Throwing Away Our Stroller, I Realized: I Don't Have Babies Anymore

The day my baby stroller broke nearly broke me, too. One of our babysitters texted: "This just happened . . ." with three sad face emojis and a photo of my stroller, with the hinges completely detached from the wheels.

"It's the end of an era!" I texted my husband (more crying emojis) and explained about our stroller's demise. We were way past due for an upgrade anyway, but this stroller had been with us since our firstborn. By now—and two more kids and over six years later—it had "seen some things."

That night, I couldn't wait to cart away The Great Big Blue Eyesore that had been taking up the better half of our entryway for years. I waited until the kids were asleep so as to avoid all the questions that would inevitably ensue if they were to see me in the act:

"Where's it going?" (The trash.)

"You're throwing OUR STROLLER in the trash? What's gonna happen to it?" (Um…)

"Is another baby gonna use it?" (Hopefully not, unless that baby's parents don't intend to leave the house.)

I wheeled it (sort of, since it was falling apart more and more with every inch it traveled) down the hall, slowly and solemnly. When I reached the trash room, I gave the stroller one final, firm push in the direction of some crushed Amazon.com boxes and a chewed-up-looking wicker basket, and turned away.

But right before the door shut behind me, I felt this surprising pang as I pictured the stroller sitting there alone in the dark. Forlorn. Like it was a living, breathing thing.

Though in many ways, my stroller did have a life to it; it had soul, a spirit. It was my faithful friend since the day my first baby was born.

It remained the most indispensable tool in my Mom Arsenal—without which I would basically be housebound in a city that's not exactly car-friendly. Nearly every day, I had silently praised its extra-large wheels that maneuvered this way or that with basically the suggestion of my pinky's push, and its enormous undercarriage that could hold the family dog and a week's groceries (or sometimes an entire 6-year-old boy.)

As fast as I shut it, I threw open the door to the trash room and flung myself at the thing, burying my head deep into the sickly-sweet-smelling seat. How many ounces of milk (my own and from other animal sources), ice creams, and chocolate chips had congealed into the dark fibers of the stroller seat over the years? I inhaled the smell of it and felt intoxicated with memories:

There I was as a new mom, side-by-side with a mom friend, strolling down the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights in matching strollers (same brand, hers was yellow), as we traded tips on how best to swaddle.

There we all were, new mamas unsure of ourselves and these new roles we had, our strollers lined up while we made a picnic beside them, squeezing those messy pouch foods into our baby's waiting mouths.

The stroller smelled of memories and more—it smelled like my babies. It was sour-sweet-milky mixed with sweat and skin and boy and pacifiers. Leaving all of this behind almost did feel like leaving a living thing alone in a dark trash room, and walking away.

“The stroller smelled of memories and more—it smelled like my babies. ”

his stroller was a representation of my transformation to 'mother.'

When I got back to my apartment, I broke down sobbing.

"I threw out the stroller!" I cried, to my husband.

He smiled, relieved that I hadn't received a horrible phone call between the trash room and our apartment, and wrapped his arms around me.

"I don't have babies anymore!" I wailed as if I had lost my actual children, rather than having merely allowed time to do its thing.

““I don’t have babies anymore!” I wailed as if I had lost my actual children, rather than having merely allowed time to do its thing.”

We had already said goodbye to all the other accouterments of babyhood—from the jumparoos to the baby carriers. Even the high chair that had way overstayed its welcome simply because it looked good in our kitchen, had finally gone on to greener pastures (our cousin's house).

But getting rid of the stroller signaled my very solid leap away from the baby years and onto the kid stage of my motherhood. And while these are all good things—triumphs, really—it is hard to shake off an identity that's been with you for what feels like forever.

“But getting rid of the stroller signaled my very solid leap away from the baby years and onto the kid stage of my motherhood. ”

I toyed with the idea of going back for the stroller and holding onto it for just a few more days if only to smell the baby smell that no longer clings to the skin of my growing boys. But I knew that would be ridiculous. So I did the only thing you do when you're having trouble saying goodbye to something or someone. I found something new.

Before bed, I ordered our replacement stroller—a sporty, compact, umbrella strollermeant for toddlers and up and selected overnight delivery. I looked at the space it would soon occupy in place of its forebear. I would have a day to grieve my loss. And tomorrow, I'd strap my 3-year-old into his new, 'Big Boy' stroller (that would fit his legs, finally!) and his big brother could ride beside us on his scooter.

Honestly, mamas, change is painful even when it's good.

And the truth is, no matter the ride, we will all get to wherever we need to go.

Originally featured on Motherly.

When Finding A Babysitter Feels Like Online Dating

The breakup happens, as many often do, over the phone. “I need to concentrate on me,” she says, explaining her decision to leave. “I can’t do this anymore.” I’m heartbroken that my kids’ regular babysitter, who we have had for over a year, is suddenly leaving us. It stings, but I know I have to move on, and find someone new.

