sharing childcare – If you manage to train your child into this sleep routine and you have a partner in the house, this means childcare will be shared for a good proportion of the day. For me, I only really have to care for Benny on my own from noon to 6ish each day. Brad comes home from work after that and Benny’s whines, demands for juice, and pleas for more books to be read to him, can be equally divided between us.

3. educational kid’s DVDs – Yes, I rely heavily on the TV for those moments when I need to simultaneously do the laundry, reply to my editor’s email, update my blog, finish the paragraph I was working on that morning, and finalize the details for Benny’s afternoon play date. I only put DVDs in the machine for Benny and don’t let him just idly flick between channels (while sitting in his underwear). I get to choose what he watches, therefore, and I’m careful to pick DVDs which are teaching him things which I, at that moment, am currently too preoccupied to teach him. Thanks to the Leapfrog DVD collection, together with Word World and Between the Lions, Benny is pretty much reading – if sentences like “The cat sat on the big mat” count as reading.

4. reading in the bathroom – A lot of people already do this, I know. But if your going to follow tips 1-3, you must take bathroom-reading very seriously. Every time you go – yes, every time – you must commit yourself to quickly reading a few paragraphs, ideally a page. It leads to a herky-jerky feeling with novel. But, there is little time to read if your writing in the mornings and entertaining your little ‘un in the evenings. And reading other novels is a must for wannabe and established authors. So bathroom reading is essential. I have finished a good number of novels while sitting on the john, getting those delightful red marks on the back of my thighs and a slightly chilled behind!

5. surround yourself with good people – A sympathetic mama-crew is essential. Of course, they don’t have to all be mamas. They can be dads or nannies too. But what is important is that the people you hang out with must be understanding. They mustn’t grumble if you’re always late for play dates because you just had to answer that one comment on your blog or someone posted something interesting on the online writer’s forum you belong to or an interesting chapter in a book meant you couldn’t get off the toilet. Your crew must smile and nod when you blather on about a scene in your novel that you’ve been struggling with for weeks. Furthermore, they should understand that talking about this tricky scene is far more important to you than talking about children’s learning levels or whether a four year old boy should be standing to pee or sitting. Most importantly, they must not judge you for your seemingly crazy lifestyle.

So there you go. Not a life for everyone, I understand. But it works for me, and my novels, and my sanity. Plus, Benny doesn’t seem to complain too much…yet.

For more of Joanne Rendell's writing, Click Here.

The Shoes that Broke the Camel's Back

2007-12-04T10:28:00.000-05:00

A while ago, a mum friend of mine recounted how she “completely lost it” over a pair of child size sparkly silver shoes. Her husband was off at a wedding in California for the weekend while she stayed home with her immensely loveable yet abundantly lively three year old twins. Her son and daughter kept my friend on her “temporarily-single-parent” toes for most of the weekend with their differing demands and their uncoordinated highs and lows (for those of you who have twins, let me say, I am in awe. How do you do it?).

Anyway, my friend was surviving… just about. But on Sunday afternoon her daughter took off her sparkly shoes just at the moment when the trio were about to leave the house – after a good half an hour of preparing for the departure, finding coats, getting on shoes, hunting for lost toys. That was when my friend “lost it.” That was when she bawled, red-cheeked, at her little girl sending both wide-eyed and startled kids into floods of tears.

As much as we don’t like to admit it, those of us who look after little ‘uns have probably all been there. The moment when we can endure no more the whines, the cries, the “no’s,” the flailing arms, the rigid refusing little bodies, or the mischievous runs and jumps in the exact opposite direction we want our child to go. It’s the moment where we loose our rag, our twig snaps, and the anger bubble rises up and pops. Harsh words escape our mouths, our eyes narrow, our cheeks flame, our nostrils flare, and sometimes we stomp out of the room.

I don’t loose it too often. Benny is a pretty easy going kid; I’m pretty easy going too. But, yep, I admit it, there have been times. Only the other day it happened and, funnily enough, it was also over a pair of shoes. Not sparkly in my case, but a similarly child-sized and innocent-looking pair of red sneakers.

For a while now, Benny has been a real home body. He loves nothing more than to be in our apartment, cozy in his pajamas, playing with his trains, or his magnetic letters, or tapping away on his computer. But staying in all days drives me a little bonkers and also when Benny does get out, he always loves the park or playgroup or library or whatever adventure I take him on.

However, he never remembers this at the moment when I say, “We have to go now, Benny.” He puts up fierce resistance regarding getting dressed, going to the bathroom, having his hair brushed, and putting his coat on. First, he tries the sweet “Let’s go later, mama.” Then, his tries the impish running away, laughing and hiding. When that doesn’t work, he starts to whine as I manhandle him into his clothes while telling him I understand he doesn’t want to leave his trains but he will soon be having fun at the library/playground/whatever.

The other day we were going through this familiar routine and just as I managed to tie up the second and final shoe onto Benny’s resistant foot, he somehow managed to kick off the first shoe. Looking back I don’t think he did it on purpose. But at that moment, after minutes of struggling and pleading with reluctant Benny, it really seemed he’d done it to infuriate me. My annoyance, which was already simmering, bubbled over into fury. I yelled at him in a voice I hardly ever, almost never, use. I kicked his shoe against the door. My pulse raced.

But, then, as I turned to face Benny, I saw his eyes sparkling with tears. “Don’t shout,” he said in a beseeching and frightened whispers. Guilt stabbed immediately, deep and hard. Before I knew it, I was hugging him tight and apologizing for raising my voice. If Benny hadn’t said, “That’s okay, Mama,” in a sweet and joking voice, making me laugh, I might have shed a tear too.

Thankfully, kids seem to forget and forgive pretty damn fast. Only a little while later, Benny was happily skipping through the library and then snuggling on my lap to read books. My guilt, however, lasted all day.

It’s understandable that we loose it sometimes. Kids certainly test us to our limits. It’s also understandable that its often innocuous looking shoes which are the trigger. After all, getting those darn little shoes on kicking feet is often the last in a long line of tiring battles we’ve had when trying to get our kids ready and out of the door.

Yet, however understandable or common amongst parents these moments of fury are, the guilt always seems to follow and the memory of our kids shocked faces lingers. Perhaps it leaves us feeling uneasy mostly because, in those moments, we are confronted with our humanness, our volatility and unexpectedness, and the fact we’re not so different from our passionate, indignant, and temperamental little charges.

Check out Benny’s blog at http://theworldaccordingtobenny.blogspot.com/ and my own Naptime Writer blog at http://joannerendell.blogspot.com/

Who are the Real Freaks on Halloween by Joanne Rendell

2007-11-02T12:45:00.001-04:00

I party-pooped all over Benny’s fourth birthday by not throwing him some sugared-up extravaganza with clowns, bouncy castles, bells and whistles. And I have to admit I party-pooped with Halloween too.

Although this time, in my defense, I was following Benny’s lead.

Benny’s imagination is in full and colorful flight at the moment. He plays and talks endlessly with his toys and lives in all kinds of interesting and fanciful worlds. I love watching him, hearing him. However, this growing imagination comes with the inevitable flipside. The bad dreams, the sensitivities, the fears of even the smallest, most innocent seeming things.

Although I am very careful about what Benny watches and reads (even “Finding Nemo” is considered too scary in our house), dreams of monsters still wake him up at night. Books with even a vaguely dark or creepy cover are thrown back on the library shelves. Fighting or shouting on television makes Benny immediately snap it off. And even, sometimes, the New York skyline at night looks to Benny like a “huge scary dinosaur.”

I knew, then, the moment the plastic Jack-o-Lanterns started appearing in the stores, Halloween wasn’t going to be Benny’s favorite time of year. And I was right. As soon as he smacked eyes on the lanterns and the creepy costumes in the Halloween store in our neighborhood, he was horrified.

Last week, in the run up to the big night, I thought I better explain in more detail what this whole Halloween thing is all about. (Benny’s not doing the preschool thing, so he doesn’t have a group of excited peers to explain the ins and out of ghouls, ghosts, and trick or treating). When I’d finished with my explanation and asked if he wanted to dress up, he looked at me with a firm gaze and said, “No. I don’t like Halloween. It’s scary.”

So, the other night when Halloween rolled around, Benny and I ducked out of the parties we’d been invited too, ignored the trick or treating knocks on the door, and laid low with not a costume in sight.

Later in the evening we nipped out to the store to get some milk and on our short walk were confronted by numerous concerned people asking Benny “where’s your costume?” “did you get any candy?” “do you want my scary mask?” (cue terrified glances and near-tears from Benny). It occurred to me, as I tried to dodge and escape these well-meaning people, that in not joining in the Halloween-mania, Benny and I were perhaps the biggest, most ghoulish Halloween freaks of all.

For more of Joanne's musings, visit her blog at www.joannerendell.blogspot.com. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

If Men Did the Strolling

2007-09-24T21:01:00.001-04:00

I stumbled on this picture the other day while procrastinating on the internet. My first reaction was “How crazy!” Something about the woman being perched on that weird motorized contraption, trying to maneuver a stroller, whilst in the middle of a road, just gave me shivers. What if a car screeched around the corner at any minute? Would she be able to hop off and scoot the stroller out the way in time?

But then, as I looked at the picture some more, I couldn’t help feeling a growing respect for the mama. After all, there’s been many a time, I’ve been trudging home from our favorite park (which is over twenty blocks away), my feet aching, but the stroller too clumsy and loaded up to feasibly take the subway or a cab; these many times I’ve fantasized about some kind of motorized sit-on stroller much like those snappy little sit-on lawn mowers. How great would that be?! Zipping around the city, trundling up and down sidewalks, Benny’s forty pound heft strapped to some sort of seat at the front, me at the back, steering us where we want to go, the wind in my hair…Plus, when those nasty big cars and cabs speed across crosswalks, as they do so often in the NY, I would be able to put the pedal to the metal and Benny and I would have some chance of survival.

Of course, its just a dream. Something so clever, useful, and kind on mamas is probably a long time coming. I don’t want to generalize here, but I’d imagine the majority of people designing strollers these days are men. Most of the people pushing strollers are women. I’m not implying male stroller designers don’t have a clue. Sure, there’s the bugga-boo which (from my one brief experience pushing one in a store) corners like its on rails. And now there are a whole slew of other sexy looking strollers on the market which have natty wheels, clever hidden pockets, adjustable seats, sexy colors. But do any of these strollers save a mama’s tired feet? No. Would the bugga-boo help you zip away from an oncoming fire truck? No.

The designers of strollers aren’t generally doing the pushing and thus they don’t pay much heed to the pusher! If men were doing the pushing, however, we might see all kinds of sexy, zuped-up, motorized strollers on the market.

If you don’t believe me, just think about lawn mowers for a second. Men are generally the ones doing the mowing, they are also the ones (in general) doing the designing, and thus there are all kinds of wild, fun, and fast sit-on mowers to choose from. They know the hard work involved in mowing a lawn and therefore the design machines that will help them with the task.

In the patriarchy in which we live, it seems that the super-stroller-machine which I often fantasize will only come about when men are the dominant stroller pushers or when women get to storm the design studios.

In the meantime, I’m off to buy yet another pair of running shoes to keep my stroller-pushing feet comfy and blister-free, quick and nimble …

Don’t forget to come visit me at me “Naptime Writer” blog at joannerendell.blogspot.com.

Birthday Madness

2007-09-06T22:12:00.000-04:00

Benny will be four in a week or so and Brad and I have been talking about how to mark the occasion. Neither of us make any fuss about our own birthdays. We prefer to just hang out together rather than run around to a zillion shops fretting over and buying presents that neither of us need.

