Today I went for lunch with my friend T.I. who was planning on introducing me to her friend D. I had a great time (and made a new mummy friend), but it really makes me wonder why first “dates” never go off without a hitch.

We met at a charming (and delicious) little cafe in Boston’s South End, The Buttery. As I was approaching the outdoor patio, a very nice woman tapped me on the shoulder and (very politely) told me that I [sigh] had dog poop all over the wheel of my tire. “I didn’t want to ruin your lunch” she said. Very thoughtful. Very bad timing on my part. I mean it’s like, “hello! I hope you are enjoying your lunch. Don’t mind my gross tire.”

How did I not notice? I have no idea. For those of you without children, this is basically the equivalent of walking out of a restroom with toilet paper stuck to your heel. Or spending half an hour in conversation with a giant piece of spinach stuck in your tooth. Or worse. How’s that for a first introduction? Not only do I look completely clueless and unkempt, but I smell!

Basically what it comes down to is I rarely look cool when I want to. Especially not now that I have a baby (who spits up, pukes, and chews on my clothing). And I think this is something that I, at the age of 31, need to come to terms with. What can I say. At least it keeps things interesting.

I love my home in Boston’s South End neighborhood. I love rarely having to drive, being able to walk everywhere. I love frequenting specialty markets and farmers stands. I don’t even mind carrying my stroller up the 12 steps leading to the entrance of my brownstone. Still, sometimes I feel the need to escape…

This weekend I made the trek to Everett, MA. I left early Saturday morning. Fifteen minutes outside of the city I saw the plaza emerging. I was writhe with excitement as I realized all my big box needs could be fulfilled at this one stop. Babies ‘R’ Us, Ulta, Petsmart, and Old Navy were just some of the marquees I saw. And there it was, shining like a beacon in the night (well day, but night sounds better). Target. Actually, let me correct myself. Not just Target, but Target Greatland.

It was about five years ago that I found true (retail) love. The first time I set foot in Target I realized we would have a long, meaningful and fulfilling relationship. I was right – it’s a relationship that has continued through to this day. Over the years Target has provided me with solace and comfort (who doesn’t love strolling those aisles, perusing baby products, shampoo, towels for goodness sake! It’s therapeutic). In fact, on several occasions the husband has referred to Target as my “decompression chamber”. With the birth of my daughter our relationship has not diminished, but grown stronger. Target becomes more and more relevant by the day, as evidenced through this weekend’s purchases. I mean, who doesn’t love a store where you can find a hat that looks like this:
One that looks like this (my little thug):
AND toilet paper? It’s pure bliss.

I always find it interesting when people (who I don’t know) attempt to determine whether The Peanut is my child by birth, or one that I adopted from China. Usually this is done by asking probing questions. For example, a recent run-in:

Woman at coffee shop: Your daughter has such beautiful hair. So much!

Me: Thank you.

Woman: And it’s so dark!

Me: Yes it is, isn’t it!

Woman (eyes darting from me, to The Peanut, back to me): Wow! Where did she get that hair from?

Me: Ummm…her father?

(Clearly The Peanut did not inherit her beautiful chestnut hair from me, a blonde, blue eyed WASP.)

And at the grocery store:

Man stocking the shelves (slightly more upfront): Is that YOUR baby?

Me: Ummm…yes…

Man: Oh. She’s very beautiful. She must look like her father. Congratulations.

And a variation on the theme, at a recent wedding:

Girl (after surveying my husband and I): Are you upset that your daughter will NEVER look like you?

Me: What??

I can’t really blame these people. I guess that when they look at The Peanut, sometimes all they focus on is her almond shaped eyes and dark hair. Because, aside from that, I think she looks exactly like me. Even my husband’s friend, A.B., calls The Peanut my “Asian doppelganger”.

Still, it makes me wonder why some people are so desperate to figure out our biological relationship. As if The Peanut would be any less my child if I had indeed adopted her.

Still sick today, but needed to venture out for The Peanut’s 6 month pediatrician appointment.

I managed to pull myself out of bed and throw on sweatpants, a hat, and my Uggs (finally appropriate given the fall-like weather). Luckily, however, The Peanut had a new outfit to wear. I am completely in love with our most recent purchase, a pair of pants.

Since The Peanut was newborn I have been obsessed with baby pants. I mean, who thought of manufacturing pants for a six pound infant? And who is the architect behind those tiny designs? It’s not like you can just take a pair of adult pants and shrink them down by 100 percent. I’ve looked at many pairs of baby pants and it’s an entirely different design (for one, the crotch to leg ratio is 1:1, the crotch is just about as long as the leg – to accommodate a diaper, of course). Indeed, the advent of stores such as Baby Gap, Target, and Old Navy (baby) has shown the world that pants aren’t just for children, tweens, teens and adults. And certainly, as parents, our lives are much the richer for it (only half kidding).

