It's May, and you know what that means. Oh wait, you don't.

It's a bit early for a Mother's Day post, but then again what better way to differentiate oneself! And yes, we realize this is strange written in the third person. No one's forcing you to read, is all we're sayin'.

Today is May.

First, you're welcome for sharing what we're sure is surprising news to y'all.

But second, we'd like to spend a few serious moments describing what May means to us as May will forever be inextricably linked to Mother's day.  See, we lost our own in early May. We remember the day she died. The day before she died. The cruelly beautiful and sunny Sunday that we tossed a shovelful of dirt into the ground. The cruel irony of burying her on the special day we had previously dedicated to the joy of drinking tequila. Sacrilege! And then, one week later, Mother's Day, which seemed at the time to be an unbearable punishment from the universe. 

Still, at the same time, it also seemed an appropriate time to symbolically acknowledge this loss. For that reason, we chose to unveil her tombstone on Mother's Day. That was one year later, one month past the official 11-month Jewish morning period, and though the constant, overwhelming grief had subsided, the intensity had not, and we recall wondering just how much longer that would take. 11 months was not enough. Who were these "forefathers" kidding? And while we were at it - why 11, specifically? Why not 6, or 12, or even 13, which is always a favorite number in Judaism? We couldn't help think that 11 was such an arbitrary number. Did they know something we didn't? Or were they just full of it, making it up as they went along - like the rest of us. Or - what if we were the stupid ones, what if we misinterpreted it and it was suppose to be years, not months?

When to Fight and When to Let it Go

When it comes to many things in life, I find myself* frequently debating in my head when to make a big deal of something and when to let it go.  In a weird way, managing food allergies in a child is easy in this way because most times it's not a choice - you can't let go, not even once.

What that in mind I'm finding myself in an odd position where I do have to let some things go for the first time that I haven't before, and it sucks.  While I've recognized that, the hard part is finding that line.

For the first time, mini is eating lunch in her school cafeteria.  It's not what I'd have picked and it makes her mother hyperventilate sometimes. But circumstances have played out such that here we are.  And despite meeting upon meeting starting in May and all of our requests and all the information we provided the chaos we feared is here.

On the plus side: a nut and seed free cafeteria, so concerns about cross contamination are limited to eggs, which is very helpful.  Also in the plus column, epipens everwhere, 1-2 teachers always present, and the entire staff at the school trained on food allergic reactions and epipen use.  Also on the plus column (and no small point as our experience shows that this, more than anything is what ultimately leads to a good result) is a school and kitchen staff whose intentions are good and who do not dismiss our concerns as neurotic, take food allergies seriously, and genuinely wish to do everything they can to minimize a reaction.

I frequently pause to remind myself this, as this cannot be taken for granted.  Loyal readers will think back to when the local public school (who serves pb&j sandwiches and sesame bagels in the cafeteria) wanted mini to eat there with no teacher to supervise, no adult trained to use an epipen, and no full time nurse in the school, not to mention a principal who called us "crazy" and wanted to focus on other kids with "real medical issues".  So compared to that, we are a million miles ahead.

In the minus column, while intentions are good, execution, planning, and communication has fallen short.  Questions have been ignored or dismissed.  There is still no procedure for how we know what mini will be eating.  I have found myself too often emailing at 11pm the night before, extremely frustrated, trying to find out the ingredients for lunch the next day or what mini can eat.

She is frustrated when she asks me in the morning what's for lunch and I don't know.  I am frustrated when we find out at 11am that day, and have to drop everything to email her teachers so she knows the food is safe.  They are frustrated because they don't want to deal with the last minute email.  Mini is anxious if we're at work and can't do it, and then she's told by someone else that we agreed but without having heard from her teachers that her parents said it was fine she's not sure whether or not to eat it (pause to both commend this 7 year old for her maturity and responsibility, and lament the fact that she needs to be this mature at such a young age).  The disorganization worries me and shakes my trust to a degree.  Will they know to re-check labels if vendors of "safe" change? Will they let me know so that I can?  How is the person giving her her food sure that it's the "safe" pasta and how will mistakes or confusion be avoided? These are things I can't let go, so sadly I've had to become more than a bit of a pest, which I hate.  I'm sure other "allergy moms" can relate.  When it comes to food allergies, there's really no room for error.

I continue to voice our concerns and things are slowly improving now that everyone has a few weeks' experience under their belts.  But each day brings new decisions.  What do I do when I find out that day the whole class is getting pizza and come to find out it has eggs? Do I let her sit there with plain bread? Or drop everything at work to get a cab and bring her safe pizza? (which is what her father ultimately did after I cleared it with the school)  Some would say that those are the things that I need to let go.  But then I think about my little girl, watching all her friends eat her favorite food, smelling it, and eating a sad sandwich -- all of which could have easily been avoided with some planning which would have resulted in a solution that didn't exclude her.  That one, I decided, I couldn't let go.

There are some things I let go.  I didn't love the fact that there's an "allergy" seat at the table, which affects her socially, but if the school felt they needed that to properly keep an eye on her then that's that and I haven't even brought it up.  They're not going to do everything the same way I would, and she's old enough to handle feeling a little different sometimes I guess.