On Benny’s previous birthdays we didn’t organize anything. We didn’t even buy him a present because he was too young to know any better. But in the end, we found that impromptu parties and presents were thrust upon us. Not that we complained, of course. Its nice when friends roll up at your place, bringing cakes for kids, presents for Benny, and beer for the adults, and even nicer that your kid’s birthday is an excuse to see all your favorite friends.

Benny is now much more aware of what’s going on these days, however. He knows that his birthday’s coming up. He also knows that birthday’s are generally marked by a cake with candles to blow out. But, because we never make any big fuss about presents and because he doesn’t go to preschool and thus doesn’t hear all the birthday-chat from his peers, he isn’t anticipating presents or any of that kind of fuss. All he thinks of when anyone talks about his birthday is the cake and most importantly those candles.

So, during our most recent discussion on the topic, Brad and I finally decided that to mark his birthday this year, we’ll go out for dinner, take a cupcake and some candles, and have a little party for three. I know this might cause raised eyebrows amongst friends and family. “Wont he want a party?” they’ll worry on his behalf.

And maybe I should worry. Will Benny be forever damaged by such party-pooper parents? Will he be one of those kids that yearns for the presents and toys and paper hats he never received on birthdays past?

Perhaps he will.

But, I don’t know, if I were to throw him a party and make a big birthday fuss, he might end up with a deranged mother and, let’s face it, that would be a whole lot worse than missing out on a few birthday parties.

First off, I hate trying to shop these days. Battling my way through New York crowds to seek out presents for Benny gives me chills. Second, big groups of kids make me wince and grind my teeth. The idea of hosting a party full of sugared up four year olds make me want to cry. Third, all my spare creative energies these days goes into my writing. If I had to spend hours attempting to bake a Thomas the Tank Engine birthday cake, I would be livid – and I dread to imagine what my appalling baking skills would muster up as an excuse for a cake.

Then there’s all the waste and needless consumption associated with Birthdays which makes me so sad and despairing about the world we live in. The pretty paper thrown in the trash, the crappy plastic toys (labored over by third world workers and probably played with once by the recipient), the popped balloons, the half-eaten cookies and cakes.

Worst of all, though, is the idea that I’m creating another wanting and needy consumer. If Benny sees birthday’s as a time for a zillion presents and big parties, is this what he’ll want all the time? Will he never be happy unless he’s getting something new, something brightly wrapped, something he’ll probably discard when a desire for something even newer rolls around? And thanks to the over-consumption of our world and the consequences this over-consumption are wreaking – rising sea levels, floods, financial slumps, disease related to pollution – Benny may in the future not be able to have all new things he desires. I will have created a desiring consumer who is unable to consume.

Okay, okay, I’m not sure how I’ve just went from a light-hearted chat about a four year old’s birthday party to global warming, disease, and economic despair. But you can see what I mean, can’t you? A kid’s party might send me to the brink of madness.

Ah well, Benny will get his candles and cupcake in a couple of weeks. And when birthday number 5 rolls around next year and Benny had been more sucked in by the consumption crazy society in which we live and demands presents and parties, I’ll probably have do a little therapy and get over my birthday anxieties and party phobias.

Until then, I’ll take advantage of his blissful ignorance and enjoy the moment.

For more musings by our laptop mama, visit her blog http://www.joannerendell.blogpot.com/ or to return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Flash Card Genius...Perhaps Not.

2007-08-07T19:02:00.000-04:00

Benny is learning to read.

Okay, no, that’s overstating it a little. What I should say it that Benny is learning to recognize and spell some basic words. STOP is his current favorite. Every stop sign he sees, he shouts out “S-T-O-P- Stop!” He also knows his name, Brad and my name, and a growing list of little words like cat, cow, dog, hat, and (strangely) gas.

He’s not exactly a reader yet, but he’s on his way.

To encourage this interest in words, I decided to make some flash cards (how crafty, of me!). You can buy packs of pre-made flashcards, but I figured if I made some myself not only would it be a whole lot cheaper but also I could tailor make them for Benny – in other words, make cards for the words he’s learning and words that mean something to him.

So, I cut up some card, found a felt tip pen, and …voila…an hour or so later, I’d created a nice stack of Benny-centered flash cards. They’re not quite as sleek as the shop bought kind, but Benny likes them and I had a lot of fun making them.

Last night, Brad, Benny and I had the cards out and for a while it looked like they were proving even more successful than I’d anticipated.

As we held up each card, Benny - after some thought and a little sounding out of the letters – got over ten words right. Some of the words he knew already, of course, but well over half he didn’t. Brad and I were pretty flabbergasted that our nearly four year old had got the hang of the reading thing so fast. Like goofy, proud parents, we mounted lots of praise and high-fives upon him.

A little later, however, I held up a new flashcard I’d made. On one side was the word “shack” and on the other, my rendition of our little cabin upstate (which we lovingly call “the shack”). I held up the word side to Benny who hadn’t seen the card before and said, “What does that say?” He pondered and stared for a few seconds and sounded out the letters: “Ssss” “Huh” “Aaah”… Then he clapped his hands and shouted, “House.”

At first, I was floored. How did he come up with the word “house” from the letters in “shack”?
But then I realized what had been going on. I held up the flashcard of the shack and saw it for myself.
Benny, it turns out, isn’t quite the genius we thought he was. Even though he looked like he was reading the words – and his little act of sounding out the letters seemed to confirm this – he was actually just looking through the flimsy cardboard I’d used to make the flashcard and seeing the pictures I’d drawn on the other side!

Ah well, he’s not the reading prodigy that, for a second, we thought he might be. But he’s a damn good actor. Perhaps the Oscars await, rather than the Pulitzer.

(Tip for crafty mamas and papas: use thick cardboard for flashcards and not-so thick felt tip pens for the pictures). For more of Joanne Rendell's musings, Click Here to visit her blog.

Where's the Little F**ker Gone?

2007-07-28T14:24:00.000-04:00

If you’ve read some of my other blogs, you’ll know about my aversion to kids movies and my desire to have Benny side-step the Nemo/Cars/Ratatouille phase and move straight onto enjoying the kind of movies which I enjoy – from chick flicks to indies to, one day when he can deal with the loud noises, the Terminator movies.

My plan has been partially successful. Benny does sit through a myriad of films from Volver to The Devil Wears Prada, both at home and at the movie theater (just last night we took him with us to see Sicko). He even seems to enjoy them.

However, he has seen Cars and, I’m sad to say, is rather obsessed with the movie (we now can not leave the house unless we have Benny’s Lightening McQueen, Sally, Mater, and Flo toys in tow). Some might argue it’s like the candy thing. The kids who’re denied it, crave it even more. Which I can see up to a point, but at least Benny does enjoy his green beans (read Volver) too.

But I digress…

Another potential problem with Benny’s more mature movie watching is the language. Some people might not consider the movies we watch appropriate for three year old Benny. We don’t watch anything violent or scary, but so far we haven’t censored films in terms of there “adult” language. I once wrote a blog about Benny seeing a poster for “A Squid and A Whale” and calling out “Fuck, fuck, fuck” as he remembered the scene in the movie where Jeff Bridges plays ping-pong – rather badly.

The language “problem” has not gone away since then. Although, these days I’m seeing it less as a problem and more as noteworthy stage in Benny’s language development. And a pretty funny one at that.

The other night, while staying with my in-laws, we all watched the movie, “Venus.” In one scene, Peter O’Toole is cutting the toenails of his old friend, only to have one rogue toenail ping off and disappear into the abyss of the living room carpet. O’Toole then scrabbles on the ground saying, “Where’s the little f**ker gone?”

We all laughed at the scene. Benny too. But that, it seemed, was that.

But, lo and behold, the next day, we realized that wasn’t that. Brad, Benny and I were traveling back to New York and stopped off at our favorite little café/pub in small town Harrisonburg. During lunch, Benny managed to drop a tater-tot on the floor and before even blinking he shouted out, “Where’s the little f**ker gone?”

Now, perhaps I should be ashamed. Or at least a little worried. After all, does is this a bad sign of things to come? Will Benny become the notorious potty-mouth child that every kid and parent in the park talks about in hushed, shaking-head whispers?

Maybe. But you know what? I’m not ashamed or worried. I’m proud. Proud that my little minx has learnt to swear in the correct context. Not only that he did it in an endearing and rather amusing British accent.

It was a precious parenting moment.

To find out more about our fabulous first time novelist Joanne Rendell, visit her blog at http://www.joannerendell.blogspot.com/.

Soap Gets in Your Eyes by Joanne Rendell

2007-07-12T21:40:00.000-04:00

There are times, as a parent, when something happens which you knew was going to, but you acted that fraction of a second too late to prevent it. Like the times, when you see your little darling using a toy truck as a footstool and you open your mouth to shout “Be careful” just that millisecond too late and watch in horror as the toy truck skids away and darling one thuds, knees-first, to the ground.

Or the times, when you see a bowl of cheerios teetering on the side of the table and think to yourself, “Now, if junior runs past that now, it’s going to fall.” Only to have junior run past, knock the cheerios flying, just as the thought finishes forming in your mind.

We’ve all been there. We’ve all said, “I knew that was going to happen” as we nurse a grazed knee, pick up the pieces of a once-prized toy truck, or mop up spilt milky-cheerio mush.

There are also times, as a parent, where something happens which you just never saw coming. But as soon as it happens, you slap your head, mortified by your own stupidity, and say, “Sh*t. Of course!”

This happened to me yesterday. One of those “Sh*t. Of course” moments.

We have a small cabin in the Catskills. Sounds idyllic and rather frou-frou, no? The reality is rather different. Although we love our “shack” – our own term of endearment for our summer vacation spot – the place is rather primitive. So primitive, in fact, that we have to buy day passes at a nearby campsite so we can access hot showers and thus stay clean while we’re staying at the cabin.

Last summer, we used a kiddie pool to bathe Benny, figuring he was too young for taking a shower. This year, however, we decided he was old enough to give the showers a whirl. So yesterday, armed with towels, shampoo, and big bar of soap, Benny and I took our first campsite shower.

At first, everything went swimmingly. The water was warm, the showers were clean, and Benny was in a good, open-to-something-new, mood. I showered first and then when it was Benny’s turn, he let me soap him and even let me, very briefly, dunk his hair under the hot water.

The trouble started when I was busy shampooing his hair and, for a distraction, I handed over the bar of soap and gaily instructed Benny to “Go ahead…wash your belly.” Manhandling the slippery soap was a lot of fun, until Benny reached up to rub his dripping face.

I just didn’t see it coming. The soapy eye rub followed by heart-stopping, lung-emptying wail, I mean.

But as soon as it happened, and in the minutes which followed as poor little red-eyed Benny howled his way through the searing sting in his eyes, I thought “Sh*t. Of course.”

When you hand a three year old a bar of soap, you should warn them about the possibility of soap burn. If you want them to ever to take a shower again, that is. And if you’d like to leave a serene campsite without everyone thinking you were strangling your child in the shower stall.

I suppose it’s just another lesson at the University of Parenting. One, incidentally, I won't be forgetting too soon.

To find out more about our fabulous first time novelist Joanne Rendell, visit her blog at http://www.joannerendell.blogspot.com/.

Say Cheese

2007-07-01T14:17:00.000-04:00

If you give a three year old a digital camera…you come up with art.

It’s true. I’m telling you, just try it. Of course, that’s if you don’t mind your prized Canon SD400 being manhandled by peanut-butter stickied fingers and possibly dropped into a toilet, river, ocean, or steaming bowl of soup.

We took the plunge out in California and handed over the camera to eager-eyed Benny. The results were pretty amazing. The kiwis (above) is my favorite, but check out some of Benny’s other masterpieces at his flickr page.

