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The Crazy Baby Mama

May 22, 2011 | 2:54 am RSS

LA Mamas

Posted by Sarah Tuttle-Singer

Take, for example, the park.

The L.A. mamas are preternaturally chic in a languid, Sunday-morning way with their Bugaboo strollers,  non-fat soy lattes, and matching husbands. They all wear their hair pulled back in effortlessly highlighted pony-tails. Yoga pants with price tags hovering around $150.00 hug their tight little asses, and their boobs defy gravity.

These are the mamas who only buy organic food and one-of-a-kind wooden toys handmade by magical Norwegian elves. These are the mamas who give their babies designer names, and schedule play dates two and a half weeks in advance. These are the mamas who plan their pregnancies.

And, they’re all friends.

I am not one of these mamas. Little Homie sits pretty in a hand-me-down,  Gerber prune-stained Snap ‘N Go (and yes, everyone assumes he’s a girl because what mama doesn’t get a blue–or at least a gender-neutral–baby carrier for her boy-child?)  I never do pony-tails, and my highlights are usually the orange side of blonde. I can’t pull off the svelte yoga look–trust me, I’ve tried.

And the worst of it is, it’s not like I’m too badass to care what these other women think of me. In fact, I face these Stepford mamas and their cavalry of color-coordinated Bugaboos with what can only be described as desperate optimism. Alas, while they simultaneously flash their polished teeth in a Miss Manners smile, the muscles around their cheeks and eyes don’t flinch.

They give me the once-over, size me up, and then turn back to their earnest discussions about the best organic toddler snacks at Whole Foods. I stuff M’s goldfish crackers deep in my purse, and try to join in, but suddenly, they all seem to get very interested in their children.

Or cloud formations.

Most days, I feel like everyone but me got a manual on how to look, dress, and act like they have their shit together, and while I thought I had evolved past that feeling of awkward loneliness, it’s amazing how being snubbed at the playground by the cool mama clique can slam you back in time. Just like high school all over again. The good thing is moving to the other side of the world is like changing schools midyear–it’s a tough transition, but you get the chance to reinvent yourself.

This post originally appeared here on kveller.com

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children—including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies…and advice from Mayim Bialik.

Lest you think I was kidding about the pink Snap ‘N Go…

 

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  • LA Mamas

    By Sarah Tuttle-Singer

    5.22.11 at 2:54 am | I don't miss the LA mama scene...

  • Bin Laden Bandwagon

    By Sarah Tuttle-Singer

    5.7.11 at 9:34 am | Because my opinion on Bin Laden's death is like. . .

  • We Will Remember to Never Forget

    By Sarah Tuttle-Singer

    5.3.11 at 5:54 am | I don't remember when I learned to Never Forget

May 7, 2011 | 9:34 am

Bin Laden Bandwagon

Posted by Sarah Tuttle-Singer

Unless you’ve been living in a cave unlike some people (*COUGH Osama Bin Laden COUGH*) then you know that America’s Most Wanted is dead.  

 

(Or allegedly dead. I’ve seen Wag The Dog enough to have my doubts… After all, while Uday and Qusay Hussein’s death shots were paraded around through the media like they were the new It Boys, Osama has been “buried at Sea.”  Really?  

And that sound you hear are CIA choppers coming to take me down.)

 

Conspiracy theories not withstanding when I read the news on CNN, my first reaction was to shout “America! Fuck Yeah!” (which if my facebook newsfeed is any indication is probably the least original reaction ever.  Thank you Team America for channeling a collective cosmic facebook whole.)

 

Clearly jingoism trumped originality at this point and something powerful and belligerently patriotic grabbed hold of me.  

I may have walked around the kibbutz fist pumping the air chanting USA USA USA for a few hours.   See, I like a good ending – I cheered when the alien mother ship was disemboweled in Independence Day.   I clapped when Lord Voldemort was vanquished.  And I wept tears of joy when Private Ryan at last came home to his mama.    

 

And this victory – after so many years

in which I actually wondered if the old guy kicked off from renal failure,– seemed equally satisfying.  (CUE WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS. AND …SCENE.)