What else can't I let go? Unsolicited feedback about how I'm handling it.  You may not agree with having my daughter present during some planning conversations, but aside from the fact that it's my choice and obligation as a parent to do what I think is right, she's going to need to do this for herself one day.  So that one I couldn't let go.  That, and I take criticism of my parenting personally.  That one's black and white, peeps, blame it on the Aquarius in me.  Which brings me to my next point:

Though this keeps me up at night, eventually there will come a time where I can't know or control every single thing that goes into mini's mouth.  After all, I won't be there in college, reading over cafeteria ingredients.  I won't be there when she's out with her friends, judgement impaired from a couple of drinks as the menu comes by.  I won't be there when she has her first kiss, wondering whether or not she was brave enough to ask the other person what they ate that day.  So yes, I need to know that she is prepared and will know what to do when those times come.

I know every parent struggles with this.  As our kids get older, we have to learn to let go, little by little.  But trust me on this one: it's so, so much harder to let go when it comes to this food allergy stuff.  I'll get there eventually.  And the rest of you?  Have a little patience.

*Had to write this one in the first person, peeps.  Sorry 'bout that.

The Work vs. Stay Home Debate, Summed Up in a Half-Ass Poem

Staying home can suck.
There's more dishes than anyone ever tells you.  

But the smiles are so rewarding.

There's no dishes at work.

And a job well done gives you satisfaction and a paycheck.

But oh, the guilt.

Either way, in the end, it will be o.k.

 

Back To School Stress is a Worldwide Issue

Mel from Pig in the Kitchen recently wrote a piece about what it's like to prep for back to school when your child has food allergies.  What we love about this (other than its humorous tone) is that it illuminates how similar we all really are.

We could have written this ourselves, despite the fact that we're all the way across the Pond.  OK fine, so we might say "expiration" instead of "expiry", but you get the idea peeps.


Thanks for sharing, Mel, and thanks for giving yours truly some content to post in a month with so little free time :)

Working Mothers in September

September is by far the hardest month to be a working mother (Truthfully, it's probably the hardest month to be a working parent, period, but since we've only experienced the mother side of it personally, we can only speak to that.) 

We've been saying this for years.  Since 2007, to be exact.  Last year, we even wrote about it on someone else's blog, so that makes it even more legitimate!

So imagine the validation we felt when Laura Rowley shared the same exact insight over at the Huffington Post this week.

This is an issue that's not talked about enough, so we're glad to see this being elevated in the public consciousness.  Please share her piece with as many parents as you can think of.   It's a good first step to creating a more family-friendly culture in the workplace, something we believe is more critical for successful companies than they realize....mostly because people don't talk about this stuff enough.

As always, you heard it here first, peeps.

I Don't Write Anymore, But....

I have not blogged in forever.  Sorry, peeps.  Reality of single motherhood, an unexpected roommate (more on that another time), and a bad case of bronchitis has sort of put a crimp in our writing time.  But lucky for you we have not one, but two awesome friends who have each "arrived" in their own way.  Also, they're kick-ass peeps.  So there's that.

Emily writes about the challenges of raising boys and girls to be themselves while trying to buck gender norms at the same time.  We've always had a link to her blog here, love her writing, and today's piece was in the New York Times.  The Times, peeps!

Lani has her debut post out in a local NY magazine site.  It's about the humor of being a parent, so we're sure even our non-NY readers will relate.  Plus, newbies need encouragement.

Please check out their work and join the other mothers commenting discussion!
 

How Motherhood Turns You Into a Sentimental Sap

As we write this, we are going back and forth to check on a sleeping child, to savor the last few breaths of the wonder that was six years old because we're just not ready for the seven year old we will see tomorrow.  
 
Happy birthday, mini.  May you one day know the joy of having your insides shaken up every day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Recently, someone asked us to to describe the experience of parenting and we didn't quite know where to begin.  There's the honest, yet cheesy answer about loving another little human being more than you ever thought you could.  Then there's the more honest answer, which usually has the words "exasperated" and "smack" somewhere in the same sentence, along with [insert favorite expletive].

Hmm. None of that tells you what it feels like to be a parent at all, does it? 

Perhaps this is closer: imagine, on a daily basis, at random unpredictable times, someone took out all your insides, shook them up, threw them on the street, stomped all over them, and then put them back in your body in the wrong order.  We're talking heart in your stomach.  Emotions where your brain used to be.  Memory, coordination, overall executive functioning, all constantly needing readjustment.  Your ability to sleep through the night thrown out the window, even in lands far far away.

You second-guess everything you say or do.  All confidence and previously acquired knowledge hovers somewhere around your nether regions as if you're some kind of alien life form re-learning how to be a human all over again.  You're constantly being challenged to be a better person, identify your values, rethink your ideals, keep your promises, do good unto others, do what you say.  You feel like someone is always watching you.  Mostly, because someone is always watching you.

Exhibit B: Female finger, post parenthood

Exhibit A: Female finger, pre parenthood

You do not recognize yourself.  You fight off all inner alarms screaming "alert! alert! domestic hell ahead of you!" and go to places like the Container Store and Buy Buy baby anyway, even if they are so overwhelming that all you want to do is run the other way.  You ignore all introverted tendencies and forcefully, even publicly take on any teacher, lawmaker, or adult that gets in the way of what you think is best for your child without giving it a second thought.  You wonder how you let a little 2, 3, 4 year old boss you around and how you ended up wrapped around their cute little finger.