Okay, I admit I didn’t upload all his shots on flickr….like the one of my left nostril and one of Benny’s palm or the three blurry shots taken while Benny tried to photograph a basketball bouncing.

But there weren’t too many deleted ones. Most of them were interesting little gems. And after pondering Benny’s shots, it occurred to me that people go to photography school to relearn what they lost in the process of growing up. They (re)learn to have the child’s eye again. To see things as photographable, when a million others wouldn’t.

So I say, go on, give it a try. Hand your kid the camera. They might break it, but they might also win an prestigious photography prize while their at it.

Joanne Rendell is in the middle of writing her debut novel - to keep up with her progress as a writer, wife and mum, visit her at her blog, http://www.joannerendell.blogspot.com.

Esalen Tales by Joanne Rendell

2007-05-31T21:44:00.000-04:00

These days, many parents shell out a whole lot of money to take their little ‘uns along with them to far flung destinations and on idyllic vacations. But sometimes you have stop to wonder whether we should just save our money and take our kids to the park instead.

Take my brother, for example. Last month, he and his wife came to visit us in New York and brought along their three year old son, Andy. It was no cheap trip. On top of three full airfares from Spain to New York, they also did commando-style sightseeing of New York which meant shelling out for three tickets at the Empire State Building, the Bronx Zoo, the Natural History Museum, as well as a whole host of lesser known attractions. Then there were the meals out, including kids meals which often went uneaten because Andy, like any three year old, was wary of cuisines which weren’t familiar.

Who knows how much my brother and his family actually spent? One thing is for certain though, Andy wont remember one moment of the trip. Okay, he might remember a few snippets and he might even form a few memories based on the photos he’ll be shown in years to come. But he certainly wont recall every minute of his action-packed and pretty darn expensive two weeks in New York.

Take us, too. We’re currently spending two weeks at Esalen, a hippy dippy teaching institute/hot spring retreat on California's highway one, just south of Big Sur. Even though Brad (my husband) wouldn't know his ying from his yang, or his karma from a chicken korma, he managed to snag himself a teaching gig here for a couple of weeks. Needless to say, I insisted on coming along and helping him out and that meant bringing Benny too.

Brad’s teaching has paid for us to be here and we’re being fed tip-top organic food for free. Nonetheless, it has been an expensive trip – with the flights, the rental car, and the urgent twenty minute drives to Big Sur every few nights to eat overpriced pizza whenever Benny has refused to eat the afore-mentioned tip-top organic food.

Of course, spending the money has been worth it – just as I’m sure it was for my brother. We’re having a wonderful time and Benny seems to be enjoying himself too. He loves Esalen’s hot tubs and the excuse they provide to romp about naked. He loves the big long tables in the lodge where we eat which provide a perfect racetrack for his small collection of cars. He loves the log fires at night and the people playing drums in “Explore Our Essential Rhythms” workshops.

Most of all, though, he has loved two things. First, a member of Brad’s workshop was chucking out some old toys and handed onto Benny a cute Thomas the Tank Engine case containing no less than nine of Benny’s favorite engines. The case hasn’t been out of Benny’s hand in three days. He even slept with Thomas pressed against his cheek last night.

Second, at the weekend, we had to make a run to a grocery store in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Benny was in heaven because the Safeway we found – which has to be the most swishy Safeway in the country – had shopping carts with little toy cars for kids built onto their fronts. Benny jumped in the first one he saw and then happily beeped and vroomed his way around the store.

I’m sure these will be the only two things he’ll remember about our trip. He wont remember the breathtaking coastlines, the unimpeded view of the Pacific ocean from our window. He probably wont even remember the idyllic hot tubs perched on the cliff edge with the waves crashing just twenty feet below.

Benny will remember nine plastic trains and a souped-up shopping cart.

Ah well, it isn’t about the money or the memories, is it? As all the yogis and Buddhists at Esalen would agree, it is about appreciating the moment and enjoying life’s beauty and impermanence.

Ohmm and Namas Dae!

For more Esalen tales, come over to my writing blog at www.joannerendell.blogspot.com. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Best Kid in the World...Maybe?

2007-05-14T10:06:00.000-04:00

When I was seven or eight, I remember sitting on the gravelly floor of the school playground having a ferocious argument with my best friend. She had just dared to suggest that her mum was “the best mum in the world.” To say I was appalled would be a gross understatement. I was mortified. How, I wondered, could she think her mum was the best mum in the world when in fact my mum was?

I was particularly dismayed that she, my best friend, who'd known my mum for half her life, would think this way. After all, my best friend had tasted my mum’s French fries; she’d seen the cool Barbie house my mum had made; she’d helped me braid my mum’s lovely long blonde hair; and when I’d invited her for a sleepover, my best friend stayed up late and watched “Starsky and Hutch” because my mum let us. So, why on earth didn’t she think MY mum was the best in the world? Especially considering HER mum wore bad shoes, made us eat yucky brown bread, and never let us watch TV.
“She is.”“She is not.”“She is”“She is not.”

The argument went on like this for quite some time – until the school bell rang, in fact. We never resolved the issue. She never came around to my way of thinking. I never came around to hers.
I used to look back at that argument and laugh. How funny those two eight-year old girls were! How naïve and sweet and silly they had been to think they could say, categorically, that their mum was best in the world. Those eight year olds just didn’t understand subjectivity, diverse world views, differences of opinion. They simply thought best was best and that was that.

However, now being a mum myself, I’m finding out that the screwy notion of “mine is surely the best” still exists everywhere….including, sometimes, in me.

Like when I see Benny being especially cute, e.g. when he sits like an angel at a bar and sweetly asks the bartender for “a water and a straw,” I find myself thinking, “He’s the best, most adorable kid in the world.” Or when I hear him saying, when Brad comes home from the office, “How was work, Baba?” I can’t help melting inside and thanking my lucky stars for having the politest, sweetest kid that ever lived.

Sometimes, so full of love, I find it hard to fathom that people aren’t stopping me on the street to tell me that my child is indeed the best in the world. I also sometimes have a hard time watching other parents looking at their own children with the same look of wonder and adoration that I can’t help feeling only Benny deserves. After all, their kids are shrieking, out-of-control, and whining monsters – not a bit like Benny.

Of course, after these moments of melting love for my dearest Benny, when I think there could never be a better kid, I always get the reality check I deserve. No sooner have I looked down my nose at someone else’s children, Benny always reminds me that he can whine, flail, and shriek as good as the rest of them. And just when I think no kid could be as sweet and kind as Benny, I’m confronted with another three year old at the park who not only shares all his toys with Benny but also offers Benny a car to bring home with him. Something my rather possessive Benny would never, ever, do.

All kids are the best in the world – at least, according to their parents. I just have to face up to that fact and instead of trying to label Benny, just enjoy him!

To hear more from Joanne, check out her latest blog by Clicking Here. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Caption It!

2007-05-05T08:28:00.000-04:00

NATURIST PRE-SCHOOL

I'M NO DUMMY (Note: In England a Pacifier is called a dummy)

EVEN MY MUM HAS BAD HAIR DAYS...

WHAT DID I SAY?

My laptop has been playing up recently and so I decided it was high time I backed up all my files. The thought of loosing all my writing as well as all my family photographs had me waking up at night, sweating and quivering in panic.

So, the other day, I trawled through all my computer’s files and documents, diligently saving them all to CD, and as I did so I got the chance to revisit old baby pics of Benny – many of which I haven’t looked at in quite a while.

I stumbled across this particularly funny shot which, at the time, I had named “What did I say?” *
The picture, accompanied with caption, had me spluttering with laughter all over again. It also reminded me that baby pictures, in order not to be monotonous and overly cutesy, should always come with captions. Baby photos can become very boring to everyone except the child’s parent. But add a caption and suddenly the pictures become a work of humor…even art.

Take a look above at what I’ve thought up for the Benny-photo archive.

To hear more from Joanne, check out her latest blog by Clicking Here. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Pet Names by Joanne Rendell

2007-04-17T20:54:00.000-04:00

Of all the blogs I’ll ever write about Benny, this will probably be the one he truly hates me for. I admit, he’ll probably hate me for documenting his poos in the bath, his first stuttering attempts at language, his observations about his father’s dangly bits. But, having his childhood pet names shared with the blogosphere will no doubt be the icing on the cake. How, after all, will he ever be taken seriously as a Senator or a writer or a doctor or a representative for the Vegetarian Society when it is discovered that one of his pet names was “Chickenhead”?

Of course, I’m trying to offset any bad feelings between us by teaching him early in life the beauty of irony, silliness, and the joy that can be found in laughing at oneself. However, I’m also secretly praying that by the time he’s old enough to care what I’ve broadcast about him in the blogosphere, the internet will have combusted and the blogs I have written will have long since skittered, irretraceably into the ether. Failing that, I am saving for his therapy bills.

With these different measures in place to try and maintain our future relationship, therefore, I’m going to go ahead and do it. I’m going to list the pet names we have for our dearest Benny. Because, quite frankly, I think pet names should be shared. They show creativity on the parents part, as well as the beauty and malleability of language. And they’re also pretty funny…especially when listed. So, here I go:

Benny Boo
Benny Bops
Benny Bopsy
Bopsical
Bopsters
Boppings
Whiney Pots
Potsy
Potsters
Monkey
Banana
Puppy Dog
Baby Dog
Chucky Egg
Chucky Eggness
Chicky
Chicky Egg

and of course…

Chickenhead

The last one is my current favorite. It also appears to be one that has struck a chord with Benny. The other night, when we were having dinner in a restaurant, Benny – for a reason only known to a three year old – was stroking Brad’s head. As he grinned and teased his Dad’s head, he said in a rather loud squeal, “You feel like a chicken, chickenhead.”

Benny’s pet names, it seems, may well come back to haunt all of us.

To hear more from Joanne, check out her latest blog by Clicking Here. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Us and Them, Them and Us by Joanne Rendell

2007-04-10T08:01:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading a truly annoying article in an old copy of New York Magazine which I found kicking around the apartment. Entitled “A Glass of Wine and A Pacifier, Please,” the piece talks about the rising number of parents who are taking their babies and kids with them to restaurants and cafes in New York. The subtitle to the piece is, “When every restaurant and coffee bar doubles as a playroom, is there such a things as adult space anymore?” and you can pretty much gather from that question which side of the fence the article’s author sits. Even though she’s a mom herself, Amy Sohn (the writer) clearly thinks there is something amiss with this growing trend and appears to feel sorry for the “freelancers” who “earn a living entirely in cafes, conducting business on laptops and cell phones.” Sohn ends the article with a small, supposedly illuminating, account of her date night with her husband - sans enfant. At the end of the evening, she describes feeling closer to her husband than she has “since the baby was born.” As I see it, the message of Sohn’s piece is “The only good times out on the town is without your kids and so, please, parents of New York, although babysitters are expensive, do not take your children out to the places which rightfully belong to adults.”

Okay, maybe I’m a little harsh on the article. I don’t necessarily think that kids should be squawking about in every restaurant and café in town. At the same time, however, I don’t think every coffee shop in town should be plagued with those “freelancers” barking away on their cell phones (I wonder if Amy Sohn is one such “freelancer”?!). I also agree that some café and restaurant owners might not like strollers and sippy cups muddying their premises. But I do think there are other owners who might like the dollars which parents with hungry kids spend – if only the parents would be brave enough to come in to their establishment and withstand the glares from other clientele who sit at their laptops all afternoon, nursing their one, lone cup of coffee.