I create a job posting on a popular sitter search websites, and I’m hopeful. That is, until I realize how much searching for a new babysitter online starts to feel eerily similar to online dating. And – as in my days of online dating – how difficult it is to not favor those people with the more “attractive” looking profile pics (regardless of whether they’re suited for me). 

I admit, I have a “type” when it comes to my babysitters (and it applies to both male and female sitters): Creatives, performers and actors. This demographic tends to be good looking, and they also tend to leave as soon as they get a better job or opportunity. “Eights or above,” my husband’s friends joke, when referring to our cache of good-looking babysitters.

But even the applicants seem to be confused about how to go about the online thing. Based on their profile photos, I begin to wonder if the younger generation is simply unable to comprehend self-promoting online without imbuing sexual overtones. As I scroll through my Inbox of would-be Mary Poppinses, I’m faced with “sexy selfie” after sexy selfie. One young lady’s pouty lips and half-closed eyes, accompany a profile in which she’s describes herself as a “young, vibrant student, looking for a regular source of income!” (Maybe she landed on the wrong kind of website, I wonder?). Yet another applicant has exclusively featured her cleavage as her profile pic – no neck or face – perhaps to show her “nurturing” side. Every other applicant in my inbox is either giving me Duck Face, Bedroom Eyes, or Cleavage Shot. 

After what feels like endless scrolling, I have to stop and ask myself: Am I searching for a loving caregiver to watch my children, or a hot date or sidepiece for my husband? I focus back to my task, and message a few prospects who have more “work appropriate” profile photos, and who look good professionally on paper, too. 

But then I find that the interviews feel like the kind of dates you have with someone you meet online. I meet with a cute young actress and we spend two hours at a café, talking about our favorite authors, social justice, and our writing. I decide to have her do a trial day with our family, but once the glow of our meeting is gone, start to have second thoughts. I realize how little we discussed her babysitting experience during our meeting. When I ask for current references, she gives me a strange excuse as to why she can’t share them. I later find out she suffered a nervous breakdown a mere three weeks ago. No surprise here: People aren’t always what they appear to be online.

My next interview is a total “meet cute”. I’ve given her the address to the Starbucks, but apparently she’s at a different Starbucks a few blocks away. We spend the next half hour running past each other on the street before we finally connect. She’s an all-American cheerleader type – all long blonde hair and a figure that would amuse the neighborhood dads. I buy her tea, and she doesn’t meet my eyes the whole time we talk. It’s awkward. “I’ll text you,” I lie, when we say goodbye.

And, as it also often happens with online dating, some people are complete duds – or worse, felons! A pretty brunette who messages me about how much she loves kids “and dogs!” (she is very adamant about her love of dogs), suddenly starts following my Instagram. I decide to do some spying too, but a quick Google reveals her mug shot and several arrests. 

My experience with the would-be Criminal Babysitter cools me off the sitter website for a while. I get a few recommendations from online mom groups, but I can’t will myself to contact any of them without a photo. 

Of course, once past the pleasant exterior, I look for all the other qualities a person must have before I allow them to look after my brood. But I also wonder what wonderful people I may be missing during my search, because of my focus on attractiveness. It’s the same thing I used to ask myself when I exclusively responded to the good looking guys who messaged me online, rarely giving the “nice guys” (who had less than stellar pictures) a chance.

The Swipe Right mentality – the tendency to make a snap judgment about someone or something based on looks alone – extends to nearly everything I look for online, from clothes, to yoga studios, to, I guess, caregivers. I think that has something to do with the fact that searching for most things online that have visual components, feels a little bit like shopping. How can all that liking and swiping that we do everyday, as we take in digital information on apps, and on social media – not trickle down into how we assess other things we perceive as “commodities”?

“Give me the Bearded Lady,” says one mom friend. “I don’t need a hot young nanny walking around my house in front of my partner.” Maybe one day, I’ll join her camp, and hire a School Marm type to watch the kids. In the meantime, I’m working on my sitter bias as I continue to search for The One (FYI open to any leads.) I’m still seeking “eights or above” – but doing my best to use that to describe the caliber of applicant, and not simply how they look on their profile pic.

This piece was originally published on Mother Mag, but was removed because of "too much backlash". 

Image: "Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead" (1991). Image may be subject to copyright.

Bare

When I became pregnant with my first son, I was not shy about showing off my belly. My growing womb was something I presented to the world with pride. I couldn’t wait to flaunt it in stomach-clinging shirts and tight dresses. And when I became a mother, I shrugged my blouse off my shoulders easily at my baby’s hungry cries, not even bothering with the nursing cover. It was almost with an exhibitionist’s glee that I would unbutton my shirt or pull up my dress anywhere from the local coffee shop to the tearoom at the Plaza. So why was it so difficult for me, after everything, with the pregnancies and the births and the breastfeeding, to bare my makeup-free face to the world? Why was this last reveal the hardest?