The Peanut’s most recent pair of pants have “pockets”, a “fly”, and a “button”, and resemble jodhpurs. They are absolutely adorable, and I am waiting for a pair to become available in my size (with some minor modifications, of course – not quite ready for that diaper).

So thank you, Baby Gap. At least one of us looked presentable today.

I am officially sick with my first cold of the season. Well, actually, my first cold since The Peanut was born. I generally have an immune system of steel, but do succumb to some sort of illness once or twice a year.

I woke up this morning with a scratchy throat and stuffy head. Uncomfortable, but manageable. Over the course of the day things progressed to the point where I felt like a giant sack of…well you know what I mean. Walking home from the grocery store my feet felt like two cement blocks and The Peanut’s stroller was (I swear) pretty comparable in weight to a Ford F Series.

The only thing worse than being sick, though, is a) being sick and having to hold it together enough to take care of another human being, and b) knowing that your child will soon be ill as well (it’s inevitable, isn’t it?)

Even the husband was complaining of a sore throat and achy body tonight. At the moment it seems like the only one escaping this cold is the cat. I’m thinking tomorrow maybe I’ll enlist her to babysit…

I just brought my garbage down and left it at the curb. One bag of rubbish and a box of various recyclables. Within about an hour or so the bag will be torn open and the box will be picked over. Do I have a raccoon problem, you ask? Neighborhood dogs or cats, perhaps? No, although this was exactly what I thought upon seeing the state of our trash that first Tuesday morning on Tremont Street. This garbage dismemberment is, actually, the result of a strange urban phenomenon. Something I have never seen the likes of, even throughout my years of city living in Toronto.

Every Monday and Thursday night I place my trash at the curb. Garbage day is Tuesday and Friday. Like many South End residents, I put it out the night before because it seems as though the pickup schedule is rather unpredictable. Also, with The Peanut’s internal clock being as it is, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to run down the stairs to my walk-up, bulging plastic bag in hand, upon hearing the rumble of the truck. And seriously, do I really want to show my Chiuaua-walking-work-bound neighbors the dirty reality of my morning appearance (hint: it does not involve sexy bed hair). By 9:30 or 10 pm Tremont Street is dotted with white sacks and blue bins. And this is when it begins. An army of elderly Asian women descend on the South End’s main throughways and subsidiary streets, sometimes bearing shopping carts, looking for glass and plastic bottles, and aluminum cans.

Don’t get me wrong. I have seen people picking through the trash before. It’s just that in New Haven, the scavenger was generally a) male, b) shabbily dressed, and c) reeking of alcohol. These women all seem (relatively) put together, clean, and do not APPEAR to have consumed unreasonable amounts of Listerine.

So, starting last week, I was especially careful to separate out anything I thought would get a cash return. Because I guess these women need the money. And why not? Two seconds of effort on my part could make someone’s life infinitely easier, after all.

I am no martyr. In terms of child-rearing I, like many moms, often find it easier to take shortcuts. For example, I know cloth diapers are more “green” than disposable. I can’t do it though. Don’t get me wrong – I love the environment. I’ll recycle. I’ll take public transportation. I’ll avoid SUV’s at all costs. However, I just can’t visualize myself rinsing a poop explosion out of a reusable diaper in my toilet. And beyond that, what do you do with the soiled diaper when you are away from home? Store it in your purse?

Still, I have recently taken to preparing homemade baby food for the six month old Peanut. This is something I wasn’t really sure I would be able (or want) to do when the time came. I mean, I “prepare food”. But I am more “30 minute meals” than “the joy of cooking” (please note, this is not any reflection of my love for Julia Child, or French food – or French wine for that matter). To my amazement, however, it is surprisingly simple. Can you boil water? Do you know how to turn on an oven? Then you can make home-made baby food. Really, it’s that easy. And certainly, there are many benefits to making your own baby food over purchasing that which is pre-made. Here’s a short list I came up with after brainstorming:

1. Cost. In today’s economy, who isn’t concerned about the cost of living? Store-bought baby food can cost anywhere from .50 .99 cents for a two ounce jar (or even more, depending on the brand). A sweet potato, in contrast, might cost .89 cents (or less). From this you might be able to make 2-3 2 ounce servings of food (depending on the size of the potato). This brings the cost per 2 ounce serving down to about .29 cents.

Best of luck,

It’s hard to believe that today is the eight year anniversary of 9-11. In some ways it feels like it happened yesterday, in other ways it is difficult to remember a time when this event wasn’t part of our national memory.

Today my thoughts will be with those who lost loved ones, and those who continue to serve our nation.