Exhibit C: Child's finger wrapped around adult's.  That's what they want you to believe, peeps. 

You hear yourself say things you'd never have thought would come out of your mouth.  Words like "what do you mean, you don't need me to wipe your poop anymore?" and "I'm going on that sleepover with you!" come out of your mouth so fast you don't have time to clap your hand over your mouth before you think to yourself "whatthefuck. who said that?"  You get so used to reciting "get your hand out of your mouth" at the end of every sentence that you start saying it unconsciously to grownups.  (Worse, still, this doesn't bother you.)  You can't stand it when your child is always hanging off your arm, yet when you are walking around without them it feels like one of your arms is missing.  You are so sleep deprived you want to cry, but at the same time the thought of sending this little person off to sleep away camp or (gasp!) college gives you panic attacks.  Speaking of crying, you do a lot of this.  You cry anytime you hear about a kid anywhere getting hurt, you cry anytime your kid says something endearing, you cry anytime you watch oneofthosesappyfuckingendofschoolyearvideos, you cry when your child wishes you a happy Mother's Day in earnest, and you cry at all those commercials with babies in them because watching all those babies reminds you that yours is not a baby anymore and then that thought makes you cry, which just makes you wonder who is in your body and what someone did with the real you.  You know, the one who was not the soft, sentimental sap you see before you.

That, peeps...that...we think, is a much more accurate description of what it feels like to be a parent.


*Note, if you're interested in an even better description of parenting, click here.  Could not have said it better ourselves.

Top 5 Superpowers You Didn't Know You Had

Did you know it's Superhero week?

We didn't.  In fact, it's not.  This monumentous made-up week would have come and gone unnoticed if not for the dear Nancy Davis Kho who wrote a fabulous blog entry about her superpower of timepacking.

It was so brilliantly funny, it inspired us to write our own.  In no particular order (ahem), here are the superpowers motherhood has granted us:

1. Mind reading: I have the uncanny power to know what you are thinking before you will say it. It’s true! You don’t even need to open your mouth, I will say it for you, even if it’s not what you wanted to say, trust me, it’s what you were thinking.   
2. No-soap sensor: You may have run the water, but if I hear the pitter patter of your little feet, my supermom no-soap sensor will tell me whether or not you used soap, so that I may direct you back to re"wash", even if I haven't seen or smelled your hands.  Talk about efficiency!
3. Super nighttime alertness: Not only has motherhood introduced me to the wonderful feeling of constant sleep deprivation, my superpowers ensure I wake at the drop of a pin, just in case there's trouble.  My super nighttime alertness makes sure I hear every pee break.  I'm there for the coughs, the fevers.  The drunk guy cursing on the street at 3am.  And for every razor falling in the shower due to a poorly-functioning suction cup, I'm there.  
4. Nag-o-meter:  Nagging is a superpower, right? It must be.  I could win a nagging contest with anyone.  If you need nagging, I'm your woman.   I can nag at mealtimes, bathtime, on the way to school.  I'm such a good nagger I don't even need a kid to nag! Just ask my colleagues!  
5. Transcendental memory: My memory is so good, I can remember every detail.  Every piece of broccoli you promised to eat and didn't.  Who broke the faucet.  And your name.  I remember names so well, I bypass a parent's name and go straight to the kid's.  Heck, I'll even call them by their own kid's name because I have remembered their names so well I don't even need to use it anymore.  That's how good my momnesia is.

Anyone else have awesome superpowers?  

Peep-e-lehs

It's amazing what a difference a few years can make.  A few years ago, still dealing with the shock of motherhood without training, I wrote a post about avoiding large groups of women like the plague for fear of being exposed as a fraud, and wondering how one learns what a real woman/mother is supposed to know?

Flash forward 3 and 1/2 years and it is these very same groups of women that quite possibly may save me.  Guess I got over the estrogen fear.

What happened?

Well, mini grew up.  And started school.  And there were classes and birthday parties and playdates.  Somehow, we were lucky enough to end up in a place where we actually like the moms.   And then, things started getting hard.  Really hard.  The kind of phase you're supposed to look back on those times and pat yourself on the back for the resilience you have in making it through to the other side.  I'm still waiting for that part.  But I haven't waited for, is much-needed support from my girlfriends.

Rather than mocking my cluelessness when it comes to so many things, these peep-e-lehs have asked me for food advice, bending over backwards to figure out how to feed mini at their place.  They've watched her when needed, they tell me what classes and activities we should consider.  They have taken mini and I into their home on weekends, snow days, holidays, even traveled with us on vacation.  Without fail, someone checks in daily.  They read my writing, and drag me to plays, ballets, movies, dinners, drinks, even shopping when I didn't want to go (can you imagine!?).  They make the manicure appointments, they lend me books, they listen and they make me laugh.  And they've (gasp!) trusted me with their own children.

Wait, what was that last part?!

That's right.  We seem to have passed the motherhood hazing ritual that is the 5-and-under phase, so I guess one doesn't need to know every 1950s thing to be a good mother.  I still can't do any of those "female" things I wrote about years ago, but I'm a damn good baker as long as you have 6 free hours and are willing to clean up a huge mess.  And while I'm still not fully versed in the etiquette involved in making playdates I'm trying. 