I come from a long line of women who take very good care of their appearances – almost to a fault. There is a famous story in our family that pretty much captures the value that the women in my life place on aesthetics: My late grandmother, after hearing about a tragic teen who had committed suicide in the library of a local university asked me as if trying to puzzle out a simple explanation, “But was she ugly?” From the tender age of eleven, I was taught never to leave the house without lipstick. I thought it was completely normal for a woman to do her makeup in the morning before leaving the house, and then to come home at noon, wash her face, and do it again before eating her lunch while watching an episode of Dynasty. I remember once, when my mom was in the hospital for a minor surgery, that her twin sister came and applied all of her makeup so that she could look presentable for the doctors. When I was pregnant with my first son, I agonized over the possibility of being in the hospital and receiving visitors without having the ability to have first put on a little makeup. The prospect of being barefaced, and therefore, looking ugly, was terrifying.

This is not to say that up until that day, I had never ventured out into the world without makeup. It happened once before, and I was tricked into it. Years ago, pre children, the man who would later become my husband and I were on a vacation in the Loire Valley, and he had woken me up with the promise of a quick drive to get coffee and croissants, but instead, kidnapped me for a day trip to the countryside. I remember initially feeling such rage about it, when I first realized that I had been duped, like he had made me parade around the town square in the nude. “I don’t even have my powder compact with me!” I remember yelling at him. Of course, it ended up being one of the most memorable days we’ve ever had together. We drove through country roads flanked by fields of lavender and drank lots of wine and ate fantastic tomato and cheese salads and strolled hand in hand through cobble stoned streets. In the pictures he took of me that day (to great protest), nearly nine years ago, I look lovely and in love. No makeup, glasses and all.

For the birth of my first son, I had packed makeup with me in my hospital bag, but I never got to wear it in all the five days of my hospital stay. Between nursing the wounds of my c-section, nursing my newborn baby, fighting the oncoming first waves of postpartum depression, and greeting the countless family members that came to visit, there just wasn’t time for mascara. Even the lure of the professional baby photo shoot in the hospital room couldn’t get me to muster up the energy for a dab of concealer.

Once I was settled at home, however, I somehow conjured back my makeup mojo. My firstborn was a colicky child. He needed to be held nonstop. I hadn’t ascribed to any particular ideology of parenting, but looking back, I guess I was an Attachment Parent by default, namely because my baby was always attached to me since if I tried to put him down he would scream. I discovered that the path of least resistance was to hold him in one arm at all times. I became very skilled at applying BB cream, concealer, blush, and brow pencil with just one hand, often while bouncing.

When I got pregnant with my second, I prided myself on making sure I was a Pretty Pregnant Person – one who thoughtfully dressed around her pregnant belly, put a curling wand to her hair, and yes, did her makeup. Of course, this was all very exhausting with a toddler running circles around me, but at the time, I convinced myself it was all worth it because it was for my SELF ESTEEM. If I didn’t feel good about myself, then what kind of energy would I be projecting for my son, and my baby? It is amazing the kinds of inner narratives we can spin to help justify less than helpful behaviors.

And then . . . the second born arrived. And he was needy as all get out, and on top of that, his older brother needed me even more. And between both my hands being full of children and the fact that I hadn’t yet learned how to apply makeup with my toes, putting on a full brow and eyeliner just wasn’t physically possible. And I think there must have been one day when I was just so tired that I must have looked at my makeup drawer, sighed, and decided to venture outside with a bare face. And you know what? Nothing happened. The sky did not fall down. The Earth did not shake. A house did not land on my head. I had a normal day and I didn’t scare off any small children with how hideous I looked. So the next day, when presented with the choice between taking the time to put on my makeup or enjoying a cup of coffee in the five minutes that my baby wasn’t nursing, and my three year old wasn’t asking me to build something with Magnatiles while he sat on my lap, again I ignored the call of my makeup bag. And then day after day went by and still, no makeup, unless it was a special day where I had something important to do or somewhere cool to go (which was not very often, as anyone with a newborn and a toddler knows). And like anything that you do enough times in a row, it became my new normal, and suddenly, I became a person who does not wear makeup on the regular. Years and years of conditioning reversed, just like that.

Motherhood forces upon you so many changes and shifts in identity. It brings with it a rawness and honesty you can’t escape from even if you try. At first it was hard when I caught my reflection in a mirror. I couldn’t believe that this was the face that I was allowing the world to see. Eventually, I got used to this new face – a face that my grandmother, were she alive today, would strongly discourage showing off in public except in extreme case of emergency. Another gift that motherhood bestowed upon me: I no longer have the time nor the desire to linger in front of the mirror and mess around with what I see. But when I do catch a glimpse, I like what is there. Without makeup, I can see my freckles. I’m not chasing after imaginary shine with a powder puff like I’d done for so many years, and instead I’m letting my skin be a little shiny sometimes which actually, can pass for a “glow” on the days when I’m being kind to myself. If I have an extra minute, I’ll put on mascara before heading out but most of the times I just say whatever, and skip it. Sometimes people tell me I look tired and I know it might have something to do with the fact that I’m not wearing makeup (in addition to the fact that yes, I am really tired) but I try not to let that get to me. This is how motherhood looks on my face, and on most days, I think I wear it well.

Originally published here.