There is Such a Thing as Free Ice Cream

(Photo courtesy of anna29maria)

One of the many perks of living in NYC includes today’s serendipitous sighting of the Coach-branded Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream Truck at the corner of West Broadway and Prince Street. To promote the Coach Poppy Collection, the fashionably dressed trucks are offering gratis ice cream near flagship stores during 12pm-9pm thru July 25th. If I weren’t already fasting, I would have loved to grab an exclusive taste of Glam Cherry but it was still refreshing to watch my husband and Ismaeel enjoy their cones of chocolate on yet another long hot afternoon in Soho.

Coach,
Thank you. You have no idea how much my boys needed this today. If my husband's fondly remembered but still sadly stolen limited edition watch hasn’t already told you; we are sincerely big fans. Consider a new wallet and pair of sunglasses to be in my near future.

Van Leeuwen,
I think you already know what you mean to us. We'll never wish that we could quit you... xoxoxo

Toddler Mojo

Regardless of the weather, the weekends are always full of chores. Luckily, today was particularly muggy and on the verge of thunderstorms so we didn’t feel as melancholy to be stuck indoors tending to our domesticity. But bad weather doesn’t absolve us of trying to prevent a good-ol’-fashioned-boredom-triggered-toddler-meltdown. After twenty or so “time-outs” – you figure no matter what is going on with the weather outside – it is now the perfect time to venture to the store to get some “fresh” NYC air.

Toddlers are elusive beings. In one breath they will declare pants unnecessary but to consider leaving the house without their blue velcro Adidas is simply unthinkable. In the spirit of leaving quickly, I playfully wrestle Ismaeel to replace his argyle jammies with carpenter jeans and reassure him that his flip-flops are perfectly fine for a trip to the market. In case the clouds burst into rain, I make him wear his windbreaker. However, he is more than perturbed that this covers his stained but forever beloved race car shirt. He may have cabin fever but he still reluctantly shuffles to the elevator and can’t help but pretend to be glued to the floor when we get to the lobby. The doorman teased him that I would leave him behind but he still wouldn’t budge. I call back that he can pick out a treat from the café and he soon comes running.

We head to Inatteso Cafe Casano and he forgoes his regular choice of a mini cupcake with chocolate ganache to have a fresh-from-the-oven cookie instead. The chocolate chips are soon melting in his hands and even before we leave the store he has a perfect toddler sized cookie beard. Now as a proud underwear-wearing member of society, he gallantly points out every piece of dog excrement along our path. “Mommy, watch out – someone pooped on the floor. That’s dis-gus-thing!” Though I have no explanation as to why the owners don’t clean up after their pets, I still try to reason that a dog doesn’t know how to use a toilet. This hardly seems to satisfy him as he quickly retorts why can’t they just wear diapers and mutters again “dis-gus-thing!”

After chasing each other through the tiny aisles in Gristedes and completing our shopping list, we went back towards home. To avoid the earlier messes of non-diaper-wearing dogs, we decide to lollygag by walking along the water on the South Cove. It wasn’t raining but you could feel the storm brewing nearby. The Hudson River was higher than usual and each wave was spilling onto the boardwalk. The troublesome clouds were darkened but the sun was still trying its damndest to shine through. So, all in all, it really wasn’t your picture postcard day. Nevertheless, my brooding inner poet begged to linger. But this was quickly silenced by the ever-so-practical-reminder of ice-cream soon to melt in my grocery bags. And, oh yeah, my blatant irresponsibility for letting my child be nearly exposed to the elements. Just imagine if he got wet on a summer day. What would the neighbors think !?! Then came along Ismaeel’s mojo…

Even when there are no cars around and he doesn’t have to, Ismaeel still enjoys holding my hand. I like to think it is simply because I am the one he loves most but the reality is he knows that to ask for something while caressing my thumb pretty much always guarantees a yes. And so, when he points to the bench about to be splashed by another choppy wave and says, “Mommy, it’s so nice. Let’s sit...” – I can’t really argue. I know my brown bags will likely tear if they get splashed once more. And I know our wet clothes will have to go straight in the laundry. But as we sit upon that not-so-dry bench, he flashes his china closet grin and tells me he loves me. Is there any greater sound? And all the while squeezing my hand, he snuggles in a little bit tighter, and says, “now let’s look for sharks!”