So this one is a thank you to my girlfriends who have embraced me as part of a larger community that is motherhood in general.  Thank you for your support, your patience, for laughing at my jokes, for your funny and touching and educational updates, and for teaching me that even though things might not always be easy we will always be okay.

Wouldn't Be Prudent

Last weekend, we went to one of those pop up stores to get a Halloween costume that mini will wear for five minutes before taking it off and declaring it itchy as she collects candy she can't eat from houses that scare her.

Forgetting for a minute why we would do this (she asked, really!) what shocked us the most was what's out there for kids' costumes now.  Especially the girls.  Everything is, like...sexy.  Really sexy.  As in totally inappropriate for a 6 year old, 10 year old, or 12 year old sexy. 

Why does a superhero or fictional character need to have a skirt six inches above the knees?  Is that really necessary?

Now, before you go all judgmental and tell this mother to lighten up, you should know one very important fact: we are cool.  Quite cool, if we may say so.  We wear jeans and blue nail polish to work.  So we know if we're thinking this we're not the only ones.  And we were grateful when our friends at the Mouthy Housewives beat us to the punch on this particular observation, saying it better than we could have ourselves.

So read, enjoy, and cover up your girls for a little while longer.  In the meantime, we'll be busy petitioning the NYC taxi commission so that our children no longer have to be subjected to riding in cars advertising strip clubs. 

On Mothers and Tzotchkes

Mother's Day used to be a political minefield around at casa Poker Chick.  After burying our own mother a week before this Hallmark holiday, we didn't particularly want to see the in-laws or any other mother for a while.  Celebrating another mother while our own was gone - the pain and unfairness of it all was more than we could handle.  Back then, "Mother's Day" necessitated a pint of Haagen-Dazs or a bottle of tequila, depending on which friend was on call that day.  This continued pretty much every year until mini came along.

Even then, until she was big enough to jump into her "Mama's" bed after determining she had let her sleep in long enough, throw her arms around her and yell "Happy Mother's Day!" while throwing the mandatory homemade card and probably banging her Mama in the face with some sort of head-butt pose, until then - it just didn't feel like a real Mother's day.

But year after year it got easier.  In preschool they made gifts like bookmarks, mugs, calendars.  All with the children's pictures on them, of course.  In fact, Poker Chick is happy to report that the rumors are true.  Your mother really does think all your crap is beautiful. 

Our community grew even more once she started school, and with it came more mothers to hang out with on a regular basis.  And the more people we know, the more people we bump into while out at the playground, bookstore, Pinkberry.  Walking around with a 6 year-old pulling on your arm while bumping into tons of people you know - all wishing you a happy Mother's Day - well, it's enough to flat out squash the urge to visit the cemetery that plagued us for so many years.

Today we had the pleasure of visiting an overwhelmed, exhausted, new mother who one week into motherhood has just now gone far enough past the initial joy to reach the "what-the-fuck-have-I-gotten-myself-into" phase.  (Yes, peeps, we just said the f-word.  Get over it).  Watching someone become a new mother, knowing what great things they have to look forward to once they get out of the "looks like an alien, poops like a large zoo animal" phase, well it was the best present ever.

So happy Mother's Day to our dear friend and her beautiful, tiny baby girl.  Happy Mother's Day to all our friends who sacrifice so much and haven't so much as peed alone for years.  Happy Mother's Day to Poker mom, who we still miss terribly.  And most of all, happy Mother's Day to mini, who made a horrible day worth celebrating again.

One last note: to her school - what's up with the lack of gift? Seriously, peeps, you're such a nice school.  After years of mugs and t-shirts you mean to tell us it just stops?  You decided to just stop making cheesy tzotchkes for their moms at school? We don't mean to complain but some of us were looking forward to those slobbered on scribble scrabble bookmarks. At least give us adults a little warning next time, will you?  Think of all the dads who were counting on it and spent the day in the doghouse.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  This is, after all, Manhattan.

Are you a Mommy or a Mama?

A friend of ours had a baby shower today and we watched as 30 or so friends and family members celebrated with gifts and diaper cakes to joyously prepare this woman for the shellshock wonderful life event that was waiting for her and her husband.

No doubt, she, like all of us, is making plans in her head; her dreams filled with visions of what her new family will be like.  What her baby will smell like, the lovely bonding time, the feeling of holding a cooing baby in her arms.


We did that too.  But then, starting with the sixth-sense babies seem to have of picking the exact wrong day to send their mom into labor, we learn quickly that they have minds of their own.  Good for them, hard for us.  And often they pick the most random things to be stubborn about.

Take the traditional "Mommy".  We thought being called Mommy was a given, especially since we'd practically beaten the term to death.  We suppressed our gag reflex to train her properly and be a good, engaging parent.  "Mommy's changing your diaper right now".  "Oh, did you just poke Mommy in the eye?"  and "PLEASE stop crying, I wish you could just tell Mommy what you want!"  (Incidentally, the latter is typically followed by a "will you PLEASE stop talking, Mommy can't hear herself think!" about a year or so later.)

All that said, we always took for granted that we owned "Mommy".  There was no question as to what we were called.  In England (and Canada), it may be "Mum" or "Mummy", but should not be confused with "Mumsy".  According to the urban dictionary, "Mumsy" is defined as "another way of saying mummy. can be more affectionate or used when the child wants something, usually money."  Personally, we suspect "Mumsy" is reserved for eccentric royals circa 1850.  Here, in this home, it's "Mommy".  Dammit.