Alas, this aint no Spielberg movie.   The credits will not roll against a backdrop of an American flag flapping in the breeze.  Tom Hanks won’t be doing a voice over.   

 

This is real life.           

 

And after my zeal faded, I realized three things:

 

1.       1.  Well, crap.  If this were a movie, then there would have to be a sequel.  Jihad A Deux:   Avenge Bin Laden—Coming soon to a theatre – and a country—near you!   And in fact, no one in Israel is dancing in the streets because we know what happens when we take out a big shot terrorist.   And a long, protracted war is no reason to celebrate.

 

2.       2. There’s a fine line between being badass and going rogue – and while there are many who will disagree with me, I think it’s a damn shame that Bin Laden wasn’t captured alive and made to stand trial.  It worked with Saddam.  It worked with Eichman.  And it would have given the United States an opportunity to show the world that we are better than Bin Laden and his henchmen.   Because even though this guy did some pretty evil things, we treat him more fairly than he would ever treat one of us.  And fellow Obama supporters, lets be real:  If this had all gone down during GW’s presidency, wouldn’t we be shouting about the Constitution? 

 

3

 

3.  And above all, what kind of lesson am I teaching my kids when I break into a jig and sing “Ding Dong Bin Laden’s dead?”  Yes, I’m not going to miss his mix tapes.  Yes, I think he’s a despicable human being.  Yes, I hope that the families of the thousands he killed will feel that some sort of justice has been meted out.  And yes, I am  happy he’s dead.  Still, I was raised to believe that we should not rejoice at the downfall of our enemies…  And for the same reason that I’m against capital punishment, I feel that maybe I should tone down the celebration.   At least when my kids are watching.

Look.  I know the world can be a crappy place where terrible things happen.    And yet, I’m an optimist.  I believe in Tikun Olam—healing the world.  Ghandi said “Be the change you wish to see,”  and I like the spirit behind this message.  Sure, that’s easier said than done but I’m going to try.   

 

Because that’s the best I can do.

 

Although I may have ordered Team America on Amazon. Fuck Yeah.

 

                                                                                                       

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                   

 

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May 3, 2011 | 5:54 am

We Will Remember to Never Forget

Posted by Sarah Tuttle-Singer

I remember the first moment I imagined a monster lurking beneath my bed. (I was 2 years old.) I remember the first time my mom told me where babies come from. (I was 5.)  I remember the day when I found out the Tooth Fairy isn’t real. (I was in the second grade.) But I don’t remember the first time I learned about the Holocaust.

 

It’s just something I’ve always known. Like gravity, it’s a given.  It’s embedded in my genetic memory.

 

So, I don’t know how my parents told me about the horrors that happened just a few decades ago. I don’t know what words they used, or what questions I asked.

 

I just know that I know.

 

Last night was Erev Yom HaShoah – the evening before Holocaust Memorial Day.

 

And for the first time, my children watched the memorial ceremony streaming live from Yad Vashem on Chanel Two. M sucked her thumb. The music made her sad. Little Homie nursed, oblivious to the solemn speeches, and powerful stories shared by the six honored survivors chosen to light the six memorial candles.

 

Six nightmares.

 

Six miracles.

 

And after we stood for Kaddish, we sang HaTikvah.

 

I let my children see me cry.

 

And Little Homie brushed my tears with his fingertips. M looked at me. “Sad, mama?”

 

Yes. I am sad. And devastated. And appalled. But deep within these feelings – overtaking the horror of it all– I am proud…because we have not lost our Hope. No matter what happens to us. We are still here.

 

Remembering.

 

And now, 13 hours later, the siren’s primal howl sounds throughout Israel, and the entire country grinds to a halt. We put aside all the grievances and stress. Arguments end midsentence. Even the children stop playing, their bodies eerily still on the playground. Every car pulls to the side of the road. We stand.  Together. Our ears ring with the sound of too many screams mixed down into one keening wail.

