Shardstorm, Shitstorm, Snowstorm

Every weekday morning starts the same. I have goals for the day -- what I'd really like to get done before Mike gets home from work, usually around 6:30, when I escape to the gym for my only alone time. And then there are the minimum goals I can realistically hope to achieve, and that's on a good day. Most days I'm lucky if Michael Alexander naps for 20 minutes, giving me that much time to hustle even as I would like to join him in a nap. Writing, even answering emails, is a constant challenge as he wants to pound on the keys as soon as he sees the laptop open. I steal away what little time I can in the minutes he'll entertain himself in the jump-a-roo. Like right now. I am typing as quickly as I can because I am determined today to write something, anything.

The day started with a shardstorm. I placed Michael Alexander in the jump-a-roo as I ran to the bathroom to pee. (Little luxuries that stay-at-home moms cherish. I have become a master at holding it to keep toilet visits to a minimum.) I had just unzipped my jeans when I heard a colossal crash that rattled me to the core. I can see and hear Michael Alexander from the bathroom, so I knew he was fine, but I still dreaded the source of that scary sound. The light fixture on the kitchen ceiling had thundered down, showering the black tiles with shards of white polished glass. Some pieces were large enough to scoop up by hand, most had to be swept up and a powder had to be very carefully removed. The kitchen floor and parts of the counter and stove were covered in what looked like a dusting of snow. Tiny shards and some powder made it into the living room. I carefully stepped into a pair of flip flops just outside the kitchen every few minutes to soothe Michael Alexander as I scoured the floors for every last razor sharp shard. It took a full hour just to be sure all visible powder was discarded. I sliced off a sliver of my right middle finger as I carefully pulled a chunk of glass from under the dishwasher. I've managed to keep Michael Alexander out of the kitchen all day. That's a tall order, as he insists on following me in there and enjoys searching for any remnants and pushing the dishawasher buttons and opening the oven door. He's so tall that at 9 months, he can reach higher than most 18-month-olds. To be sure, I scrubbed the floor and the oven and the counters. That called for a another series of sweeps to distinguish between the clean shine and stubborn shards.

Shardstorm over, save for the particles I missed and the ongoing battle to keep Michael Alexander out of the tiny kitchen he finds so fascinating. As much as I dread grocery shopping ahead of another threat of stormageddon, I had to get to get food and water just because we're one of those unusual Manhattan households that prepares most of its meals despite the endless delivery options. We went to Whole Foods first, but too many staples, like the sports cap electrolyte enhanced water, were sold out, so we returned to slippery sidewalks and headed to Trader Joe's. Trader Joe's in Union Square, unlike its sister stores in suburbia, is cramped and always crowded beyond capacity. I was relieved that there was no line outside, as that often stretches half an avenue while people wait to clear the entrance. Trader Joe's is boring. Boring for anyone, especially an extremely active 9-month-old confined to a stroller for what seems like an endless, sluggish journey snaking the narrow aisles. Michael Alexander is such a happy baby, so animated and engaging he earns the adoration of child-hating hipsters. Shoppers are rabid and packed like sardines. There are no pleasantries. Michael Alexander isn't accustomed to such a somber scene. He's used to constant compliments and a sea of smiles. Understandably, he got a little cranky as we weaved our way around the weary sourpusses and sad saps. As always, there is plenty of carriage slamming. There's always a shopper who repeatedly rams her cart into the backs of my ankles as if that will expedite her trip to the register. The woman behind us on line today was particularly nasty. The bitter old hag hates babies. I could sense this even before her verbal assault, as my radar was honed in my years as a bitter young hack who had little tolerance for crying babies in crowded stores. As the hag slammed her push cart into my back, she knocked a package of ground turkey from the stroller. It landed near her feet. "Please, remove that immediately," she barked. "I cannot be exposed to meat. I cannot handle meat." I said nothing as I retrieved the warehouse sealed package from the ground, inches away from her filthy rubber rain boots. Meantime, her face was closer to the shelves of beef than her boots were to the single package of poultry. "Disgusting," she mumbled. "Children should not have contact with meat." Hmmm ... I was a vegetarian, briefly, as a younger person. We all make mistakes, go through phases. If she's so adamant about her problem, err, I am mean choice, perhaps she could avoid stores that stock the flesh she so fears. Even the vegans that nibble away at their bowls of overpriced leaves and legumes from the trough where these items sit all day turning every shade of food poisoning don't scoff at the carnivores flanking them at the Whole Foods checkout line. Maybe it's because they're technically stealing (and breaking state law) by chowing down on the food that's priced, and supposed to be purchased, by the pound. In any case, this hag's anti-meat madness was above and beyond the worst offenders I've encountered in the mixed (omnivores and other uber eating races) retail company. As if her veg venom were not vile enough -- or perhaps my lack of response annoyed her -- the hag sought to set me off by swearing at my sweet son. "Ugh!" she launched into tirade No. 2. "Uuuugh! Why is that child here?!" Again, I ignored her. "Children should not be allowed here! There is no room for children!" My stubborn silence sent her seething, it seems. She pulled out her ancient flip phone and greeted the unlucky number with another, louder round of "Ughs!" "I am at Trader Joe's," she grumbled into the telecom artifact. "There is this woman, with a baby, throwing meat on the floor!" Lady, if my baby or I were throwing meat, you wouldn't be standing. Yet it was my very calm, my refusal to acknowledge her tedious tirade, that really ticked her off. She groaned and groaned some more. "This line is taking forever. This is bullshit! This woman with the baby! This is what nannies are for. To stay home with the babies!" Really? Nannies are for stay-at-home moms who need to grocery shop solo? Fascinating! I am pretty sure the uber rich who afford such leisure and luxury need not shop on their own, at Trader Joe's. We made it to a register, where we were greeted by the charming cashier. He is named Mike, like so many a kind-hearted and quick-witted man. "How was your shopping experience?" he asked with a smirk. "I've had better days." Curious, he quizzed me for more. I summed up the hag's harassment. "Want me to get a manager? We can ban people like that from the store." I thanked him, but explained that this hag's misery was self-inflicted punishment enough, and the manager need not endure her fury.