This is not how we see ourselves.

As a relatively new parent, Poker Chick was still under the illusion that parents have some level of control, and was therefore not prepared for the following conversation, which played out several times a week.

Mama?

 It's Mommy.  What would you like, dear?

Mama, can you-

-it's Mommy.  Call me Mommy.

I don't think so, Mama.  

Who makes the rules around here, huh?

Mama, can you wipe my poop?

And so on.  Now, Poker Chick was not thrilled with this.  "Momma" was inconsistent with the identity she was forming.  Granted we were raising a city girl, but this felt more hood than east side.  "Mother" would probably be more consistent with this neighborhood than "Momma".  And "Mama" was even more bizarre.  We're not "Mama".  "Mama" is some lady on TV with a big family in the 1970s.  "Mama" is a big lady wearing an apron making her own pasta from scratch.  "Mama" is not yours truly.

Looking back, it's not surprising.  "Mama" was Mini's third word, after "hi" and "baby" (pronounced more like be-be).  But still, we fought it.  We repeated the conversation above over and over for months until we felt like a broken record. 

What is it with this "Mama" thing? Is it a new trend? Have children everywhere stopped calling their kids "Mommy"? Has Mini just fallen victim to peer pressure?  What do your kids call you?

They say you can tell a baby's temperament just weeks after it's born.   When Mini was six weeks old, Poker Chick went to a new mother's class and one of the discussions was temperament.  Some babies were mellow, some happy.  Mini?  Willful.  Headstrong. 

Six years later, this temperament is shockingly accurate.

Guess who won the "Mama" battle? 

Welcome to motherhood.

 

Spam Gets Smarter

Professional spammers have clearly taken some lessons in behavioral marketing, optimizing their "messages" by target audience.  For example, they know that Moms are the single largest and most influential group in the blogosphere, so if the King of Nigeria is out there with his life changing news he might need to tailor his message to fit in a little better.
 


He must be learning because the spam is better vs. what it used to be.

For example, the comment below, which Poker Chick received today:

 Hey Fellas!  Those of you that know us know that for a nice and dealing with my own child's negative behavior.  They were only pretty much driving me ridiculous at all times, i didn't know what to do or even what to tell them.  A few weeks ago my spouse and I finally decided to get to the base of it and discover a solution that might work.  I searched each and every website as well as blog i really could possibly discover on the subject and lastly i found the best solution.  If any of you happen to be having similar issues with your children you can Private Message me.  On second imagined i will merely give you the websites i discovered on the topic to help you possibly read it and repair your child too.  Thanks for experiencing my rant. [insert obviously fake website which Poker Chick has not included as she does not want to support these peeps]

Note the technique used to build this spam, scientifically called "computer finds most common words on posts and puts them together in a sentence".  Now imagine this comment landing in the box of a poor unsuspecting mom whose baby hasn't slept in 3 months and just learned how to headbutt and is really "driving me ridiculous".  She might, just might, accidentally let it pass as legitimate.  And then the world will see their comment and the link to their wares!!! Mwah, ha ha...

Fortunately, if you're writing a blog, you probably also know how to spell.  And you also have a brain, and no desire to "repair your child".  And if even that fails, there's our secret weapon which is always a step ahead.  It's called a SPAM FILTER.

Yes I'm neurotic, now please stop rolling your eyes: A plea from a food allergy mom

This may come as a shock to you, but I am quite neurotic.  While I hate to stereotype, I think it's an unspoken prerequisite of being a New Yorker and (genetically speaking) being a Jewish mother does not exactly help.  And my Upper East Side address gives me bonus points in neuroses.  I am so neurotic, in fact, that even my most neurotic friends feel comfortable leaving their children alone with me.  That's how neurotic I am.

So when I express concern over the tiniest amount of cross-contamination in managing my child's food allergies, I understand the tendency towards skepticism.  After all, it sounds ridiculous to worry about using a particular blender to make soup when my child was only tasting half a bite of the soup anyway and the blender was washed with soap and water earlier that day.  Maybe I was taking it too far?  This was pointed out to me and my worries were dismissed as being overly neurotic.  I fought my instinct to stubbornly put my foot down and felt like crap as I second-guessed myself and wondered whether I needed to seek professional help for my neuroses.

I realized my instinct had been right about 30 minutes later when my daughter was crying from stomach pain and itching a single hive that was covering her entire forearm and getting angrier by the minute.

We were lucky, but I should have known better. 

Now, it sounds worse than it actually was.  We were fortunate that this was extremely mild and after watchful waiting it went away without even Benadryl.  But it just as easily could have gone the other way.  Once you have a reaction, there's no predicting just how serious it will be.  And my imagination instantly wandered to how would the situation have been different if she were in school?  After all, the reaction was so mild, anyone else would likely not have picked up on it at all.  Which means it would have been allowed to progress untreated if it did, in fact, get worse.

It had been a while since her last reaction, and I think it's a little like childbirth in that in hindsight you think to yourself "What's the big deal? It wasn't all that bad."

This incident brought the dangers back to reality.  I was reminded of the time she nearly passed out after eating a bite of pancake in a batch that had one egg in the entire batter.  I remembered the time her whole body erupted in hives after eating cheese that was picked up with tongs that had touched hummus which contained tahini (sesame paste).

