"Kentucky? You thought we were from Kentucky? I don't know if you could have said anything worse to me. Maybe I should call my stylist, or just throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge!"
This was my response to a woman who asked where we were from in the bathroom of the Capital Grill on Wall Street.
KZ had had an active day. We had lunch with Daddy after visiting his office, took a boat ride on the Staten Island Ferry, then had a fun play date with her best friend Chloe. We were going to head back home, but Daddy suggested having dinner at the Capital Grill. We really like the Capital Grill. It has good food, excellent service, and is very kid friendly ... at least the Capital Grill on Wall Street. KZ was really wired from her long day. It was passed her bedtime, and that second wind that only four-year old's can get, had taken over.
At the end of dinner, she needed to go to the bathroom. Jeremy took her, but they came back right away.
"Daddy wanted to take me into the boys room. I'm a girl. I can't go in there," she said. "Come on Mommy, let's go. I have to poop."
Well, how can I argue with that.
Jeremy just looked at me.
"I tried, I really did," he said.
Once KZ was finished in the very posh bathroom, she started talking to a woman who just walked in.
"Hi, I'm KZ! What's your name?"
She as this thirty-something Asian-American, black wardrobe clad, uber thin woman ... in high heels.
"My name is Grace," she nicely replied.
"Where are you from?" KZ continued.
I was happy that she was holding a conversation and following the flow of dialog.
"I'm from New York. And where are you from?"
"I live at 446 East 86th Street," KZ proudly replied.
"Oh, I thought you were going to say Kentucky, or some place like that," Grace nicely replied.
And that is where I lost it.
True, neither KZ nor I are were wearing black, or under weight, or had on heels. But KENTUCKY? I mean I could have handled Brooklyn.
Not sure what this means ... except that Grace doesn't have any children.
Tuesday, 3 July 2012
Saturday, 12 May 2012
May 11, 2008 - Birth Day
The clear blue sky let the sunlight fill my private suite at the Portland Hospital. My balcony was lined with bright red mums, which accented the skyline of the City of London. Today was the day, May 11, 2008. I was being induced with my first child, a girl we had already named Kaylia Zoe, or KZ for short. People say never name the baby before you have it, but we made the mistake that every set of new parents can't help but do. As soon as I knew she was a girl, I told my husband, "We are having a Kaylia!"
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Considering my advanced maternal age, or AMA which was written all over my medical charts, the doctors did not want me going more than five days over my due date. Whether KZ wanted it or not, today was going to be her birthday. My doctor, who could have passed for an over 40 cover model, wore a form fitting white linen dress, with dark red drop earrings. I actually looked cute, considering how uncomfortable I felt. I read all the books on how to prepare for the delivery process. My nails were perfectly manicured in the classic OPI Red. My eyebrows shaped. My lashes tinted. My hair the perfect color of red, with no greys allowed. I planned to look fabulous for the afterbirth pictures.
After approximately 30 minutes into being induced, my husband became bored.
"I'm going to run across the street for sandwiches," he said.
Just as he started to leave, the baby monitor strapped to my stomach fell off. The nurse immediately replaced the monitor. Within seconds, alarms sounded. Before I knew what was happening, the room was filled with doctors and nurses.
"Get the oxygen."
"I can't get a vein. Someone help me. Her blood pressure is dropping."
I looked down to see a new nurse trying unsuccessfully to put an IV in my arm. All I could think was that this is so going to hurt tomorrow. I had no clue what was happening. One minute I was laughing, enjoying the sunshine and view, and the next moment doctors were screaming. I looked over at my husband, who had been pre-med at University of Chicago. He was reading the monitors as I watched the blood drain from his face. I knew then that something terrible was happening and I had no way to control it.
Almost as soon as it all started, everything was back to normal.
"What happened?", I asked.
"The baby's heart stopped beating. Your blood pressure was dropping, but we were able to get you both back."
"Back? Were we going somewhere?"
My perfectly manicured doctor was now wearing scrubs.
"If this happens again, we'll have to do an immediate c-section."
Before she could finish her sentence, the alarms began to sound again.
"Operating theater, STAT!"