Having a baby changes everything. Back in my pre-mommy days. Back when I was a bitter young hack, I'd never have kept shut and I'd likely have been banned when the other oldy-moldy meanies joined forces to counter my youthful rage against the hag. Today I am just happy to escape the hag's shitstorm, all that after surviving the shardstorm, at least relatively unscathed. All this and I thought today's super struggle was supposed to be a snowstorm. New Englanders and other non-New Yorkers, I shudder to say that I might have -- just for today -- preferred shoveling snow to shielding my son and self from the shards and shit.

In Your Face(book)

Like most things mainstream, I resisted Facebook for a very long time, at least in cybertrend time. When I finally caved, it was mainly to keep up with friends who have children, and others too far away or too busy to chat with regularly. You know, most people. Eventually I came to embrace Facebook for its convenience. And now that I'm a parent, posting baby pictures on Facebook is so much easier than emailing them to everyone who asks. So many times it's a hassle, as most emails bounce back because of the size of the photo files or some other issue I can't resolve. I wish my sister and sister-in-law were on Facebook, even with aliases, just for the photo sharing feature. I never have a problem uploading photos to Facebook. I'm also indebted to Facebook for allowing my young cousin in Belarus to find me and for putting me back in touch with close friends I hadn't heard from in decades. Otherwise, Facebook is really starting to annoy, even anger, me. I've been cutting back on my Facebook visits this week, and I haven't even logged on this morning. Until a particular post thread ticked me off, I was signed on to Facebook (as well as gmail) throughout the day, though I was rarely really "on" Facebook. That posed more problems, as some people didn't understand why I'd "ignore" their messages, even though I was "always" on Facebook. I have a baby. That should be obvious by my posts, which are mostly photos of my son. I am lucky to steal a few minutes to scroll through posts. If I really had the luxury of being online, not just signed on, at all times, I'd be writing or reading something other than Facebook updates.

I know I can unfriend people or just block their posts from appearing on my page, but there's part of me that's perversely drawn to the very posts that annoy and anger me. Sick, I know. That's why I'm curbing my consumption of crappy comments. We're all guilty of oversharing in some way. That's the whole premise of Facebook. Certainly most of my "friends" could care less about my most of posts and I am assume most of them just ignore them. But I know there are some people in my Facebook universe who are interested in some of my updates and it's just more convenient to post than to email everyone who might care. I'm sure I've offended or outraged plenty of my "friends" with a post or two, but my goal really isn't to share too much information. The problem with TMI on Facebook is that so much of what's out there doesn't even qualify as information. I can't imagine that anyone's friend is at all interested in what baked good you purchased for breakfast or how your morning commute was more manic than mundane because of some young woman's banal banter. You know what's worse than some blabbing bimbo? Your inane posts. We all make daily food choices and encounter irritating people, but unless your experience is somehow extraordinary or at least atypical, please consider keeping it yourself. Sure I'm guilty of occasional improper, even inappropriate, posting, but I'm not an hourly or daily offender. Nobody needs or wants to hear enough random rantings to compose your daily psychological profile.

Worse than TMI (too much idiocy) are passive-aggressive posts that beg for a reply and hope for a useless thread of emotional reactions that say nothing. Social media is not the platform for cryptic cries for help. That's when you need to pick up the phone and call a real friend, or at least send them a private message. And then there's the litany of lame reactions to news events hours, even days, after they break. Posting a quote from a famous person seconds, minutes, even a couple hours after their obit hits the wire can be pithy or at least apropos, but dragging the process way past its prime is pathetic. If you missed the news because you were offline, good for you! That means you were probably doing something constructive, even creative. You missed it. It's over. Get over it, and post nothing or something timely. Please.

And worst of all, what's really upsetting me, is the realization that too many educated, professional people are incapable of critical thinking. I rarely reply to posts other than cute photos of children or status updates that really offer an update or some information I can't find with a simple Google search. Sometimes I'm compelled to respond to a post from a "friend" I don't know very well, but refrain for fear my social or political tirade will fall on deaf ears or even be misunderstood. Sadly, when I've made the leap and given a poster I don't know well the benefit of the doubt, I am deeply disappointed by their lack of analytical thinking and the ensuing insipidity of their other "friends." There are those of us on Facebook who post for their real friends, and there are those who cater to the lowest possible denominator. I don't expect Facebook or any other social media to become a forum for great debate and discussion, but I do wish people wouldn't dumb down every idea.

I'm posting this now, so I can sign on to Facebook to promote it. Ha!

Time to write

The biggest challenge of working from home is finding time to write. Michael Alexander, now five months old (born April 19), is sleeping like a big boy, but some days he doesn't nap at all. I write, research and report when he plays, but he's not one for solitary pursuits. He's happiest when I pay full attention to him. I'd like to take on more freelance, but I can barely manage the few assignments I have, and already do most of my typing with one hand, like right now. I've mastered the one-handed conference call with taking notes and typing trick, a skill that comes with motherhood. I've had so many more creative ideas since he was born. I thought it would be fun to write a blog using his voice. My husband, Mike, and I speak for Michael Alexander in a kiddie voice our friend Justin calls the Mickey Mouse voice. Blogging daily would force me to take more pictures of my son to accompany his insights and observations. Ultimately I decided it was creepy to write for a baby. Talking for him is weird enough, but at least I'm not doing it alone and we control our son's audience. My other ideas are too brilliant to share. Ha!