Sigh, so much love and excitement.

I really can’t think of any better reason than to let milk spoil in the sun…

The Meaning of Art

(An Original Ismaeel Creation.)

For years, I struggled whether to pursue an artist’s journey or a career in law. Somewhere along the way, I dabbled in mysticism and documentary film but settled upon specialty pharmaceutical promotions. Don’t ask...

However, that doesn’t mean that I cannot color my heart out with Ismaeel or fiercely debate (and win) why he needs to wear pants before leaving the house. So, you can imagine I take great pleasure in seeing his artwork and channel my inner hoarder by refusing to throw away any of his perfectly deliberate and meaningful “scribbles”.

As an infant, he would crane his neck to marvel at ornate ceilings and tall skyscrapers. We were so pleased to be living in NYC knowing that we were doing our very real-estate best to nurture his budding architect self. Then came the finger paints that just screamed super-genius. Even the paste on his craft was thicker and gloppier than his peers’. Before he was even crawling, I could always proudly pick out his passionate work.

That said, every once in a while a piece of his makes me wonder if this is a good thing.

One of my favorites is a two-color stamp collage. Most of his friends chose two bright colors and complementary shapes. There were pink hearts with purple butterflies. Next to that were blue stars with yellow moons. Down the line were white ducks with green umbrellas. And then there was Ismaeel’s. Sometimes I don’t know why they bother writing his name in the corner. Could any other parent mistake the orange houses being trampled by tar-like black dinosaurs as their child’s work !?! Surely, this is my solitary glory.

Sometimes, the children are allowed to “freestyle” their art and the teachers will write the intended subject in the corner of the piece. For example, a collection of red frantic lines labeled “fast car” shared a similar style to the wobbly green circles titled “big bugs”. Today’s artwork was even more wonderfully warm than usual and I immediately tried to picture where I should hang it in my office. That is, until I noticed the caption in the corner...

“Flames of Fire.”

Oh boy. Why didn’t they just write “Cry For Help” next to his name !?!

As I was about to talk to his teacher - I noticed many other activities regarding fire safety hanging on the walls. Phew. Hopefully, as long as I can keep the killer-home-crushing-dinosaurs at a distance then art can remain a healthy outlet for Ismaeel.

In the meantime, I think I’ll keep “Flames of Fire” at home on the refrigerator. Some conversation pieces are just a little too high-brow for Corporate America.

Happy 7-Month Birthday Baby Siraj !!!

Baby Siraj's toes.

• At 7 months, Baby Siraj is pleasantly settled into the chaotic existence of NYC babyhood.
• He is wonderfully sweet and curious about the world.
• Despite his slender weight and lack of teeth, he is a voracious little eater who constantly tries to steal our table food.
• He attempts to keep up with his big brother’s exuberance by mastering the fastest crawl I have ever witnessed just to chase him from room to room.
• He will happily and intuitively play with anything given to him but has a particular weakness for trying to tear important mail.
• He is contemplative yet loves to be near everybody.
• Essentially the only time he cries is if we break eye contact or happen to walk out of the room at the same time.
• He knows his name and enjoys hearing it exclaimed when we discover he has created some sort of mischief.
• He is able to remain calm throughout the loudest of his friends’ tantrums and will partake in a full slumber in his crib as long as everyone kisses him goodnight first.
• He makes us consider ourselves lucky every day.
• And he is absolutely worth every bit of the constant fatigue, heartburn, and nausea that his pregnancy brought me.

Here’s to celebrating the special day by introducing some blueberry YoBaby organic whole milk yogurt to Siraj’s diet. Now if you could only see his delighted legs kicking and spinning wildly as the spoon comes near…

The Calm Before the Storm

(Photo by Dawn Shurmaitis)

Bleary-eyed, I sit here (yet again) in the wee hours of the morning cradling my infant and his beloved bottle. Each day, Siraj wakes up playfully, kicking his legs, and babbling for sustenance. He is not a big crier but his alley-cat squeals tend to wake his big brother so I always race to pick him up. Something about my messy-hair-frantic-monster-arm-shut-eye-grunt-and-grab makes him giggle like a loon. And despite my need for just another hour (or so) of more sleep, today was no exception to our ridiculous routine.