The nurse threw scrubs at my husband.
"Change as fast as you can."
The doctors were running me down the hallway. As the lights passed overhead, I felt as if I was in an episode of ER, but George Clooney wasn't holding my hand. I was 42. This was my first baby. She was planned and dreamed of for years, and now, this could be it, for us both. I thought about my girlfriend who had delivered her still born daughter a few months earlier. The silent tears ran down my face as I prayed that God would let us keep KZ.
Seventeen minutes later, my perfect doctor was covered in red blood, my blood. I couldn't feel a thing. The silence seemed to last an entirety, but then I heard KZ begin to cry.
Friday, 4 May 2012
I was running late for my writing class the other day and decided to hop a cab.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
"Where to?" the driver said.
"42nd and 5th," I said, then started to play with my iPhone.
"What's at 42nd and 5th?" he said.
Ugh, is this going to be one of those Chatty Cathys Cabbies.
"I'm going to a writing class at NYU," I said as I tried to go back to my iPhone.
"I write," he said. "Each day after I end my shift I write down about the people who are in the cab. I actually will write something about each person as soon as I can after they leave so I don't forget. I got volumes. I want to write a book, or do a stand up routine on it."
He went on to tell me some crazy stories, then how when a psychiatrist would get in the cab, he would ask them to diagnose the other people. He looked to be in his fifties, white, and overweight. I could see him on stage talking. He was doing a great job talking to me, but of course, he wasn't looking at me.
"The most important thing to do is to keep writing, everyday," he said.
Yes, the cab driver is right. I need to follow his advice. I've not been writing about all the crazy things that happen in New York City because I've been too busy living my life in New York City. I have been writing a lot, but believe it or not, I don't post everything I write.
Here's to my cabbie, where ever you are. You have a great book, with great material. I hope to read it one day, or to see you on the stage.
Keep writing.
Monday, 26 March 2012
May I have a Blue Crayon, Please
"The problem is, when we ask KZ what color crayon she wants, she answers, 'Blue' ", KZ's pre-school teacher told me.
I just sat there. I wasn't sure what was wrong with this answer.
"What we she needs to say is, 'I would like a blue crayon, please.' ", the teacher said.
I continued to sit silently, thinking that if someone asked me what color crayon I wanted, I would answer "blue", not "I would like a blue crayon, please."
"Most of her answers are one word answers, like yes or no," the teacher said.
Most of my answers are one word answers, like yes or no. I don't have the time to go into details.
"During Circle Time and Story Time, KZ seems pre-occupied. She plays with her hands a lot."
Like an iPhone or Blackberry, I thought.
Apparently, my daughter is modelling our home behavior at school, and doing well at it.
"We really think that if you want to put KZ into a private school, you'll need to send her to a speech therapist."
"Do you recommend anyone?" I asked.
"No, we don't like to do that for legal reasons."
Lovely. Send her to a speech therapist, but we cannot recommend one for legal reasons.
"How about a clue towards the first step?", I asked.
"You can asked some of the parents in KZ's class. Many kids take speech therapy."
It does seem like the "in" thing to do in New York. I know plenty of people who have had their children in speech therapy before the age of two. Some kids can hardly walk in their diapers, but they are in speech therapy. We've been told that maybe KZ could benefit from a speech therapist for a number of years now. I don't have anything to base the need for speech therapy on. I don't have other children and we don't really spend that much time with a lot of other children her own age. She said her first word, "Kadou", the name of our younger dog, at seven months. I always felt the speech therapy suggestions was a way of pushing her into this New York competitive childhood. I wanted to protect her from the craziness as long as we could. Unfortunately, if we now want a shot of getting her into a private kindergarten we have to send her to speech therapy.
After a flurry of phone calls and emails to every mother I knew in the city, I was recommended to a speech therapist a block from KZ's current school. We went for our evaluation. As I sat in the over-heated, dull-blue waiting room, falling asleep, I could hear KZ laughing inside. She was saying words like "duck" and making "quaking" noises. She seemed happy.
