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.

What Do You Do All Day?

We've all been on the receiving end of the question. #MINDRMAMA Alexis Barad-Cutler reports. 

When you’re not in the trenches of early motherhood, it can be hard to grasp the kind of mental and emotional work that it entails. From the outside, it seems like a cushy job that lets you work from home, nap during the day, and maybe even watch some daytime TV. But as any new mom eating over a sink and calling that lunch can tell you, early motherhood has little to do with rest and relaxation. It’s hard work, full of sour milk, boob sweat, and lots of tears. And yet, any new mom constantly gets asked the question, “So what is it that you actually do all day?”

The first time I remember being asked the “what do you do all day” question was during a trip to visit family in Florida with our first-born. We were walking through town, trying to get our then-infant son to nap, when my mother-in-law spotted some family friends in one of the outdoor cafes. We went over to say hi, and all I could think was, “Can we just keep walking?” (As every mom knows, babies not in motion don’t stay asleep.) Suddenly everyone was staring at me, and that’s when I realized the husband was asking me a question:

“So what is it you do all day now that you’re a mom?” he asked, an amused look on his face, like he expected me to melt in a pile of maternal bliss just thinking about how great my days were. “Do you guys, just, you know . . . hang out?”

I stood there, speechless, and my brain started to overload with the millions of things that my baby and I did during the day that did not by any stretch of the imagination feel like “hanging out.”

I wanted to scream about the four times a night I was still waking up to soothe my baby back to sleep, which made my attempts at napping during the day a necessity and not a luxury. But then I would also have to mention that the terror of waking to the sounds of a cat being skinned from chin to tail – i.e. my child’s shrieks anytime he was put down in his crib – didn’t really make the naps seem worth it. I wanted to tell him about the hours per week I spent hooked to a wheezing, huffing breast pump. And how pumping while taking care of a baby is like trying to chew gum and walk, except instead of chewing gum, you’re trying to hold a baby out in front of you so that you don’t knock your pump shields off your nipples and you’re walking to the changing table to deal with a poop situation.

And that wouldn’t even have touched the daily logistics of caring for a baby; like the fact that the minute you get them changed into a clean outfit, they’ve already managed to pee up the back of it and you need to start all over again. Or what about the Amazon orders, or signing up for baby music classes and movement classes, scheduling doctor’s appointments (there are so many in those first few months), doing laundry, washing bottles, cleaning breast pump parts, and making sure to never, ever run out of diapers. It is monotonous. Relentless at times.

It’s not easy to be with a child all day. The ones who are too young to move or talk have very big needs – the feeding, the diapering, the swaddling. By the time a baby is mobile, you can’t even think about sitting down or looking away. Every moment feels like you’re playing defense against “Team Death.” And when your child is older, it sometimes seems like they never stop talking – to the point that there’s no room for a single thought of your own. It can make spending a day with a kid feel like you’ve been trapped inside a free-association method acting exercise – except that’s just how elementary school aged kids talk.

So, hanging on by a thread? Yes. Hanging out? Absolutely not. The good thing is, as time goes by, and you earn more of your parenting stripes, the logistics get a little easier to manage, but of course, they get even bigger. I have two boys now, and I work part time, but a huge chunk of my day is spent managing my children’s schedules. It’s like I’m a personal assistant to two very important, high-up execs. For example, sometimes it takes ten texts to various nannies or several rounds of emails before I land a play date for one of my kids because Yes I Live In New York City and we are crazy here.

I’m not alone, or special. Women – moms – are mostly the ones who carry the mental load when it comes to the care of their children. Even when they are at work, the mother is the one doing all the stuff behind the scenes – advocating on behalf of their child with a learning disability, or seeking out support for a child with an emotional problem, or a medical issue – society has decided this is women’s work. Personally, I think women would take it on either way. 

There was something else that troubled me about this stranger’s question, more than the fact that he asked me and put me on the spot to explain my day (I could easily have asked how he spends his retirement, but I didn’t). His question felt like an accusation. “You must have it good. What could you possibly have to complain about, Miss I Get To Stay At Home With My Baby?” When I was finally able to respond, I was grasping at anything I could think of that others would deem “important work” and muttered something about random freelance projects I was doing in my spare time.

But why did I do that? It was because I knew – from his question, his tone, and from the look on his face – that he didn’t think my life as a mom was difficult, or important. Unfortunately, he’s not an outlier in his perception of motherhood. Women must continue to share their stories of motherhood, and to speak about their important work. I wish I didn’t give that family friend the satisfaction of any stumbled or insecure answer, all those years ago. Mothers shouldn’t have to defend or explain their days to anyone.