I suppose what I don’t like most about the article is the way it shores up the age old distinction between the adult world and world of kids. In some ways, of course, making this distinction is important. After all, we don’t want to be sending our kids into factories or making them cannon fodder for the next war. Also, adults have to do stuff sometimes which kids can’t yet understand.

However, it seems to me, that in are eagerness to separate adults from kids, we create a world where these people (and yes, kids are people too!) have trouble existing side by side. When kids spend their days mostly with other kids and adults with other adults, it is no wonder kids squawk about in an unruly fashion when thrust amongst a group of adults. And its no wonder adults can’t abide the laughs and shrieks of gaily abandoned kids when they are used to only well-behaved and pre-occupied adults.

The other day, this adult/kid distinction really hit home when we took Benny to our friends book launch party. Our friend was over moon to see Benny there and even wrote an inscription to him in the book she gave us. However, some of her hipster, writing world friends weren’t so forthcoming. When Benny approached a small groups of these pouty, turtlenecked folks, he showed them a balloon he’d found and asked, “You like my balloon?” From the stricken, uncomprehending looks on the faces, you would have thought Benny was an alien speaking nothing but alien-ese. From a distance I watched as not one of the group could break their façade coolness to respond to him. Finally, balloon in hand, Benny skulked off.

In the end, it just makes me wonder about this world we live in where kids and adults are becoming so alien they must be corralled in different worlds, different “adult only” and “kids only” spaces.

Sorry, that was a kind of long rant, wasn’t it?

To hear more from Joanne, check out her latest blog by Clicking Here. To return to Role Mommy, Click Here.

Ola, Adios, Chakka Lakka Ketchup

2007-03-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

Since our two week trip to Spain last month, Benny has decided he’s fluent in Spanish. Between the occasional recognizable words like “Ola,” “Adios,” “Si,” and “Non,” his “Spanish” goes something like “chakka lakka, biokka, schniakka, hebakka, triakka.” Benny is very proud of his new language and even has a little “Spanish” song which he likes to sing while jumping, his blonde locks flying and his arms flailing, on our bed. The song, I think, is entitled, “Chakka Lakka ketchup, chikka lakka ketchup.” (The insertion of the word ketchup into the song, I can only think, is due to high quantity of fries and ketchup he ate while in Spain – indeed, fries and ketchup were the only thing he would eat while in Spain)

Of course, for a doting parent, Benny’s new linguistic abilities are most endearing. I find nothing more amusing, in fact, than conducting a conversation with Benny in his newly acquired language.

Me: “Chikka splaka?”

Benny: “Smakka criakka.”

Me. “Biukka, mischnukka, triakka.”

Benny: “Priakka, hyuuka.”

Me: “Non?”

Benny: fit of giggles

Me: fit of giggles

All such conversations are coupled with animated hand gestures and excited nods of the head or rolling of the eyes. It is very amusing.

It is not so amusing, however, when Benny’s new language leaves the safety of our apartment and strays out into the world. I discovered this yesterday while walking with Benny through Chinatown (just a couple of blocks from us). Benny was in the middle of climbing into his stroller – walking 3 small blocks had really taken it out of him?! – and an old Chinese-American lady stopped to watch him. She smiled and clucked and waved toward Benny saying something neither of us could understand. Benny looked up at the kind old lady and was silent for a few beats. Then with a grin, he said, “Chakka lakka schniakka.” I immediately blushed. Did the woman think that Benny was doing some mocking rendition of her mother-tongue?

Thankfully, the woman just smiled and nodded and then carried on her way. Meanwhile, I whisked off in the other direction wondering how I will explain to Benny that his “Spanish” might be something we only speak at home from now on.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty or to visit her brand new author blog (since she just got a book deal!) Click Here. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

I Don't Want to Have To by Joanne Rendell

2007-03-12T15:42:00.000-04:00

“I don’t want to ‘have to.’” This is Benny’s new comeback when I explain that he “has” to have a bath (because he’ll stink) or he “has” to come to the store (otherwise he’ll flip out later on because there is none of his favorite Dannon yogurt in the refrigerator) or he “has” to get ready to go for dinner (or I might eat him alive because I’m so hungry) or he “has” to change his top (because snot is encrusted all the way along one sleeve and oatmeal on the other). After I plead that he “has” to do one of these things, he cocks his head to the side and says, with his big eyes all glassy and innocent, “But I don’t want to ‘have to.’” And, of course, although I am on the verge of loosing it because of the stubborn resistance he’s putting up to whatever it is I think he “has” to do, I always end up laughing. After all, what a great sentence!

I’m a sucker for those kind of sentences; those sentences kids make up entirely by themselves and which, if you’re picky, are not grammatically correct and yet make total sense.

Benny came out with another great one yesterday. After I insisted we leave the house and told him it was a lovely warm day (and, thus, enduring another “I don’t want to have to” battle), we got outside and quickly discovered that in spite of the blue skies there was a nasty biting wind. Because I’d done the work of getting him out the house, however, I persisted with my errand. Ten minutes later, after being battered continually by the icy wind, we found ourselves behind a tall building and thus sheltered from the fierce breeze. Benny looked up from his stroller (where he’d no doubt taken the brunt of the headwind). His little nose was red and his eyes were streaming and he said, “It’s stopped winding, mama.”

Poor kid. If he only knew that a block later it would be “winding” viciously once again.

A Book Deal, J.K. Rowling and Me by Joanne Rendell

2007-03-03T17:44:00.000-05:00

The daily naptime writing grind has paid off. All those afternoons bribing and cajoling Benny into bed and then quietly tapping away on my laptop, has come up trumps.

I have landed my first book deal! Yup, my novel The Professor’s Wives Club has sold to New American Library and I am still recovering from the post-celebration hangover. How exciting is that?

Anyway, I’m sure like most authors who’ve recently sold a book and are living somewhere high in the clouds, my thoughts keep turning to J.K. Rowling. I’m no big Harry P fan, you understand. In fact, I’m probably the only person left in the Northern Hemisphere who hasn’t read one of her books or watched a Potter film. However, I recently learnt that she’s the first person to ever become a billionaire through writing (pretty amazing for someone who got a meager 1500 pound advance for her first book).

I’m not expecting to be the second. Although, you know what? Perhaps I could be…

After all, J.K. and I have a lot in common. For one thing, Ms. Rowling wrote her first book while her small child took naps. J.K., in other words, is a kindred naptime writer mama (I don’t believe she had a laptop though…poor lady). But the similarities do not stop there. J.K. is actually called Joanne Rowling and I am called Joanne Rendell. She goes by Jo. I go by Jo. She lived in Wales when she was a kid. I was born in Wales. She's a blondie and so am I. She was rejected from Oxford University. Me too!I know, I know, it’s just too much of a coincidence. Billionaire-dom surely awaits me.

P.S. To celebrate the recent book deal, I’ve set up a new blog, “Naptime Writer” at http://joannerendell.blogspot.com. I’ll still be blogging my Mama/Benny adventures here, but please come see me over there for my Rowling and other writing ramblings!

Holiday Blues by Joanne Rendell

2007-02-23T10:25:00.000-05:00

You decide it time to take a trip. It’s been a cold winter and you yearn to feel the sun on your face and warm winds tousling your hair. As luck would have it, your family live in Spain. So, without further ado, you book your tickets, pack your bags, and jump on a plane. Okay so your husband can’t join you because he has to work and this means you’ll be traveling alone with a three year old. But, hey, who would pass up an opportunity for mucho sol and sangrias?

Your flight to Spain goes well thanks to a half empty airplane and “Dora the Explorer” downloaded onto an Ipod. You even manage to get an hour or so sleep. You notice that your beloved three year old is sniffling every now and then, but you put it down to the stale pumped air in the plane.

You arrive safe and sound. Everything is going swimmingly. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, your sister-in-law has stocked her fridge with cold beers, and your darling little one goes for a long afternoon nap without a fight. Sharing of Cruzcampo with your brother, looking out at the twinkling blue sea just a block away, you smile and ponder the wonderful holiday that awaits you.

When junior awakes from his nap, however, your bubble quickly bursts.

The sniffles have turned into a full-on snot fest and your three year old is the foulest of moods. He’s clearly hungry but, because of the rapidly advancing cold, is willfully refusing to eat. You offer everything, even the cookies you generally hide from him at home, but he shuns it all and gets crabbier by the second. Your young nephew, who’s been waiting your arrival for weeks, is bemused at your own child’s continual whines and squawks of “mine mine” if anyone so much as looks at a toy he’s playing with. Your brother and sister-in-law look on, clearly horrified. The glances they are exchanging say, “What an awful child. How could she put up with such a whining monster.”

The next few days pass and things continue to slide. The cold gets snottier (and is coupled with a barking cough). The whines get louder. The aversion to food, stronger. And worried glances between family members increase tenfold. On top of all that, you can’t go out for tapas and drinks in the warm Spanish evening because “oh-snotty-one” has become “oh-clingy-one.” You can’t leave him at home, but you can’t drag your sick, crabby three year old to a bar either. You’re stuck in watching badly dubbed American TV shows which you’ve never heard.

When you leave your brother’s apartment and set off for your mom’s house in the beautiful Spanish countryside, you think things will get better. Perhaps, the mountain air will blow away the cold? Perhaps the sweet smells of el campo will bring back his appetite?

But no, that was just fanciful thinking. Your little one doesn’t get better, he just gets sicker. An eye infection develops and the cough gets deeper and soon you, your mom, and ailing child are making daily trips to the clinic and the local pharmacia. Any thoughts of whiling away hours sitting on the patio, staring out at luscious Andalucian hills dotted with tiny white houses, must be banished. You will spend your days plopping eye drops into gunky little eyes and your nights not getting much sleep as the small child next to you coughs and sweats.

Thankfully, after a couple of days and with the antibiotics doing their magic, your darling begins to perk up. For a brief moment, it looks like you might be able to enjoy the last couple of days of your holiday and finally get that sangria at sunset or that quiet stroll amongst the blossoming almond trees you’ve been yearning for.

Alas, it is not to be.

As your child begins to boing back to life, you feel an ominous tickle in your throat and a portentous ache behind your knees. Suddenly, the sun feels too hot on your feverish brow and the hills, even the tiny ones, seem to steep to climb. Your getting sick. Sick as a dog. Your last hours of your holiday are spent in bed.

By the time you reach the airport for your flight home, your head is banging, your throat is on fire, and you are using enough Kleenex to wallpaper a small apartment building. You are told by a mean looking airport security guard that you must dispose of your water bottle, which means you have to spend your eight hour flight badgering air stewards for measly cups of water to soothe your burning throat. Then, when it is time to land and the plane circles in the sky making its descent, your head is so full of snot you feel like it might explode. And as you walk off the plane, you are completely deaf and unable to hear your three year old’s cries of “I’m hungry” (words, incidentally, he hasn’t uttered in nearly two weeks). When you finally get home, your legs go to jelly and you collapse on your husband like a runner who’s just crossed the finish line after a grueling, wet and cold, 26 mile marathon.

Holidays. You got to love ‘em.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here

The Safety of the Suburbs?

2007-01-19T15:37:00.000-05:00

Living in the heart of Manhattan, we are used to imminent danger. Every day we step out of our building and are confronted with the growl of cars, the roar of speeding trucks, and the whoosh of New Yorkers hot-footing it to the nearest coffee shop for their daily caffeine fix. The clangs and “wheee-oohs” from fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars, drone into our apartment day and night. We live a stones throw from Ground Zero and from our window the empty space where the twin towers would have been is a haunting reminder of the terrorist hotspot in which we live.