Once the thirty minute session was over, it was my turn to talk to the therapist. I felt as if I were being judged, considering that I went through years of speech therapy for the letter S. All the sudden I was five years old, and being told to keep my tongue in my mouth and not to lisp. Lisp, an ironic word considering those with a lisp have a difficult time saying it. It was as if it were defined by a sadist. The room seemed stifling hot, the chair uncomfortable, and the blue color even more draining.
"KZ's has a difficult time saying her S's, R's, and Th's", the therapist said.
Most kids at three years cannot say their S's or R's. Considering I'm from Chicago, I didn't say a Th correctly until I was in my 20's. These things do not worry me.
"I'm also worried about her vocabulary. It needs to be richer," the therapist said.
"Richer?" I asked.
"Yes, I asked her the name of her school and she didn't know."
I kept my mouth shut but thought, the name is the House of Little People Too. I don't say this to her every day. I just say, "We're going to school."
"When I asked her her teacher's name, she didn't know," the therapist said.
"Her teacher just left and I've not met her new teacher. Her name is something like Migdella, but I'm not sure."
The therapist just looked at me and continued.
"She didn't know what a clown was, or a wagon."
Again, I just sat there. Clowns are creepy and not a part of our world. As far as a wagon, we don't live in the country or the burbs.
"She also got her socks and shoes mixed up as well as a helicopter and plane."
I have no idea on these two. She knows these like the back of her hand. Were the pictures strange? I just don't know.
"If you want to put KZ into private school, she'll need to be clearer with her speech and have a much richer vocabulary. I can help her with these things. You need to bring her in at least once a week and work with her at home. We can access her progress in three months to see if she is on track for the private school interviews or if more needs to be done at that time."
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this overall. I do know, I feel sick to my stomach. I could have sent her to speech therapy two years ago. I'm sure it wouldn't have hurt, but I'm not thinking she is really behind now. This isn't anything irreversible, but it is good to be caught now so that we are prepared for the tests in the Fall. But I do think that this is just another example of the hyper competitive New York mindset. Little kids are not allowed to organically grow and learn. They need to be tested and coached before they are four so that they are not left behind in our big bad world. Of course I want the best for her, but I'm not sure exactly what that is. I really don't want her hating school or music or life in general. I want each moment of learning to be that of joy and wonder. It really is the only way she'll grow into the person she is meant to be. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not that granola. I know that kids also need direction, rules, boundaries, limitations, and that math can be hard. It takes work, and struggles but when she gets the answer, it will be worth all the hard work.
This is where my heart struggles. Where is that fine line between the love of learning, brow beating and bullying, and having the sixteen year old who just wants to do drugs and sit around the house. Unfortunately, the line is different for all of us, and no one really can really show us the way. All we can do as parents is to do our best each day. And for me right now, that is a pre-paid, ten-pack session with a speech therapist ... and making sure that KZ asks, "May I have a blue crayon, please."
I just sat there. I wasn't sure what was wrong with this answer.
"What we she needs to say is, 'I would like a blue crayon, please.' ", the teacher said.
I continued to sit silently, thinking that if someone asked me what color crayon I wanted, I would answer "blue", not "I would like a blue crayon, please."
"Most of her answers are one word answers, like yes or no," the teacher said.
Most of my answers are one word answers, like yes or no. I don't have the time to go into details.
"During Circle Time and Story Time, KZ seems pre-occupied. She plays with her hands a lot."
Like an iPhone or Blackberry, I thought.
Apparently, my daughter is modelling our home behavior at school, and doing well at it.
"We really think that if you want to put KZ into a private school, you'll need to send her to a speech therapist."
"Do you recommend anyone?" I asked.
"No, we don't like to do that for legal reasons."
Lovely. Send her to a speech therapist, but we cannot recommend one for legal reasons.
"How about a clue towards the first step?", I asked.
"You can asked some of the parents in KZ's class. Many kids take speech therapy."