But most of all, I was reminded that I AM RIGHT, DAMMIT.

The decision we made to send our daughter to private school after our assigned public school was completely hostile to our requests for epipens/training to keep our daughter safe?  Completely founded.  I remember after months of trying to get them to understand, doing everything the right way, we realize that the little trust we had was eroded so badly that no amount of accommodations they could be forced to make would make us feel comfortable.  There's no scientific way to explain it other than they just didn't "get it".  And in my experience, that is more dangerous than any other risk there is.

After this incident, and after reading about kids in the US and the UK that recently had reactions at school that tragically could have had better outcomes with proper preparation, I'm kicking myself over and over for letting myself get swept away with the skeptics, for starting to listen to the "is that really necessary?" eyerolls I've gotten over the years.  I'm reminding myself that no matter who thinks I'm crazy there's no substitute for maternal instinct.

So, to everyone who needs to accommodate us in one way or another, my message is: just give me the benefit of the doubt.  If it's all the same to you, don't question why I'm asking you to order pizza from one restaurant vs. another when they seem exactly the same to you.  Don't fight back when I ask you to switch your usual rice medley brand with another when they have the exact same ingredients.  Trust me when I say the store brand is not the same when it comes to food allergies.  Indulge me without judgment when I ask you not to use that blender.  Let it go when I politely ask you to buy packaged food instead of baking, no matter how safe you want to make your recipe.  Better yet, let me make it for you.  And to all the school administrators, bureaucrats, and social workers I've had to deal with these past six months, next time a mother raises the red flag and tells you I am scared to death to send my kid to school for even one day, you better damned well listen. 

The bottom line is you may never know whether or not I'm right or need to be committed.  But so what?  Why take the risk?

Just let it go.  Assume I'm right and everyone will be happy.   Come to think of it, think that advice should apply generally to mothers everywhere.




**Post-script: This article is intended for skeptics and even well-meaning people who simply don't understand.  I feel the need to add a caveat here that many people, including our new school, DO get it, and we are always so grateful and appreciative of those that do.   

Because Motherhood is Funny

Poker Chick doesn't link to many blogs, but the ones she does have one or more things in common: they are good friends, they are loyal supporters of Poker Chick, or they make her laugh. She's pleased to add Jessica as her newest permalink (right). Aside from being a great writer, she produces a series of webisodes that are seriously entertaining. The one below is a good starter one if you want to test the waters. It made PC literally laugh out loud. If you think that's funny, and you're not easily offended*, check out this latest one.




*Why do we have the feeling half of you skipped right to the one on the link and watched that first before watching the video on the post?

Thanksgiving Follies...a.k.a. What You Really Need To Know To Survive

Poker Chick would like to wish all her readers a Happy Thanksgiving and invites everyone to share their own "Thanksgiving Follies".

Continued from previous post....

The ill-fated haircut was part of a necessary annual "get ready for Thanksgiving" prep. A few whirlwind days filled with in-laws, friends of in-laws, meeting new people, and trying to remember a whole heck of a lot of names unsuccessfully. Well-meaning and nice as everyone may be, it still results in overwhelming noise, claustrophobia, and whole lot of name-forgetting embarrassments ("nice to see you again.....er....you...."). And we won't even begin to describe the great feats of gymnastics that are required for a clumsy person to navigate a giant buffet table in a small room. And we're talking about the good china, peeps.

This year has added complications where a big engagement party was added to the festivities. A practical and nice idea, no doubt. But we've just upped the ante significantly by adding introductions to a whole slew of people Poker Chick has never met before.....in their fancy clothes. So now Miss Manners is thrown into the three-day chaos, someone Poker Chick is not exactly "intimate" with.

Finally, let's not forget the mini. Put an overtired, overstimulated three-year old into a loud room with no other kids and thirty adults she doesn't remember who want to pinch her cheeks and kiss her and you have......one exhausted mother*. On top of that there's the issue of how to keep your kid safe in what is traditionally a pecan, walnut, and egg-infested meal.

So, peeps. Are we stressed yet?

If you can relate to any part of this, you probably realize that in situations like these a person needs to come equipped with some mojo. An advantage to tip the scales. And who among us couldn't use some of that?

Thus, we bring you the Poker Chick three-step-strategy:

1. Carry a lifeline (i.e. cellphone) at all times.


2. Know your weaknesses and use your assets to compensate. (For example, a great memory for names is not one of Poker Chick's core competencies. However, bribing someone with baked goods is a great strategy for diverting attention away from this!)


3. Look your best. Even if you don't feel your best, hey, no one will know! (We must caveat: stay within your comfort zone. "Look your best" can mean haircuts and shoppers for some. It can also mean a two-second swipe of lipstick for others. For others it just means wash your hair that day. You know who you are.)
   

Of course the three-step strategy isn't foolproof. For example, PC would need the discipline not to consume food or drink at said party in order to maintain the illusion of grace. But that's another post entirely.....

__________________________

*ok, and father.

It's in the Jeans, Man

Poker Chick is a fan of fashion but likes to think she's not a slave to it. There's a time to splurge, a time to buy knock-offs, and a time to just say nooo. Thus, when new trends come out, she doesn't rush to follow them just because they're "cool". But sometimes, a chick gets sucked in.