We get used to the danger, however. Blasé, even. And it’s only when we leave the city and head for the small towns, suburbs, and countryside that we remember what it is to exist without the shadow of menace and hazard looming over us. The quiet streets, the unlocked front doors, the sounds of leaves rustling in trees, the smiling townspeople, it is all such a contrast from the clear and present danger of New York City.

Or so I thought.

Thanks to Brad’s sabbatical this semester and his parents kindly letting us stay in their home, we have escaped the city for a couple of weeks and are now holed up in a sleepy suburb of East Tennessee. The setting is ideal for the out-of-town break we had in mind. Benny has a big house to run around in. The weather is much less bitter than in NY. And the peace, quiet, and bustle-free days means Brad and I can, at last, get some deliciously uninterrupted writing time.

Not only that, I can take my daily run in the big, open world. In the city I’m too scared to run on the busy, exhaust-filled streets and have to exercise on a treadmill at the gym. Being in the suburbs means I can breathe fresh air as I run, watch darting squirrels, and squint happily through the morning sun. A far cry from watching the clock on the treadmill and trying to avoid getting a machine next to the infamous grunting gym-goer. Running outside makes for a seemingly quicker and more fun workout.

Not a safer workout, however. I discovered this the day after we arrived in TN; the day of my first foray into suburb-exercising. For the first twenty minutes all was going fine. The sun was out, the birds twittering, the air was crisp and clean. And, even though I was running on the neighborhood streets, I hadn’t seen one car. When the first car did emerge, though, everything suddenly changed. The driver of the car did see me – thankfully. However, they were clearly so excited about spotting someone on the nearly always deserted streets, they grinned, waved animatedly, and nearly swerved over in front of me. Luckily, my jumping onto a nearby lawn and the driver’s sudden realization of what was going on, averted a nasty accident.

And its not just a morning run in the suburbs where danger lurks. The twenty-four hour grocery store is another perilous place.

In NY – the city that never sleeps – we have delis which open all night, bars that stay open til the wee hours, takeouts which will deliver to your door at 6am. But we don’t have anything like these gigantic open-all-hour Walmarts and K-marts which are dotted around the suburbs. For townies like us, these places are hopelessly alluring with their wide-aisles, their endless supplies of just about everything – from cheese to fluffy towels to air rifles. And, of course, the most appealing thing of all is that you can roll up at 11pm and shop until you drop.

But, these places have a potentially dangerous side too. Not only does late-night shopping wreak havoc on your checking account (especially after a beer or two). Physical dangers also lurk in those deceptively light and shadowless aisles.

Last night, after the afore-mentioned “beer or two,” Brad and I with Benny in tow swung by the local K-mart. It was close to midnight, the store was practically empty of shoppers, and staff were few. This meant, much to our delight, we had the place to ourselves. We headed immediately to the sport supply section and to a barrel load of basketballs (earlier, we’d spotted a basketball hoop in a nearby park and decided we needed a ball). We spent the next ten minutes, bouncing balls up and down the empty aisle. Despite the thudding of balls and our raucous laughter, not one single member of staff came by and berated us for using the store as a basketball court.

Finally, bored of bouncing, we moved onto to the toy section. Brad and I busied ourselves tutting and ranting together about the shelves and shelves of plastic crap being sold to kids. We knew Benny was nearby because we could hear his ecstatic shouts, “Look, Thomas the Tank Engine!” and “Wow, Cars!” (he doesn’t share our views about the over-consumption of toys, of course) After a minute or so of this, we heard a loud and unfamiliar vrooming noise. Brad and I quickly turned and were confronted with a terrifying sight. Benny had climbed onto a shelf, mounted a kid-size quad bike, and was careening along at top speed toward the abyss!

We rushed toward him but Benny – who’d (cleverly) worked out how to turn the little machine on but who (not so cleverly) hadn’t worked out how to turn it off or steer – plummeted off the shelf. The drop was small, just a few inches, but the quad bike nevertheless rolled over and Benny was thrown unceremoniously to the ground. Thankfully, there were no broken bones, cuts, or grazes. Benny didn’t even cry. He was too busy reveling in his little stunt and asking if he could get back on the damn quad bike.

Okay, so you might argue, that our parenting wasn’t on top form. Perhaps we should have been keeping a closer eye on our little monkey. But, I don’t know, the suburbs are no longer seeming as safe as I once imagined. Danger, I’m beginning to realize, skulks around every corner. Not just the ones in New York City.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here

SNIP, SNIP, OOPS

2007-01-02T17:15:00.000-05:00

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to sort out Benny’s disheveled and unruly hairdo. Don’t get me wrong. I love his long, flowing locks and I’m not intending to lop them off anytime soon. Unless, of course, Benny demands it. But to be honest, at the moment Benny’s far more concerned with the arrangement of his toy trucks and cars on our windowsill than the arrangement of his parting and chin-length bangs.

But, his free-flowing hair has got a little wispy and ratty at the ends recently (after being dipped in paint, oatmeal, soup, orange juice etc. one too many times) so I decided it was time for a trim. Now, the last time this happened, I braved taking up the scissors myself. After all, who wants to shell out thirty bucks on a haircut for a three year old? Not to mention, the screams and whines that would no doubt ensue if I were to make Benny sit still in a barber’s chair for more than 25 seconds.

I have to say, first time around, I did a pretty good job. I sat Benny in front of Bob the Builder with a bucket load of cheerios and managed to lop off an inch or so of his fine blonde hair. Not only that, my chopping was fairly consistent and the resulting haircut was pretty straight and, I might add, quite dashing.

Even though the results were good, I really should have learnt something from this first foray into hairstyling. I should have learnt that I enjoyed chopping hair rather *too* much. Looking back, I should have been alarmed at how much pleasure I got from the whole experience: the feeling of the comb gliding through his hair; hearing the resounding “snip snip” as I chomped through his silky locks; watching the flutter of fine hair as it fell to the floor.

I should have remembered all this yesterday before thrusting Bob the Builder into the DVD player once again, sitting a hair-washed Benny in front of me, and taking up my gleaming scissors and comb. Of course, I didn’t remember but as soon as I made my first cut, all those joyous feelings rushed back. But, by then it was too late. I had already started and there was no way I was stopping.

Soon I was smiling and snipping, snipping and smiling.

A short while into my pleasurable task, I decided I was doing well enough to try something a little more ambitious. I decided it was time to add layers – just a few around the bottom to achieve that cool shaggy, hipster look. I’d seen my hairdresser cutting layers (back in the days when I had time to get my haircut) and it looked simple enough. Take a lock of hair, hold it at an angle, cut diagonally. Oh yes, and then add some of those feathering vertical snips with a small flourish of the wrist! Easy.

And it was easy. I sat for another ten minutes, snipping, flourishing, and sighing at my good work. When Bob the Builder came to end, Benny started to get restless and so I was forced to hurry the last stages of his haircut. However, when he stood up and began to frolic around, I sat back and admired my work. Still wet, his hair curled very cutely at his neck and around his face and looked, thanks to the trim, healthy and bouncy and, yes, very hip.

However…when Benny awoke from his nap yesterday afternoon, I noticed his hair had dried and flattened. I also noticed my handy work wasn’t quite as skilled as I had first imagined. The layers now looked more like multi-layered clumps. And his long bangs, which used to curl around his chin, now swung like heavy square drapes in front of his nose. I immediately chased after the recently woken Benny and attempted to tease, scrunch, and ruffle his hair to restore it to its earlier hipster-shaggy glory. Benny had had enough hair-fiddling for one day, however, and wouldn’t let me near him.

Things got worse later that evening when we went out to meet Brad. It was cold out, so Benny was forced to wear his woolly hat and by the time I ripped off the hat to reveal my day’s work to Brad, Benny’s hair was apocalyptic – jagged strands across his face, clumps sticking out at funny angles above his collar, and a weird kink somewhere above his right ear. Brad looked on, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Finally, he said, “Nice try, but perhaps we need to take him to the hairdresser.”

Ah well, Benny may have to live with a less hip hairdo for a while, but at least I have learnt my lesson. The hair appointment is now booked and my scissors and comb are locked away. No more “snip snipping” for me.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Stroller Fascists by Joanne Rendell

2006-12-18T10:12:00.000-05:00

While we are on the subject of strollers, I have an ax to grind. One very big, shiny, murderous ax which needs to be ground and ground and ground and…

You guessed it, I’m angry.

Today, while I was battling my way through the mayhem of New York Holiday shoppers and found myself jostled and shoved on a horribly busy crosswalk, I accidentally nipped a guy’s heels with Benny’s stroller. Even though the wheels are spindly and plastic and probably wouldn’t hurt a Chihuahua if they struck one, I dutifully shouted out my apologies. The man simply puffed on his cigarette, looked at me like I was Chihuahua poo, and swaggered onward in his 300 dollar jeans. The next moment, as I contemplated the stick-up-their-ass-ness of too many New Yorkers, I was jostled by the eager crowds behind me. Once again the stroller nipped smoking man’s heel. After I’d recovered from the jolt that pushed me into him in the first place and was about to shout out my second apology, the man turned on me.

“Once,” he hissed, his eyes scornful and his mouth puckered, “But, twice?”

Then with a flick of his head, he ignored my fumbling apology, and pushed off through the crowds. Of course, as soon as was gone, my cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment, anger, and indignation. Why had I been so lame? Why did I mumble and blush? Why didn’t I say something dismissive and rude back to him? In fact, why didn’t I pick up the stroller (with Benny inside) and crack it over the back of his head shouting, “And one for your head!”

Okay, I know the man had some right to be angry at being nipped (and I really mean nipped here, I didn’t exactly take the guy down) by a stroller a couple of times. But, cheesh, surely he could see I wasn’t entirely to blame. Could he not see I was battling among hoards of bag-laden shoppers with a rickety stroller and a hungry three year old? Could he not see that I’d just gone out for some milk and was simply trying to get across a busy, death-trap, car-honking Broadway to go home again? (okay, I concede he might not have been able to see that).

I think it made me mad mostly because it reminded me how inconsiderate people can be when it comes to strollers. There is way too much stroller inconsideration going on in this world. In fact, every time I leave the house with Benny in the stroller, I come face to face with a member of the “stroller inconsiderati.” Indeed, there are so many stroller inconsideratis out there, I’m now able to classify them into species.

Most common are the cross walk hogs. These are the people who, when I am waiting to cross the street, pass beside me and then promptly stand in front of the stroller. Then, when the walk sign glows, they dally across the road leaving me to dither this way and that as I try to get around them.

Second, there are the cell phone wanderers. These people are closely related to the cross walk hogs. They overtake me on the sidewalk as they chitter on their cells only to then swerve and bob in front of the stroller. Meanwhile, I trail behind flicking the stroller to and fro trying to avoid nipping their heels (and we know what trouble that gets me in).

Third, there’s the stroller blind. These people whisk by me as I try and haul Benny and his stroller up and down the stairs to the subway or in and out of heavy doors to shops. They do not see the stroller, they don’t offer a helping hand, and quite often they let doors slam in our faces

Fourth, there are the chicken players. These are the most daring of the stroller inconsiderati species. Unlike the stroller blind, they see strollers. Oh yes, they definitely see them and they dare themselves to play bold games of chicken with oncoming strollers. If they see a baby and a carriage coming their way, they walk straight toward them. They never, never, move off track and in the final moments, just as contact is about to be made, it is up to the stroller pusher to maneuver quickly around the death-defying chicken player.

And finally, there are the out-and-out stroller fascists. These are the folks who tut, huff, or even swear if a stroller so much as looks at them. If it blocks their way, or comes into a fancy store they might own, or holds them up when they want to exit a busy train, it’s not pretty. They let you know with their sneers or their biting words where you and your stroller belong.