It does seem like the "in" thing to do in New York. I know plenty of people who have had their children in speech therapy before the age of two. Some kids can hardly walk in their diapers, but they are in speech therapy. We've been told that maybe KZ could benefit from a speech therapist for a number of years now. I don't have anything to base the need for speech therapy on. I don't have other children and we don't really spend that much time with a lot of other children her own age. She said her first word, "Kadou", the name of our younger dog, at seven months. I always felt the speech therapy suggestions was a way of pushing her into this New York competitive childhood. I wanted to protect her from the craziness as long as we could. Unfortunately, if we now want a shot of getting her into a private kindergarten we have to send her to speech therapy.
After a flurry of phone calls and emails to every mother I knew in the city, I was recommended to a speech therapist a block from KZ's current school. We went for our evaluation. As I sat in the over-heated, dull-blue waiting room, falling asleep, I could hear KZ laughing inside. She was saying words like "duck" and making "quaking" noises. She seemed happy.
Once the thirty minute session was over, it was my turn to talk to the therapist. I felt as if I were being judged, considering that I went through years of speech therapy for the letter S. All the sudden I was five years old, and being told to keep my tongue in my mouth and not to lisp. Lisp, an ironic word considering those with a lisp have a difficult time saying it. It was as if it were defined by a sadist. The room seemed stifling hot, the chair uncomfortable, and the blue color even more draining.
"KZ's has a difficult time saying her S's, R's, and Th's", the therapist said.
Most kids at three years cannot say their S's or R's. Considering I'm from Chicago, I didn't say a Th correctly until I was in my 20's. These things do not worry me.
"I'm also worried about her vocabulary. It needs to be richer," the therapist said.
"Richer?" I asked.
"Yes, I asked her the name of her school and she didn't know."
I kept my mouth shut but thought, the name is the House of Little People Too. I don't say this to her every day. I just say, "We're going to school."
"When I asked her her teacher's name, she didn't know," the therapist said.
"Her teacher just left and I've not met her new teacher. Her name is something like Migdella, but I'm not sure."
The therapist just looked at me and continued.
"She didn't know what a clown was, or a wagon."
Again, I just sat there. Clowns are creepy and not a part of our world. As far as a wagon, we don't live in the country or the burbs.
"She also got her socks and shoes mixed up as well as a helicopter and plane."
I have no idea on these two. She knows these like the back of her hand. Were the pictures strange? I just don't know.
"If you want to put KZ into private school, she'll need to be clearer with her speech and have a much richer vocabulary. I can help her with these things. You need to bring her in at least once a week and work with her at home. We can access her progress in three months to see if she is on track for the private school interviews or if more needs to be done at that time."
I'm not sure how I feel about all of this overall. I do know, I feel sick to my stomach. I could have sent her to speech therapy two years ago. I'm sure it wouldn't have hurt, but I'm not thinking she is really behind now. This isn't anything irreversible, but it is good to be caught now so that we are prepared for the tests in the Fall. But I do think that this is just another example of the hyper competitive New York mindset. Little kids are not allowed to organically grow and learn. They need to be tested and coached before they are four so that they are not left behind in our big bad world. Of course I want the best for her, but I'm not sure exactly what that is. I really don't want her hating school or music or life in general. I want each moment of learning to be that of joy and wonder. It really is the only way she'll grow into the person she is meant to be. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not that granola. I know that kids also need direction, rules, boundaries, limitations, and that math can be hard. It takes work, and struggles but when she gets the answer, it will be worth all the hard work.
This is where my heart struggles. Where is that fine line between the love of learning, brow beating and bullying, and having the sixteen year old who just wants to do drugs and sit around the house. Unfortunately, the line is different for all of us, and no one really can really show us the way. All we can do as parents is to do our best each day. And for me right now, that is a pre-paid, ten-pack session with a speech therapist ... and making sure that KZ asks, "May I have a blue crayon, please."
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Goodbye Davy Jones
I just learned that Davy Jones of the Monkees died today. I'm so bummed. He was my first boyfriend, after all.
When KZ was born, I sang her the song, "I'm a Believer," written by Neil Diamond, and released by the Monkees in 1966, the year I was born.
It was perfect to describe my feels of being a new mom. For your memory lane, listening pleasure ... for KZ and Davy Jones.
I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me
Love was out to get me
That's the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
I thought love was more or less a givin' thing.