 

Terrible things – unspeakable things happened. But. We. Are.  Still. Here. And we will not let them happen again. Not to us, not to anyone. And our children will know and they will remember, even if they can’t remember when they learned to never forget.

 

When your kids ask about the Holocaust, how do you respond? Read our tips here.

             

              This post originally appeared here on kveller.com

 

Kveller.com offers a Jewish twist on parenting, everything a Jewish family could need for raising Jewish children—including crafts, recipes, activities, Hebrew and Jewish names for babies…and advice from Mayim Bialik.


 

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May 1, 2011 | 1:50 am

Bigtime Mama FAIL

Posted by Sarah Tuttle-Singer

When I was in high school, our principal used to come on the PA every morning to make the following announcement:  “Make sure you’re on time to class.   Don’t be a fool with no mama who gets caught in the Tardy Sweep.”

(Incidentally, our high school mascot was a unicorn.  Because we are special and magical and we all shit rainbows.  Fools with no mamas or not, we have Unicorn Pride.)

But I digress.

(Please forgive me - I’m a little more tired and neurotic than usual.)

Anyway, if one more person asks me “Why are your kids getting sick all the time?” I swear to Yoda that I will aim Little Homie at them and hope he’s in the mood for a good old fashioned round of projectile vomiting. 

(Usually, I don’t like to see my kids hurl chunks everywhere.  It’s messy and sometimes kind of scary, but again, if I hear this asinine question ah-gain, I will make an exception.  You’ve been warned.)

Ok, let me qualify this:  If the question comes from a place of love and genuine concern, then I might let it slide.  In fact, if I’ve had more than an hour of sleep, I might even smile and shrug and say something about how “oh, you know how kids are.”

Because kids get sick.  Period.  The End.  

BUT it seems more often than not, this question is really just a treacly disguise for the real question:

WHAT ARE

YOU

—YOU, MAMA!  YEAH, YOU!—  DOING WRONG?

(Because lets face it, no one ever asks B why his kids are getting sick all the time.)

When Little Homie throws falafel on the ground, the waitress glares at me.  Not B.

When M has a five alarm meltdown at the petting zoo, and B tries to sooth her, it doesn’t matter whether he succeeds or fails.  All that matters is he’s trying.  And everyone smiles.   But, if I can’t calm her down, I look incompetent.  Bigtime Mama Fail.

If B takes Little Homie out for a walk and forgets to put socks on him, three people—THREE FUCKING PEOPLE, I KID YOU NOT—will ask him “Why didn’t his mother put socks on him?”  Because clearly, it’s my fault.  Always and forever, My.  Fault.

And when the kids get sick, everyone peppers me with questions about their health habits, what they eat, and how many times they poop.  No one thinks to ask B.



Even though B and I are co-parenting - we both work, we both raise our kids, and we both try not kill each other or ourselves in the process - when he’s helping out it’s called “helping out” or “giving me a break.”  And the whole fucking world throws a tickertape parade in his honor.

(I bet some of you know what I’m talking about.)

The grunt work.  The scut work.  The nails-on-a-chalkboard-grind.  The dirty dishes.  The lost socks.  My fault.  All of it.


My.  Fault.

And one day, if my kids get caught in a Tardy Sweep, they’ll be fools with no mama.  And they probably won’t be wearing socks, either.   Call CPS and arrest me!  Throw me in Bad Mother Jail without a trial because I’m guilty until proven otherwise.


It’s all my fault.

(Anyway, at this point, I was going to turn this post into a mordant commentary about sexism and family dynamics vis-a-vis sick children, but I spent all my energy looking up “vis-a-vis” to make sure I was using it in the correct context.  And I’m still not sure. Google Fail. And that sound you hear are my graduate school dreams getting flushed down the toilet.)

Look. I’m tired.  I’m scared.  I’ve got a sick kid who may or may not have an underlying health problem.  After all, two cases of Pneumonia in three months is a bit… weird.  

And now I’m whining in the blogosphere.  So much for shutting up.

 
Fight on, Unicorns!  Fight on.

 

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