Today’s snooty-pooty man, with his expensive jeans and foul smelling cigarette, has (I’m sorry to say) the makings of a stroller fascist. And what I’d like to say to him – and the rest of the stroller inconsiderati out there – is this. “Strollers contain kids. Kids grow up. And it is these kids who, in the future, are going to be making your jeans and selling your cigarettes. In fact, they are going to be pushing your wheelchairs when you’re too infirm to walk. So, please, treat them and their four-wheeled carriages with some consideration!”

Okay, I feel so much better now.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Stroller Fetish

2006-12-10T17:40:00.000-05:00

The other day, I was on the phone with my best friend in Berkeley who’s pregnant for the first time. Amid our musings about possible names and other baby-on-the-way talk, she announced, “Ooh, I was looking at strollers online yesterday. I’m going to need your advice.”

To many, such words would be run-of-the-mill and everyday. But to me, oh boy, what sweet, sweet words! In fact, as my friend spoke them, my heart thudded in my chest, my throat clenched with excitement, and it was all I could do to squeak out my joyous reply. “Of course!” When I had imparted pearls of stroller wisdom and our phone call was done, it took every ounce of willpower not to log onto jetblue.com and book myself a flight out West. After all, the thought of going shopping with my friend – trying out the latest strollers in the baby stores, testing the lightness of their frames, marveling at the smoothness of their rides, counting their pockets, clips, and doo-dad – well, let’s just say, it was so so tempting. Especially for someone like me with a grade A, unabashed, stroller fetish.

Before you think me some sort of baby paraphernalia junkie, I should point out that I’m generally a very thrifty parent. In fact, I have always prided myself on my determination not to be swept up into the dizzying hyper-consumption that Babies R Us and BuyBuyBaby would have all new parents swept up in. I was never lured into buying a Diaper Genie to dispose of smelly diapers. I’ve always used yesterday’s grocery bags and simply tied a knot to lock in the fumes. Instead of purchasing miniscule jars of apple sauce festooned with pictures of chubby babies, I’ve always headed straight to the preserves section of the supermarket and picked up a nice hefty jars of apple sauce and then later served the sauce to Benny from an old yogurt pot. When the trash can at the local pool was filled with discarded swim diapers, I took Benny’s home and laundered them (okay, maybe not the poop ones). And, back in the day when Benny loved to watch mobiles above his changing table, he didn’t look up at something that cost $29.99 from Kmart. No, he gurgled up at a dangling plastic bowl with four Christmas baubles attached (the whole thing cost a dollar!).

But, strollers? I admit it. Despite my frugality elsewhere, strollers are my weakness.

Benny, I must just say, has never rode in a Bugaboo or anything that fancy. However, he has had six strollers in his short life time. Yes, six. Although, I must also say that we haven’t simply been buying and then trashing perfectly good strollers. Oh no, no. There are lots of very justifiable reasons for purchasing and discarding so many strollers.

Our first stroller – the trusty Maclaren Techno XT – we bought before Benny was born. We were told it was a “must” for any self-respecting NY parents. Light, collapsible, reclinable, but also sturdy, dependable, and still, after all these years, hip (Kate Winslet has been pictured with one and, I think, Sarah Jessica Parker too). But, living in a third floor walk-up, we soon discovered the Techno wasn’t exactly light and the plastic wheels didn’t do well on NY’s potholed, death-trap sidewalks. And folding it, while holding a mewing, whimpering, three week old in one arm? Forget it. So, we traded our techno for what we called the “hummer stroller” which, although the opposite of light (the thing weighed a million pounds), it had pneumatic tires and could be bumped up and down stairs. Plus, those lovely wheels made it a dream to push around the city. But then Benny got bigger…and bigger…and bigger and bumping the hummer, complete with growing child, down the stairs of our apartment building became a job that even Arnold Schwarzengger might sweat over. So, then we bought….

Okay, okay, I wont go on with our Great Stroller Adventure. You’re probably asleep already. But, the long and the short of it is this. Finding the right stroller for Benny has involved a lot of trial and error, a lot of thought, a lot of research. Not to mention trips to stores to test new models, to paw at new fabrics, to unfasten and refasten harnesses, and badger harried sales assistants about weights and add-ons and wheel sizes. And, for some reason, I have loved every minute of it!

Perhaps it’s how people feel about buying cars. I don’t know. Living in NYC, cars aren’t important. But strollers? They’re our wheels! They’re our ride. They’re our cars. They allow us to get from A to B with a 9 pound baby or even a three year old 40 pounder in tow.

Therefore, I believe they deserve all the attention, love, and reverie that stroller geeks like me afford them.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Benny the Cosmopolitan Genius

2006-11-26T18:03:00.000-05:00

Benny is not the brightest bulb in the palace chandelier. At least not according to conventional ideas about what constitutes a bright kid. For example, where other three year olds can count out a hundred cheerios from the Cheerio box, Benny’s grasp on numbers goes something like this: “1..2..3..7..8..14..15.” Similarly, when I find his little red toy car that’s been missing for a week under the sofa (and probably covered in dust bunnies and six month old, squished-up raisins) and say, “Here’s your red car,” Benny cries out with an empathic gasp, “NO, dat’s the blue car.” Oh, and getting him to distinguish between a circle and a square? Forget it. Benny lives in a land of circles. Every shape, whether it has straight side, curved edges, or 90 degree angles, is a circle.

Perhaps I should be enrolling him in a fast-track, special ed, one-on-one, intensive developmental leap-frog, gifted-but-unaware-of-it, program. But, you know what? I don’t give a hoot about his grasp on numbers, shapes, and colors. Because I know my boy is a genius. And not an ordinary kind of genius. Benny is an A-grade, valedictorian, summa cum laude, “Cosmopolitan Genius.” “Cosmopolitan Genius?” I hear you shout. I know, I know, you may not have heard of such a thing. But, I’m telling you, my son is one – and a pretty impressive one at that.

Instead of spending our time doing “what’s this shape?” drills with Benny, Brad and I have exerted our energies elsewhere. We’ve been encouraging him to become the perfect little New York City companion. Almost a second after he was born, we swooped him up into the Baby Bjorn and took him out to bars, restaurants, gallery openings, book readings, and cinemas. We kept at it even through those difficult toddler months where he’d run headlong everywhere and put any unidentifiable object into his mouth (although, we always stayed near the door for quick getaways and chose venues with music loud enough to drown out any toddler hysterics).

And now, it seems our efforts are paying off.

Although he’s just turned three, Benny is a class-act when it comes to frequenting the bars, restaurants, even art house cinemas in the city. If we go to our favorite Mexican restaurant, he sits happily at the table playing with his toy giraffe and zebra. When we attend readings at the local bookstore, he sits on our laps leafing through books borrowed from the kids section. And the other night, when we took him to Almodovar’s new movie, he sat quietly chomping on Goldfish snacks through the entire two-hour subtitled film.

But, of course, such genius comes with its downsides. Like Einstein and other geniuses before him, Benny has had to face his skeptics, doubters, and naysayers. He’s had to endure the tsk-tsks from fellow moviegoers, when he’s getting seated at the theater. He’s weathered scornful, bespectacled glances when he’s showed up at readings. And last night, for the first time, Benny found himself barred.

While waiting for a table at a restaurant we’d never been to before, Brad and I decided to order drinks at the bar. As we always do, we schlepped Benny onto a barstool and handed him giraffe and zebra. Benny sat happily playing, while Brad and I discussed whether to go frozen or on the rocks with our margaritas. Just as we settled on frozen, the barman emerged, face like thunder, and instructed us that Benny must be taken away from the bar...immediately. Brad and I exchanged worried glances and looked down at Benny. But there he sat, doing nothing untoward, sucking on the straw in his water and talking quietly to his animals. I looked back up at the barman and politely asked, “Er, why?”

“Because a bar is no place for a child,” he barked, “There’s too much drinking and cussing.”

I had to stifle a little smile (because I love the word “cussing”) and I was just about to point out that if “drinking and cussing” were not good for kids, then perhaps Benny shouldn’t come home with us – because in our home cussing and drinking have definitely been known to happen.

However, the bartender shot me a steely gaze and I was immediately silence. “And it’s against the law,” he barked.

At this point, I realized trying to sweet talk the barrel-chested, surly bartender into overlooking a law or two wasn’t going to work. And so we removed Benny from the bar and retreated out of the restaurant (we know, after all, when we’re not wanted). Benny trailed behind us, forlorn and bemused, clutching his toys to his chest, and narrowly avoiding plates of hot food whisking past his head.

It's tough to be a genius sometimes. But, perhaps one day Benny will take heart that he helped forge the way. And perhaps one day those tsk-tsks, withering stares, and silly laws will be a thing of the past. Three year olds will be free to bar-hop and movie-go whenever and wherever they please!

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Move Over, Thomas the Tank Engine. Come on Down, Little Engine that Could

2006-11-11T13:58:00.000-05:00

By Joanne Rendell

Call me a sourpuss, but I’d just like to say… “Thomas the Tank Engine, take your idiotic, chubby, eyebrow-less face and your inane little stories about you and your boy pals and go jump!”

I know, I’m sorry, a lot of people love Thomas. And even if they don’t care either way, their kids love him so they are happy for the peace and quiet which a clutch of “Thomas and Friends” DVDs offer. I totally understand. Benny would happily watch Thomas the Tank Engine all day everyday and, if I let him do that, I can only imagine how many blogs I would write, the hoovering I could finally get done, the piles of dirty clothes I could launder. Hell, I could finish a novel or two while Benny sat slack-jawed in front of the darned engine.

But, I’m telling you, Thomas the Tank is a menace. And it’s not because of his lack of eyebrows or the mischievous things he gets up to. No, it’s because behind those plump cheeks, doe eyes, and toot-toot whistle lurks a girl-hating, patriarchal oppressor.

Okay, maybe that’s a little harsh. But, have you ever noticed how “Thomas and his Friends” should more accurately be called, “Thomas and his Boy Buddies”? There are a few female engines, it’s true. There’s Emily and, er, who else? Oh, of course, Lady – who, just in case we couldn’t tell from her pinky-purple coat, has a name that makes it a hundred percent clear she’s a “lady.” But, two female engines compared to over twenty-five male ones? (yes, I’ve been counting). Please.

And then there’s the matter of the coaches, most of whom are female. Not only are they relegated to this secondary role of being pulled around by the boy engines, but they’re also portrayed as giddy and silly and in need of disciplining. For instance, in the story “Thomas and the Big, Big Bridge,” our hero (!?) Thomas arrives at a precarious, big, big, bridge. While he and guy-pal Henry thoughtfully consider the dangers of crossing, Annie and Clarbel the coaches cry, “Hurry, Hurry,” and get “so excited” that Thomas has “trouble keeping them in line.” Oh poor Thomas, what a trial it must be for him to keep those naughty girlies in line!

Now, I know what some of you might say. Thomas the Tank Engine was written years ago and their Reverend W. V. Awdry who created him didn’t know any better. However, it’s worth pointing out that the first Thomas the Tank Engine book was published in 1946 – sixteen years after the Watty Piper version of “The Little Blue Engine that Could.” Even though “The Little Blue Engine” portrays cutesy trains with smiling faces, this picture book – which is a retelling of the 1910 story “The Pony Tale – shares little else with Thomas the Tank. Indeed, “The Little Blue Engine that Could” kicks Thomas’ ass!

In case you haven’t read it in a while, I’ll give a you a quick recap. A little engine carrying toys and treats to kids on the other side of the mountain is chugging happily along when all of a sudden *she* breaks down. A big engine, an arrogant engine, and a tired engine – all of whom are male – refuse to help. A little blue engine arrives, however, and even though *she* is small and inexperienced, she saves the day. “I think I can, I think can” goes her famous chant, as she hauls the coaches up and over the mountain.

