Day 1 - Under Pressure

Let me start out by saying, I've come into my new role as a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom) with the expectation that I would be living some sort of hybrid life; a cross between that of Betty Draper (the skinny years) and that of  June Cleaver. A world where home cooked meals meets a 2pm martini break and all the while I stay impeccably fashionable and impossibly thin.  Here's what really happened.

After insisting that I handle all of the baby's needs this morning, I offered to make T breakfast before he headed off to work.  He chuckled and refused my offer, sweetly indicating that I don't need to take on the world on Day 1.  Regardless of T's impetus that I ease into my new role, I decided to start my day by making four new lists (To Do, Groceries, Baby Proofing, Projects) envisioning how quickly I would check each one off and how easily it would all fit into the new schedule I would build (Monday - Housework, Tuesday - Playdate, Wednesday - Errands and so on and so forth).

Mathew headed out to work right around the time that I would normally sneak out the door of P's daycare wishing his teacher's good luck.  Right around the same time that P generally begins to get cranky - and he did.  Playtime?  No.   Some Milk?  No.  Hold Me?  Yes.  Now put me down!

After about an hour of up "Pick Me Up / Put Me Down" and getting approximately 3/4 of a dish rinsed and in the dishwasher, P started rubbing his eyes and I thought, "Woo hoo!  Nap time."  What I didn't anticipate was that I'd listen to P scream for the next 45 minutes while I got myself dressed (and dressed well might I add, because I promised myself I would not let fashion or personal hygiene suffer).  Forty-five minutes of scream, scream, scream, scream, scream.  And then some more screaming.

I found myself a bit confused.  The daily report he would come home from daycare which always reflected "Nap:  9:15am - 10am", not "Scream:  9:15am-10am."  At precisely the same moment that I gave in and picked P up out of his crib, his body went slack and he fell asleep in my arms.  Five minutes later, thinking it was safe to put him down I attempted to gently lay him back in bed for some serious napping.  Instantaneously, he put Vulcan Death Grip around my waist with his legs and began to wail uncontrollably.  Clearly unhappy with my decision to put him down, he seized the moment and relished the opportunity to pee all over me. How on earth did my little evil genius maneuver his baby junk right out of the way of his diaper in an obviously premeditated plan to whiz all over my super cute first-day-as-a-stay-at-home-mommy outfit?  Thanks for the golden shower my darling child.

Game - Set - Match:  P.

The rest of the day went somewhat more smoothly, certainly not great and I realized quickly that I need to reassess my grand plans.  Susie Homemaker, the Rosetta Stone and my DIY projects would have to wait.  Someone else has been raising my son for the last six months, spending 50-60 hours per week with him, getting to know his habits and managing his needs with ease.  Someone else knows him better than I do and cares for him far more gracefully.  Week 1 is no longer for making lists and organizing all the things I will do for the house, our family and myself.  Week 1 is for getting to know P, beyond the weekend, beyond 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes in the evening.  I'm not sure how I lost sight of this while making my lists, but somehow I did.  Perhaps urinating all over my pretty shirt was P's way of reminding me; hopefully I would've figured it out anyway.

Jersey Jane

Perhaps it’s no coincidence that I wrote my AP English Essay on the Metamorphosis. I can’t deny that something inside of me has always related to the book’s main character, Gregor Samsa, who wakes up from a night of crazy dreams to find that he has morphed into a giant insect. Only instead of one night of nightmares, I’m coming off of three weeks of jokes. Jokes about Aquanet, Lee press-ons and Juicy Couture. And while I didn’t wake up today to find myself wearing sweats at the mall while purchasing a new Coach Hobo, the transformation IS happening and it’s occurring more swiftly than I imagined. By the way, I kind of like it.

Before I even get into all the spectacular ways I’m slowly but surely returning to the state from whence I came – they name is New Jersey - I’m all too proud to share that my legacy has lived on in the land where both gas and fists are pumped. As we made like vagabonds, temporarily homeless between vacating our rented NYC apartment and closing on our purchased Montclair Condominium, my husband T and I set up shop in my parents’ home. There’s a lot of food, a lot of wine, a lot of laughs and the average volume of any conversation is just below shouting. Nightly, I am transported back to 1998 as I tippy-toe up the staircase, trying desperately to be quiet only to find out the next day that I failed when Poppa UnPlain asks me why I stomped all over the house last night. Despite the non-stop barrage of “Eat This! It came out good!” from Grandma and the unusual quantity of red-meat and tomatoes I was consuming, it wasn’t until my first day of commuting to work that I realized, I had truly returned home.