Cue skinny jeans.

For years, PC has spoken out against them. They should be banned. The laws of physics mean they can't possibly look good on anyone who's not a tall thin supermodel. Skinny jeans are totally unflattering to 99.9% of the population. Sure, you can "hide" them with fake names such as "pencil" "cigarette" and "slim" but they're all just variations of the traditional skinny jean.

Why, you ask? Let's go over the anatomy of a woman, starting at the waist: the narrowest part of the torso. Go down to the hips and you have to move wider. With good jeans, the silhouette goes straight down or even flared from the hips, making the woman seem narrower. With skinny jeans, the ankles are narrow, accentuating a woman's middle. Pear-shape, muffin top, love handles, whatever your problem it's all hanging out there for the world to see. Do we really want our clothes to yell" "Hey, world! Look at me! Check out the mom hips!"

No. We don't. So not hot. Hence our aversion to "mom jeans". Which is why Poker Chick can not comprehend why this skinny jean trend is still in fashion.

Of course, with skinny jeans come boots. And this girl just got a cute pair that she can't smoosh her favorite jeans into and still zip up. And really, what's the point of the cute boots if no one can see them?

Thus, at the end of a bitterly cold Wednesday, Poker Chick found herself in a NYC boutique forking over a credit card in exchange for a pair of the latest "must have" skinny jeans.

Look away, peeps. We are so very ashamed.

Science is Beautiful. And You Can Be, Too.

Behold, the anti-frump:
Who else here has been living life thinking that the weekend frump was unavoidable. Blotchy, greasy skin is just part of the mommy weekend uniform, no? Turns out, no!

Don'tcha always look at those few moms that always look so put together? Wonder where they had the time to wash their hair? How they got that perfectly dewy skin? You know you secretly hate them for looking so damn good. How do they look so friggin' perfect at 9am on a Saturday morning.

Well, Poker Chick has discovered a secret weapon for you. And it's totally do-able, in about three seconds-flat. Natural beauty, my ass!

Thanks to the brother who watched the mini during a nap, Poker Chick was actually able to set foot in Sephora for more than five minutes (pause for gasp). That store just keeps getting and better. And the "play with me" concept never gets old. Poker Chick came out with softer cheeks, perfume, fun eyecolors - and a bottle of this Smashbox miracle in a bottle. Enough time has passed that she's been able to test this for a while, as an under-makeup primer and even just by itself over moisturizer. Amazing. Redness - gone. Blotches - gone. Shininess - gone. Even with no makeup.

Thanks to this discovery, she'll never have to endure crappy skin again. And neither do you.

Now here's a bonus for readers that are still with us on this post. Ever wonder how other women always look freshly showered, even the ones who claim not to wash their hair every day? Check this out:A swipe. A spray. A shake. It's like magic in a minute. Who knew such lovely products existed?

Yay, science!

*This post was inspired by our friends at We Covet. And, of course, by Sephora. (Who has no prior knowledge of this post but is welcome to bribe PC with free product nonetheless).

Femininity

This one is something we've been working on and have wanted to post for a while. We're testing out some writing here. If you're commenting, be kind. If you're lurking, please no snarky faces. No eyerolls either! Hopefully this will generate some good discussion about motherhood and what defines us as women. Any men out there should feel free to add their own perspective as well.

Those who know Poker Chick IRL probably use just a handful of adjectives to describe her: Intelligent. Pretty. Sharp. Bitchy. Funny. Clumsy. You know, all the things that make her endearing to loved ones. Now take a moment and think about some adjectives that are absent from this list: Warm. Maternal. Feminine.

Now, Poker Chick has always been all right with this. After all, so what? Who cares if she can't manufacture a case of the fuzzy wuzzies at any given corny moment. She is a businesswoman. She'll trade the house for the boardroom any day. In fact, the whole idea of being responsible for a house is so bizarre she's swapped that notion for a small apartment where one phone call brings dinner. She skipped sororities in college because fraternities seemed like a heck of a lot more fun and she wasn't allowed in those. She'd much rather be at a bachelor party than a shower. And she is, of course, at home playing poker with "the boys". She's always been "one of the guys". And she'd always been able to avoid large gatherings of women so she could continue to enjoy this lie, this pretend world she built around herself where she can do what she's good at and outsource the rest.

But you know how most men "outsource" the stuff Poker Chick sucks at? They get wives. Now, we suppose that's not impossible. Poker Chick has often been known to comment "I need a wife". She even has a friend hand-picked for the role, though for some reason this woman seems genuinely uninterested (I mean, what gives, right?)

Why are wives so desirable? They help make a house a home, which seems to be some kind of necessary step towards the next holy grail of femininity: mothering. Mothers are widely regarded in society. In fact, as Poker Chick wrote this, she was watching the movie Primary Colors, where they all declare "G-d Bless the Mommas!". This rousing statement met with loud approval and it is indeed a common thought. Books talk about mommies who make everything better. When teachers need to resolve an issue, they call the mommy. Children's worlds are surrounded with "mommy" references. It's clear what a mother is supposed to be.