So, okay, the book might be a little second-wave feminist for many people – i.e. girls are best, boys suck. But, when Thomas the Tank Engine and all the other boy-club stories (think “Cars” and “Bob the Builder,” to name just two) still rule the airwaves and dominate the shelves or Barnes and Noble, I think “The Little Engine that Could” and its celebration of girl power is very much needed!

Puff, puff, puff, chug, chug, chug. Ding, dong, ding, dong! Little Blue Engine, you rock!

A Rude Awakening by Joanne Rendell

2006-10-31T11:04:00.000-05:00

Our apartment doesn’t have any proper walls. Okay, okay, it does have four proper walls that encase it. Inside, however, the walls between the rooms are fake. Not only are they paper thin, but a foot below the ceiling they stop. Yes, our walls have gaping holes in them.

These “cut-outs,” as they are known in the trade, are the price we pay for living in a NY loft with one – admittedly very large – window. In order to get a little natural light into our cavernous back bedroom, the cut-outs are essential.

However, what they do for light, the cut-outs also do for sound. All those big holes mean that every breath, every sneeze, every dropped coffee cup (and the whispered “F**k” that follows), can be heard through the entire household. This, as you can imagine, is not ideal when you have a three-year old in the house. Especially when that three year old’s sleep is the lifeline of his laptop-naptime mama and her writing career.

I’ve learnt to live with the cut-outs, however. When Benny is napping (or sleeping late in the morning) and I am trying to write, I do everything to minimize noise traversing the cut-outs. The answer machine is set on low, the speakers on my laptop off, and the window closed so the wails of passing fire trucks are just a mute “wah-wahs.” Many a time, I have found myself making important phone calls sitting on the toilet (thankfully, our bathroom has proper walls) and, on one or two occasions, I have conducted meetings in the hallway outside the apartment.

But, something happened today which has made me realize that my noise reducing schemes might have been a little over-the-top. In fact, it revealed them to be completely bloody unnecessary.

The fire alarm went off at six o’clock this morning. Our apartment is in a student dorm so, as Brad and I woke up, squinting our groggy eyes under the alarm’s strobe light and holding our ears against the monotonous, deafening din, we assumed the alarm must have been set off by some partying freshmen. However, through the alarm’s wails, we heard the fire trucks arriving and realized the horrible truth: we were going to drag ourselves out of bed, clamber four flights downstairs, and go stand outside with three hundred pajama-ed students.

As we contemplated this and zipped around finding coats, shoes, hats, and mittens, we finally noticed that Benny – despite the howling alarm and strobing lights – hadn’t moved a muscle. He was deeply and soundly and peacefully asleep. It was only when I heaved him into my arms that his long eyelashes finally fluttered open and he said, confused by all the commotion, “What’sat?”

There was no fire, thankfully. And, in the end, lugging ourselves and a tired three year old outside wasn’t so bad. Benny got to see four truckloads of firefighters and, in the back of a warm minivan, we got to hang out with all the other people in the building who have kids.

And, let’s face it, I’m now a wiser laptop-naptime mama. From now on, when Benny’s sleeping, if I want to talk on the phone or listen to banging rap music or blend smoothies or shout “SH*T” when I accidentally delete an important sentence, I can go right ahead and do it.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

YouTube, Herbal Tea, and a Whole Lot of Procrastination

2006-10-17T12:17:00.000-04:00

A Laptop Naptime Mama by Joanne Rendell

11:30 am - I've done it.

I am now officially a "suck-it-up-and-pay-for-a-babystitter-and-take-my-laptop-to-a-coffee-shop” mama. With some writing deadlines looming, I decided that naptimes were just not enough anymore. Plus, trying to put Benny down for a nap three hours after he’d just got up – so I could finish a chapter or work on a book review – did seem a little cruel.

So far, my new mama-status is proving to be pretty damn fun. Just half an hour ago, I left Benny with lovely Emily the babysitter who not only wears the coolest vintage outfits, but who also brought along a “My Little Pony” special edition DVD boxset. Spying the shimmering rainbows and pale pink and green ponies on the cover, Benny took Emily’s hand and practically booted me out the door. Gone are the days when he would wail like an abandoned pup if I so much as disappeared behind a doorframe.

So now I’m happily ensconced at the coffee shop in a nearby bookstore. Okay, so I could have got here a little earlier but en route I had to swing through Brooklyn Industries (my favorite store) and paw over, try on, and contemplate buying a number of their new hoodies. I managed to drag myself away without opening my wallet, however, and now here I am, raring to go. My laptop is open and glowing, happy to be out of the house again. I’m stretching my back, limbering my fingers, and the sweet coffee shop aroma is firing my writing neurons. I have a delicious, Benny-free, two hours stretching before me.

Okay, so here I go….Oooh, wait a minute, here comes the waiter guy. And fancy that? He’s wearing the same “This is What a Feminist Looks Like” t-shirt which I just bought for Benny…

11.51 am – What a nice guy. Not only does he have that great t-shirt, he was also kind enough to explain all the different kinds of tea options on the menu and even brought me a taster of the Rooibos Lemon Chiffon tea. Of course, I didn’t like it and had to explain to him that, even though I like the sound of all these herbal teas with their pretty triple-barreled names, I’m just too British to actually like them. “Black tea with lots of caffeine and a dash of milk – it’s the only way,” I explained. This, of course, started a long discussion about my mother country and it turns out the waiter’s aunt lives in London and feels the exact same way about tea. “Herbal Schmerbal, she calls it,” he told me with a laugh.

But now my lovely waiter is off tending to someone else. So, after taking a long sip of my black tea, I place my fingertips on the keypad and…. Well, look at that?! I just caught a glimpse of a sign which says this coffee shop has WiFi. I didn’t know that. Okay, so I know the whole point of coming here was to have an intensive writing session where I couldn’t check my emails and watch ridiculous videos on YouTube whenever I get stuck on a word or a sentence. But, I suppose I could just see if the connection works….

12.34 pm – Hmmm. I didn’t mean to spend all that time online. But my friend sent me that interesting Salon article about Hillary Clinton and then I had to check a couple of my favorite blogs. Oh, and I just had to google that old school friend who I had a really weird dream about last night. I didn’t find her, but I did find this crazy site for people buying and selling horses. You should see the little videos they make to advertise their animals. Billowing manes, ponies in bows, cantoring in the sunset. It’s like horsie porn.

Enough, enough. I only have an hour left. I need to concentrate. And I really will concentrate just as soon as I get back from the bathroom…

1.10 pm – They must have done that on purpose. Placing the bathroom on the other side of the store, so you have to pass by every best seller table and interesting New York fiction stand, before you get there. I couldn’t help stopping and browsing. I mean, how often do I get to be in a bookstore without a three year old pleading for “The Little Engine that Could” at the top of his lungs? And, you know what? Perhaps I shouldn’t feel bad. Looking at new books is research, after all. Especially for a serious, dedicated writer like myself. You have to know what’s on the market, who’s publishing what, who thanking who in their acknowledgments. It’s a vital part of the job.

I’ve got twenty minutes left. If I get my head down, maybe I can churn out a couple of hundred words….ah, but is that my stomach grumbling?

1.30 pm. Time to go. I have written a grand total of 10 words. This means, at ten bucks an hour for 2.5 hours babysitting, I’ve paid $2.50 for each word I’ve written. Seems kind of pricey to me. I’m going to be penniless by the time I finish my 100,000 word novel.

Oh well, that toasted bagel with lashings of cream cheese tasted so good, perhaps it was all worth it. And next time, I promise I will be different. I will be writing powerhouse. Not a t-shirt, tea, or toasted bagel will distract me.

Perhaps…

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

A Laptop Naptime Mama by Joanne Rendell

2006-09-15T17:29:00.000-04:00

Illustration by Jennifer Burton

Did Benny Fly over the Cuckoo’s Nest?
As parents, we sometimes worry about the choices we make for our kids. We worry about whether allowing two hours of Barney and Big Bird every morning – so we can check emails and drink coffee in peace – will render our children incapable of learning from anything but a big furry creature in years to come. We worry that asking our kids to carry cans of beer from the back closet – so we don’t have to make another trip – will lead to a life of alcoholism, brown bags, and park benches. We worry that dragging them to every shop on Broadway – so we can find the perfect pair of black pants for an upcoming Ladies Night – might make them averse to anything black and thus in danger of being snubbed by the New York art scene. We worry about how blogging their poos in the bath or their sunburnt willies – for the amusement of ourselves and the blog-reading public – will prevent them from ever using a public bathroom or joining a nudist colony. We worry that our worries will make them worriers.

One thing we don’t worry about too often is the sleepwear choices we’ve made for our children. After all, what could be as innocuous as a pair of pajamas?

Well, that’s what I thought until a few nights ago.

With the Fall well and truly upon us and the nights getting nippy, the other day I ran out to buy Benny a new sleep suit. He’s incapable of staying under his covers at night and so those delicious, soft, zip-up, all-in-one suits have always been indispensable. Not only that, they look damn adorable. Fleecy and fuzzy, with teddy bear motifs and cute slipper feet. And last Tuesday, oh yes, I bought a particularly gorgeous one. Benny was going to look like a big, cuddly bumble bee in the black and yellow striped sleep suit which I’d found.

But, the other night, when I produced the “nouveau zoot zoot” things took a turn for the unexpected. Unlike last winter, when Benny would happily and compliantly allow himself to be stuffed and zipped into his old (what he called) “zoot zoot”, this year he decided, most emphatically, he didn’t want to be put into such an item. And as Brad and I poked and pulled his flailing arms and feet into the suit, he cried and hollered, “Nooo!” Of course, we just thought he was being his usual temperamental three-year old self and decided to ignore him. He’d get used to it in the end, we figured.

However, as soon as the “zoot zoot” was zipped up, Benny skulked to bed, teary eyed and forlorn. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t ask for books to be read to him and then, curling up on his bed, he went immediately to sleep.

In the morning, things didn’t get better. As soon as he opened his eyes, he looked down at his bumble bee body, let out a wail, and demanded the sleep suit be removed. Throughout the following day, whenever Benny caught sight of the offending article, he’d say with an indignant furrow of his brows, “Don’t like that. Don’t want that.”

We tried the next night to get the suit on him again, hoping that persistence was the key. Our efforts were in vain. He kicked, fought, and screamed and there was no way in hell Benny was going to be zipped into his sleep suit and so – like all the gifted parents we are – we gave up.

Over the last few days, I have wondered about the sleep suit and how Benny – who used to appear happy as a clam in his “zoot zoot” – now loathed it like a freshly steamed Brussel sprout. It got me wondering whether, in fact, he’d always hated it but never had the words to articulate this abhorrence. Perhaps the “zoot zoot” had always been terrifying for Benny. Perhaps it felt constricting like a straightjacket? Or as debilitating as shot of valium in his diapered butt? In previous winters, was every night zipped in his suit like a rerun of One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest? Was I the unyielding tyrant, Nurse Ratched? Was he the long suffering McMurphy? Was he expecting a lobotomy at any minute? Or a stint in solitary confinement? In short, will I be paying his expensive therapy bills for the rest of my life?

Oh boy, the price of a warm baby and a few good night’s sleep.

THE ESCAPE FROM AL-PARK-CATRAZ

Undeterred by the sand grains in my keypad and a very near-miss with the birdpoo, I have continued to take Benny to the keypark this week. Of course, I’ve been keeping my eye on those giggling birds and my laptop has not been allowed to come along (it is back gathering dust on my desk once again). But, in our secluded little park at the heart of the noisy city, we’ve been having a lot of fun

So much fun, in fact, that the other day I invited a friend of mine and her three year old son to join us. I figured, it was time they experienced the wonder of the keypark for themselves.