For our first commute, T and I made our way from my parents house at the end of the cul-de-sac I grew up on to the New Jersey Transit bus stop at the top of the block. He wore a back pack and sneakers while I struggled up the hill in heels carrying my tote, walking as if I was expecting the paparazzi to jump out to snap a pic of UnPlain rockin' the ‘burbs. As he dragged me along, desperate for me to move faster we suddenly heard the automatic start of a car and the muffled sound of dance musci on the radio. Simultaneously, we looked to our right and there she was, standing before us - UnPlain Jane 2.0. We stared. Silent. It was as if I’d been reincarnated in my neighbors daughter. T’s jaw dropped and then he mumbled something about this girl being me circa 1998. It was true.

Her shirt was a little too low cut, her jeans a little too small and her highlights a little too fake. She ran out of the garage wearing a tank top, in November, and then ran back inside to ge the lipgloss/cellphone/schoobook that she forgot. We stared in awe as she ripped out of her driveway and off too school in her too-fast-for-a-17-year-old Convertible Mustang. The very same car that was my first, in a long line of driven-into-the-ground vehicles. The only things missing were a Parliament Light hanging from her lips and an Italian Horn hanging from her rear view mirror. Immediately overwhelmed with nostalgia, I looked at T and said, “I love her.”

From that moment on I have been (secretly) pumped to be back in NJ, the very place that bred “Jersey Jane”, long before there was an UnPlain. Stay tuned…

New Jersey and Me, Imperfect Together

February 18, 2009 is a day that I will never forget. I was unemployed, carefree and had the luxury of sleeping-in as late as I pleased. But that day, I woke up extra early for 5am workout and an hour of primping then spent 45 minutes picking out the perfect casual-chic winter outfit. Eventually, I strutted out the door headed to a place that nobody wants to go. The DMV. But on February 18, I could hardly wait to be yelled at to “get in line!” or “fill out this form!” by an underpaid government worker.

The line of Guatemalans wrapping halfway around Herald Square could hardly dampen the excitement I felt. I had my iPod-induced swagger on as I took my place in line and whipped out a book prominently displaying a NY Public Library sticker, because yes, I am a New Yorker this was the day I’d be trading in my New Jersey Drivers License to make it official.

Perhaps I should’ve been more excited about the fact that it was the day I would officially become “Mrs. T” by changing my last name. But no. Instead I was thrilled because my ugly, maroon, laminated New Jersey license was being “traded up” for a shiny NY State Drivers license bearing the Manhattan address I’ve occupied for the last 5 years.

Only now, on a day not-too-far away, some unlucky DMV employee will have the displeasure of wrestling me, as I scream “but these are Prada shoes!” to the ground. Then she will have to pry from my cold, clenched fists the New York Drivers License that I so proudly whip out whenever I’m asked for ID, all because my husband T and I are purchasing our piece of the American Dream: A Condo in Montclair.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled and excited and all that and I’ve already begun ordering too much of the Crate and Barrel Winter catalog, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am still the snot-nosed, over-dressed, but under-clothed, guess-where-I-got-in, city-dwelling beeyotch I’ve always wanted to be. I take extraordinary pleasure in answering the question, “Where do you live?” when I’m out of town and in some sick way I actually enjoy the fact that I pay the same amount to rent 700 square feet that many people in the burbs pay to own 3000. Because (in my most superior voice) “you pay for the location, not the space.”

Now, as I prepare to head west across the river, I’m struggling with the fact that I will no longer be anyone’s “city friend” and that people will probably stop calling me for restaurant recommendations. I dread my first night out in Manhattan, probably in the Meatpacking District, when some bitch-faced Murray Hill skank gives me that you’re-so-bridge-and-tunnel look as I whip out my NJ Drivers License.

I invented that look!

So in a few weeks from now, if you see me driving home from COSTCO wearing a hot-pink Juicy sweat suit and sporting acrylic nails, give me a honk. I’m ready for the car, the home and even the commute, but you can bet your sweet ass that I will be delaying my trip to the DMV as long as possible. Not because it’s unpleasant, but because I’m just not ready to give up the persona that has taken me 5 years, numerous trips to Saks (fine – H&M) and an AmEx bill as thick as a phone book to craft.

The only saving grace is that, in New Jersey, they let you look at your ID photo and retake it until you’re happy. So to anyone behind me in line that day – I’m sorry, but I’m now a Jersey Girl and I’m going to re-apply lip gloss, brush on the bronzer and adjust my push-up bra until my Drivers License photo is Just Friggin Right. So back up!