The feminist movement has come and gone, and despite female CEOs in droves these days everyone has neglected to address one irrefutable point: women are biological childbearers. Men can technically do everything else but women still have to go through 9 months of pregnancy, several weeks of recovery, and [for many] months of leaky, saggy lactating boobs. Going through 5 different dress sizes in the course of a year is just one consequence of this fact; one that means women will always fall behind in the workplace at least a little if they desire to bear children. And let's face it, as much as men are doing these days, as long as we women get to pull the "if I'm giving birth to this thing then it's my call!" card, we are the primary child-rearers, whether it's fair or not. It's biology. And who is Poker Chick to argue with biology?

The problem with biology is that it is not fool-proof. Typically, the universe prepares women for life by giving them mothers, aunts, sisters, cousins. Women surrounding them throughout childhood to passively educate them about what it means to be feminine. Not just the big things, but the little things one needs to know. How to brush your hair. How to iron a shirt. How to cook a roast. How to wear a scarf. Poker Chick is convinced that the combined knowledge is filled in some hidden encyclopedia called "how to be a woman." She fantasizes about a secret hazing ritual where you mix the perfect martini and then the encyclopedia is handed to you by the next-of-kin woman. Most people get this encyclopedia. There are many different versions, but everyone has the one that works for them. Surely, tomorrow, she will wake up and have some form of the book magically appear by now.

Nope. Poker Chick, it would appear, got royally screwed by the universe. Her mother was pretty much out of commission at an early age. She had no sisters. No aunts, female cousins or grandmothers close by. Not surprisingly, most of her friends weren't female either. Hers was (for the most part) an alpha-male family with women relegated to the role of wife or ex-wife. So the only way to survive and get any respect was to become one of the men. So Poker Chick learned business skills. How to negotiate deals. Use foul language (decidedly 'un-feminine'!) How to "raise a stink" when someone tries to take advantage of you and your money. And, of course, how to play poker!

You know where this is going.

Yep, biology bit her in the @ss. Enter motherhood and the whole facade was exposed. She was clueless. In the past, she had been able to avoid large gatherings of women; she felt uncomfortable with so much estrogen in one room. But with a newborn, she was forced to confront her insecurity. The reality was that she needed these large groups of women. She didn't have a clue and the poor screaming kid in her arms demanded their knowledge. But it felt like she had failed entry-level womanhood and was now in a PhD program. She was clearly out of her league. And of course, as luck would have it, she was given a daughter to somehow teach.

The older the mini gets, the more she realizes she missed from not having a role model in girl flavor. She thought she didn't need those xx genes, but suddenly every maternal encounter is an opportunity for someone to point out her fraud. Every time the MIL gently "offers" to do something domestic, say wash the mini's clothes, it's a subtle suggestion that Poker Chick should not be raising the child herself. She is not qualified. She does not know how it's done. She doesn't know how to be a woman.

What reminds her that she really is a woman? Besides hormone-driven emotional outbursts? For Poker Chick, it's stupid little things. A big powder brush. Sitting there putting makeup slowly brushing some big powder brush around your face feels female. High heels. Those are feminine. Painted toenails. Real women clearly always must have colored feet tips. Eight different kinds of wrinkle cream in her medicine cabinet. That's right, count 'em. Eight. And she can tell you the difference between each and every one. That'll make you a girlie girl. But it's not all looks, is it? (though keeping up appearances is certainly a big part of the facade). No, Poker Chick learned a few non-superficial lady tricks too. Buying the perfect present for someone. That feels feminine. Nursing. Nursing was awesome. Not only is it undoubtedly female, it's not something every woman can do. And Poker Chick rocked it. So as long as she kept nursing, she was entitled to that female title. But that's where it seems to end. Plenty of people see cooking and cleaning as "women's work" and therefore feminine. But Poker Chick sucks at that. Women know things. How to sew a button. How to take out stains. How to tie a tie. Poker Chick knows none of these things. No one taught her. Does that make her un-feminine? And if not, what does?

What makes you feel "feminine"?

(mūd)

mood^{1, n.}

In case you hadn't noticed, our girl's in a bad mood. Which got her to thinking. Why? Let's examine the options:

• Stress. Work has been overwhelming and all-consuming lately. 'Tis true.
• Lack of balance. Today Poker Chick had her first big mom f-ck up, she missed the Purim parade. It was a conscious choice as she had a big meeting at work. The parade was covered by the husband and Big Boy. But she hadn't been faced with that choice before and it sucked. She wished she could have been there to see the mini. The guilt, oh the guilt!
  
• Inadequate sleep. For the past couple of weeks the mini has been getting up several times at night to "make a pee pee". We're talking like every two hours. Poker Chick hasn't been this exhausted since the newborn stage.
• Jet-lag. Well, Poker Chick probably doesn't have jet lag anymore, but she has been on a whole heck of a lot of airplanes in the past week or so. 'Tis draining.
• Malnutrition. Ok so that might be a bit of an exaggeration. But loads of travel and a redonculous work schedule = irregular meals. If you're Poker Chick stress means reduced appetite too. Counterintuitive, we know.
• Bad news. Between sick relatives and a funeral this weekend for a friend's parent, 'tis hard to stay cheery.

Excellent illustration of bad mood flowchart. Thanks, mystery online person!

What puts you peeps in a bad mood? There's gotta be, like, 1,000 valid reasons out there for being pissed off. Don't let Poker Chick be pissy alone!!! Let's all share a good vent as we ponder why exhaustion is making Poker Chick pretend to talk like an Irishwoman.