As usual, everything started out beautifully. The sun was out, a soft breeze flittered and fluttered in the trees above, and my friend and I snagged ourselves one of the park’s prime benches: in the shade with a great view of the whole park (and not one trace of bird poo on its wooden slats). Our boys skipped off to the sandpit and we sat for over an hour chatting about life, the world, our respective writing projects, and whether we’ll be laughed out of mommy-land because our two three-year-old sons stubbornly refuse to have anything to do with potties, toilets, and supposed “big boy” underwear (am I the only one in the world to find the whole “big boy” lingo a little annoying??).

Only on two occasions did we have to pull ourselves to our feet. Once, when food was demanded and the other time, when Benny performed some dangerous stunt involving a large plastic bus and a rather steep slide.

When home time loomed, however, the trouble started. My friend and I were not the only ones enjoying the keypark. Of course, our darling boys were enjoying the park too and when the announcement came that it was time to leave, cries of “no” and “I wanna stay” could be heard from Staten Island to Westchester. My friend and I were determined mamas though and sticking to our guns, amid the wails and flails, we pushed, prodded, and cajoled the boys into their strollers.

As we headed toward the gate, with sweaty brows and sniveling children, I looked around and noticed for the first time that we were the only ones left in the park. As we got closer to the gate, I also noticed that the security guard was gone and his little cubicle bore a heavy lock and a scribbled sign reading, “Gone to lunch.”

Now, if I wasn’t such a recent member of the keypark, this would all have been fine. I would have simply whipped out my key to the gate and let us out. But, as a newly signed up member, all I own in a small slip a paper which I show the security guard who then lets me in or out.

As you can imagine, with the security guard gone, no key, and two unhappy kids in need of an afternoon nap, the future didn’t look to rosy. Trying not to panic, my friend and I considered our options: 1.) wait for the guard to return, 2.) hope that some key-carrying park member shows up 3.) call the fire department 4.) scream at the top of our lungs until someone rescued us, or 5.) climb the fence.

Both of us being “laptop naptime mamas,” who need naptime like frozen yogurt needs chocolate sprinkles, were definitely not up for hanging around in the park wasting precious naptime minutes. However, neither of us had a cell phone, so that ruled out the fire department. And screaming, quite frankly, has never been my forte. I’m too British to make all that kind of fuss.

So we plumped for scaling the fence.

Luckily, two construction workers eating lunch nearby saw my friend, with her legs dangling each side of the six-foot high fence, and rushed over to help. What followed was a not-so-elegant dance which involved hoisting two confused, 40lb three-year-olds up into the air and over the fence. Followed by my friend’s super light MacLaren stroller and my jogging stroller – which I’d always thought was so practical and nimble in the city, until the moment I had to lift it above my head and over a high, rusting fence. Getting myself over proved to be a lot easier, although I was thankful not be wearing my favorite skirt from Brooklyn Industries and a pair of “I Heart Construction Workers” panties.

I’m beginning to wonder if there are menacing forces at work in this seemingly idyllic keypark. Although, I have to admit, something good did emerge from our fence-traversing escapades…The kids stopped sniveling.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

Sand in My Laptop, Bird Poo on My Touchpad (to the tune of “Tears on my Pillow”)

I had a moment of insight the other day; a sudden “light bulb flashing on, ding-ding” moment. It occurred to me that the beauty of a laptop is that, well, it’s small, closeable, and thus exceedingly portable. It doesn’t have to be welded to one’s desk at home, gathering dust around its hinges. A laptop can go out for walks, it can enjoy the sunshine, breathe fresh air. Indeed, as its name suggests, it can sit on its owner’s lap – perhaps on a sun chair, a swing seat on a porch, on the backseat of a Mercedes convertible.

Of course, none of these seating options are available to me in the middle of crammed and rambunctious Manhattan. However, amid my light bulb moment, it did occur to me that perhaps my laptop would like to come on a trip to the playground!

It seemed such a good idea at the time. After all, we’d just become the proud owners of a key to a private playground owned by NYU (where my partner works). This playground, affectionately known as the “key park,” has delightful amounts of shade, lots of benches, a non-rat-infested sandpit, and more toy diggers than a Bob the Builder Fan Club would know what to do with. Not only that, the park has a heavy gate which even the nimblest of little Houdini fingers would not be able to open and thus there’s no danger of little ‘uns running out to play in the New York traffic. In short, it is an idyllic spot where kids can roam free and parents can kick back, lounge on the shady benches, make calls on their cell, or…yes, maybe even, get out their laptops and squeeze in a little extra writing time.

Or so I thought.

Everything went so well at first. When we reached the park, Benny ran immediately to the sandpit and found his favorite back-loader (a digger, for those of you not familiar) to play with. Meanwhile, I pulled out my computer and smiled to myself as it made the familiar booting-up sing-song chimes. As the sun shone, I typed away, only looking up now and again to check on Benny and make sure he wasn’t in some sort of “mine, no mine!!” altercation with another child.

Five hundred words later – yes, five hundred words! – there was a yelp from the sandpit which I instantly knew to be Benny’s. I looked up to see my much-taller-than-your-average-three-year-old Benny in a face off with a grinning and no-bigger-than-Benny’s-knee-one-year-old. It looked like the little whipper-snapper had snapped up the back loader and now Benny’s face had turned five shades of red and tears were popping from his eyes like a cartoon character.

This is where I discovered the first problem of taking a laptop to a playground. You can’t just throw down an 800 dollar piece of hardware like you would a book, magazine, or scarf you might be knitting. After saving your sweated-over document, you must place set the laptop down cautiously, being sure it isn’t placed in a puddle of juice or on top of some half-chewed bagel. And, of course, all this care and precision takes time.

So while I fiffed and faffed with my laptop, Benny’s wails were so loud they were making the windows in neighboring buildings shudder. Luckily, the mother of the other child had stepped in and as I finally and breathlessly reached the scene, she was already doling out the familiar mommy mantra to her son - “Don’t snatch, must share, you’ll get your turn.” Within seconds, the other child found a more interesting toy to play with, the back loader was back in Benny’s hands, and Benny’s sobs had ebbed to the occasional snot-laced sniff.

After thanking the other mommy, I snuck back to the bench and to my carefully perched laptop and resumed writing again. However, the back loader ruckus must have unsettled Benny because just a few minutes later he was at my side demanding my attention.

“Thomas on the ‘puter?” he asked a couple of times.

When I politely told him “no” he couldn’t look at the Thomas the Tank website and suggested he go back to the sandpit, he jabbed at the screen and repeated, “Thomas on the ‘puter.”

Ordinarily, this kind of jabbing at my laptop would make me just mildly annoyed. However, when I caught a glimpse of his sand covered pinkies, I exploded.

“No, Benny,” I wailed, “You’ll get sand…”

But it was already too late. Little grains of sand were already twinkling on my keypad – mostly around the A, S, W, Q area. I quickly upturned the laptop and began to shake. As I did so, I hoped, sweated, and prayed that my computer wouldn’t come to the same sticky end that an old camera of mine came to after I dropped on the beach one time.

Fortunately, when I flipped the laptop back over and prodded at the keys, all seemed to be working fine. Not only that, Benny had clearly got bored of my laptop shenanigans and was headed back into the playground. So, once again, I began tapping away.

This time I only got a few words written when I heard a weird splatting noise very nearby. At first, I thought it might be a first splash of rain and sighed at the thought of having to clear up, chase after Benny, and leave the park. However, the sky, when I looked up, was crystal blue with just a few tiny fluffy clouds dancing above the rooftops.

Then, scanning the bench next to me, to see where the splatting noise had come from, I noticed a sticky white and grey mess only inches away. Bird poo, of course. Big wet bird poo! I looked up again and in the tree above me – the same tree which was giving me all that lovely shade – sat three straggly city birds, their beady eyes looking down at me. I swear to god, they were giggling.

That was the last straw. There was no way I could risk bird poo on my touchpad. I snapped the laptop shut and, as I shuffled it back in its case, I muttered, “No more fieldtrips for you!”

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.

A LAPTOP NAPTIME MAMA by Joanne Rendell

I wouldn't really consider myself a working mom. I don't own a suit. If I tried to walk in kitten heels, I would find myself on a gurney heading straight to ER. A blackberry, to me, is something you pick from a bush and eat. Having to conduct pay negotiations with a nanny would give me bone-chilling nightmares and, if found in a swishy after-work wine bar, I'd be pestering the bartender for a pint of Fosters. Oh, and a regular pay check, what's that? This mama doesn't even own a cell phone.But, then I wouldn't really consider myself a stay-at-home mom either. I have never baked a cake. Hand-sewing a Thomas the Tank Engine Halloween costume for my three year old son, Benny, would be as unfathomable as quantum physics. And tripping joyfully between toddler-cize classes and mini-Picasso workshops? Please. My energy and time are way too limited.

Okay, I'm generalizing. No one completely falls into either of these categories. Some working moms can stitch kiddie-costumes that would make Yves Saint Laurent weep. And I've known stay-at-home mom's who like to wear mascara and heels to the park (even on the jungle gym) and gladly chug back Sauvignons at fancy wine bars after their days of kid-work.Unsatisfied with the two available "mom" categories, as many moms probably are, I have decided more categories are needed. To start this process, I hereby name myself a "laptop-naptime mama." Now, you may not know too many of these moms. But, believe me, they're out there.

They're lurking behind unmade beds, behind sinks loaded with peanut butter encrusted knives, and piles of unlaundered, mud-splattered, 3T clothing. T hese women, like me, have all the trappings of a stay-at-home-mom, i.e. they stay at home with their children. But, as soon as their little darlings disappear off into the land of nod, these mamas sprint - yes, I mean Carl Lewis sprint - to their laptops and begin to pound at the keys, writing their books, their blogs, their journals, or their screenplays.Being a "laptop-naptime" mama has its downsides.

While other mom's I know leave the park when they please and even go for leisurely coffees or drinks while their kids sleep in strollers, at the first yawn or eye rub from Benny, I must transform into an Army Field General. Orders are barked out, bags have to be packed, the toy Benny's borrowed from another child must be returned, the ensuing tantrum must be dealt with. All in five minutes, tops. Then, I must sprint home - Carl Lewis style once again - and make sure he does not drop off in his stroller (the transition from stroller to bed is a "laptop-naptime" mom's worst nightmare).

And all this, so I can work for a few precious, peaceful hours on my novel or my blog or sometimes, when I feel like returning to my deep-dark academic past, on an article for a literary journal.But, as with any other mommy role, being a "laptop-naptime' mama does have its upsides too. For one, because I'm the world's biggest naptime nazi - I'll stoop to any kind of bribery or threats to get Benny to sleep - Benny still takes deliciously long naps. Other mom's I know are pulling their hair out because their three years olds no longer sleep in the afternoons. Not Benny. You can practically see the big ZZZ's rising from his bed.In all, I enjoy being a "laptop naptime mama." I acknowledge, however, it's a stage. Pretty soon, Benny will join his brethren and stop taking naps. But, when that day comes, I am resolved to be calm and strong and happily rename myself a "suck-it-up-pay-for-a babysitter-and-take-my-laptop-to-a-coffee-shop" mama.

For more of Joanne Rendell's mommy blogs - including "Fishing for Poo," "Should Mommy's Wear Thongs?" and "What's that dangly thing between his legs?" then Click Here to visit her at the popular website, Get Crafty. To return to the Role Mommy home page, Click Here.