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What's the use in trying?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine
I got rain.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Love was out to get me
Now that's the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
Said I'm a believer
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
I'm a believer
When KZ was born, I sang her the song, "I'm a Believer," written by Neil Diamond, and released by the Monkees in 1966, the year I was born.
It was perfect to describe my feels of being a new mom. For your memory lane, listening pleasure ... for KZ and Davy Jones.
I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me
Love was out to get me
That's the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
I thought love was more or less a givin' thing.
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
What's the use in trying?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine
I got rain.
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Love was out to get me
Now that's the way it seemed
Disappointment haunted all my dreams
And then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
I'm in love ooooo whoa
I'm a believer I couldn't leave her if I tried.
Then I saw her face
Now I'm a believer
Not a trace
Of doubt in my mind
Said I'm a believer
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
I'm a believer
Friday, 24 February 2012
The Letter S
When I picked KZ up from school last Friday, her teacher told me that she was very upset while trying to work on her letter S. Each week they focus on one letter, and last week it was S. She was upset because it was just one long, curvy line. She couldn't stop with the S, like with an R, which is three different strokes. She just didn't think it looked good enough.
All weekend, she worked on her S.
"Mommy, let's work on S's," she would say.
But as we worked on them, she would get so frustrated that she would crumble up the paper, or even take her scissors and cut it up. But then she would come back to it. The S's were not going to win.
We've not had any issues with other letters so far. I honestly didn't even know if she was paying any attention to her letters, until I asked her teachers.
"Oh yes, she really works on them and does well," they told me.
The S was her first test.
At her low point, she just broke down and cried. Big alligator tears ran down her face. Her face was red and she couldn't talk.
"Honey, Mommy and Daddy have made a lot of S's in our lives. Don't worry, you'll get there. Your S's are beautiful," I told her.
"No, they need to be better!" she choked out through her tears.
I felt like a jerk. I want her to work hard but I don't want her making herself sick.
On Tuesday morning, before leaving for school, she wanted to work on her S's again. She stayed very focused. Et voila, a beautiful S.
"Great job!" I said.
"Yeah, I did it!" she said as she danced around the apartment.
"Let's call Grandma and tell her," I said.
"No, they aren't that good yet," she said.
Ugh ... ok, but she was really trying and working hard on them.
On Wednesday morning, before school, she worked on her S's again. This time she was pleased.
"We can call Grandma now. My S's are good enough," she said.
This week, the letter is T. We've had no T issues. She has, however, pointed out every T she's seen on the way home, especially the ones on all the Catholic churches.
All weekend, she worked on her S.
"Mommy, let's work on S's," she would say.
But as we worked on them, she would get so frustrated that she would crumble up the paper, or even take her scissors and cut it up. But then she would come back to it. The S's were not going to win.
We've not had any issues with other letters so far. I honestly didn't even know if she was paying any attention to her letters, until I asked her teachers.
"Oh yes, she really works on them and does well," they told me.
The S was her first test.
At her low point, she just broke down and cried. Big alligator tears ran down her face. Her face was red and she couldn't talk.
"Honey, Mommy and Daddy have made a lot of S's in our lives. Don't worry, you'll get there. Your S's are beautiful," I told her.
"No, they need to be better!" she choked out through her tears.
I felt like a jerk. I want her to work hard but I don't want her making herself sick.
On Tuesday morning, before leaving for school, she wanted to work on her S's again. She stayed very focused. Et voila, a beautiful S.
"Great job!" I said.
"Yeah, I did it!" she said as she danced around the apartment.
"Let's call Grandma and tell her," I said.
"No, they aren't that good yet," she said.
Ugh ... ok, but she was really trying and working hard on them.
On Wednesday morning, before school, she worked on her S's again. This time she was pleased.
"We can call Grandma now. My S's are good enough," she said.
This week, the letter is T. We've had no T issues. She has, however, pointed out every T she's seen on the way home, especially the ones on all the Catholic churches.
Short but Sweet
"Mommy, today is Lincoln's birthday," KZ said.
"Yes, sweetheart, it is," I said.
"What are we going to give him?" she asked.
"Yes, sweetheart, it is," I said.
"What are we going to give him?" she asked.
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