Photo credit: Stylish & Hip Kids.

Originally published here.

How to Talk About Informed Consent with Kids

What the horrific trial of Larry Nassar has taught us.

Teaching our children about consent and their bodies has never been more urgent. Many of us have watched in horror as the details emerged in the trial of former doctor to the American gymnastics team Larry Nassar, who, under the guise of medical care, abused over 150 young women — some as young as 6 years old. It’s been a sobering parenting lesson in communication with our children, about boundaries and bodies and authority figures.

And yet, there are subtle, everyday ways we undermine the lessons we teach our children about consent — through our own actions and the actions of others, many with whom we are complicit. 

This especially hit very close to home during a recent visit to the pediatrician with my 6-and-a-half-year-old. We were at a routine annual checkup with a female doctor. While performing my son’s body exam, she was peppering me with questions about his health, and I admittedly wasn’t carefully watching what she was doing with her tools or her hands. My son was trying to get his own two cents in, as 6-year-olds often do, so I tried to remain focused on what the pediatrician was saying. Suddenly, my son shuddered, his cheeks turned bright red, and he said, “Mooooom, she just touched my PRIVATE PARTS!” 

“It’s OK,” the doctor said. “I’m a doctor.” I found myself agreeing with her, maybe to reassure him in the moment, or maybe because I was embarrassed at his outburst. “Yes, she’s a doctor,” I parroted. “So this is her job. She’s making sure all your body parts are healthy, and that includes your genitals.” 

The second I said it, I regretted it. She hadn’t alerted him (or me) to her touch, nor had she asked for permission. It wasn’t OK. And, judging by his face and how his body had tensed up, he wasn’t OK. 

As soon as we left, I explained that what the doctor had done was wrong and that I was also wrong in agreeing with her. I apologized; and I explained that she should have alerted us about her touch; that she should have asked for permission before touching; and that since it didn’t happen, I should have spoken up.

While the mind of a 6-year-old boy is often quick to move on, this experience clearly stayed with him. On the way home, he talked about it with me. At his play date, he talked about it with his friend. And at breakfast the next morning, unprompted, he talked it about it with my husband.

What happened at the doctor’s office goes against everything we try hard to teach our two boys about consent: “Your body belongs to you, and no one can touch it without your permission.” And yet, I allowed it to happen right in front of me, and worse – I was complicit in it by agreeing with the doctor while we were still in the exam room. I can’t help but think about some of the survivor testimonies in the Nassar case, in which the mothers were in the exam room with their daughters, naïve to and unaware of the abuse as it was happening. 

Of course, what happened to my son is a very, very far cry from what these women experienced at the hands of this sick criminal, but in a way, I identify with the mothers. Like them, I trust the people who are supposed to take care of my children to do their jobs in the most professional and respectful way. 

Since then, I’ve been thinking about the mixed messages I have been sending my children, and it turns out, I haven’t been so great at modeling consent with my kids. While I do tell them that no one can touch their bodies without their permission, I’ve also said, “no one, except me, Dad, your babysitters, and the doctor.” After all, there are baths to be had, tushies to be wiped and, of course, health exams to be done. But I now realize that I should have included one very important distinction: even among that elite group of people who are allowed to touch their bodies, there is still the prerequisite of, “only if you say it is OK first.”

It may seem extreme to some parents, but I am no longer taking my children’s voices for granted when it comes to their bodies and their ownership of them. I want my sons to know that their bodies are their own and that they get a say in what is done to them, whether the person doing them is a doctor, a dentist, a babysitter, or even me. 

Now does this mean that I will be asking my three-year-old his permission to wash his hair at bath time? No. But I will tell him what is about to happen, so that he understands that prior to someone touching him, there can and should be a conversation. And if he says no, I’ll give him the soap, and let him have a try at it!

In the future, I will not ignore my child’s questions at his own doctor’s appointments, and I will be wary of the doctor that doesn’t read a child’s cues when they seem fearful and instead continues to examine their body. I will choose my child’s comfort and my own over the desire to finish an appointment. I will ask the questions my kids don’t have the ability to ask yet, because I am their advocate, and that is my job. At the next checkup, I will say, “Can you walk us through what you’re going to be doing today?” because being in a doctor’s office is scary for a lot of people, especially for children. 

Cases in the news like that of Dr. Nassar remind parents the scary truth that abuse of trust can come from even the most respected of people in our children’s lives. We must be consistent in our messages to our kids about what is and what is not OK with respect to their bodies so they know when to speak up – as my son did in that moment on the exam table. And we must listen when they do.

Originally published here.

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.