I cherish these moments. I really do. Being the baby brother of a mischievous toddler doesn’t necessarily provide Siraj with many opportunities for solitude. It is a sacred time where I get to hold him and stroke his humble fluff of hair without screaming at someone to stop stabbing the furniture with a fork. Or without yelling how someone is running around with a pointy-edged eating utensil in the first place. Have I really become someone who openly frets about someone poking their eye out !?! But I digress...

This is the part of my day where I get to hear my own thoughts and give myself a temporary reprieve from household chores. Last night’s dishes wait to be placed in the dishwasher and the fresh pile of laundry lays unsorted and unfolded. It is the only brief time where I don’t feel guilty about ignoring them. I can watch the sunrise flooding the city with light. As the buildings begin to shimmer I see the Staten Island Ferry make commuting as seemingly glamorous as the cruise ships heading to Red Hook. The street carts begin to assemble along the sidewalks and a wave of yellow taxis splashes through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel (I-478). The longer I linger, the brighter it gets, and the less hope there is of getting back into bed. Still, even without a warm caffeinated beverage, the morning has already been savored. Each day, exhaustion aside, I am reminded of how motherhood in the city has its charms.

To Park or Not to Park

For those who know me, you are all too-familiar with the long-winded tale of how a totaled car brought about my wedding in under 30 days. For those who don’t, nearly five years ago a perfect parking spot was discovered as being not-so-flawless after all.

First of all, I don’t drive. Despite my parent’s deep love and affection for cars, I never learned how and have sincere doubts that I ever will. So, when my husband (back then fiancé) wanted to leave his car in Manhattan, he was the one and only tasked with parking and re-parking (during late nights and early mornings) per the dictates of NYC street cleaning rules. He took particular pride in securing spots where cars could be left for days in a row. Much to his delight, he landed one on Riverside Drive that could keep the car up until the weekend. For the rest of the week, he slept in a bit later, and happily didn’t think once about his Mitsubishi Diamante.

Early that Saturday morning, we walked 4 blocks to the so-called perfect parking spot with our bags packed to spend the weekend in Long Island. But we couldn’t find the car. We laughed to think that we walked in the wrong direction and started to reconsider which coveted place we had actually left it. But my husband was absolutely certain it was “this exact spot” by “that very tree”. Was it towed? Was it stolen? We had no clue. We tried calling the police from the street but were told we couldn’t file a report for at least 4 hours to ensure that no one towed the car instead. We considered our weekend officially over and went back to my apartment to spend the next 240 minutes calling and re-calling each tow pound throughout Manhattan and the outer boroughs. We did our due diligence but no one had record of towing the car.

At this point, the police agree to meet us outside the apartment. They told us to hop in the back of their squad car so we could show them where we parked. As we drove past, the expressions on my neighbors’ faces were priceless. At this point, we were pretty irritated that the car was stolen. So you can imagine, we didn’t find it amusing when the police officer was laughing heartily as he stood where the car should have been. He eagerly waved my husband to join and almost tripped over as he remembered we couldn’t open the squad car doors ourselves. He came running, waving a note, and mumbling something about what are the odds. My husband examined the note which said, “Don’t worry, your car isn’t stolen. xxx-xxx-xxx” and shook his head. The phone number meant nothing to us. Who takes someone’s car and leaves behind a note with a number? What kind of sick joke is this? And this is where the police officer started in with another giggle fest. Noticing my husband’s seriousness, he quickly caught himself and choked out that the note contains the direct line to the local precinct.

Apparently a few nights back, an eager pre-teen and unlicensed driver had stolen her grandmother’s car, lost control, and created a domino crash of six cars on Riverside Drive. I don’t believe anyone was seriously hurt but our car was the end of the dominos and was totaled so badly – it would have been hazardous to leave it on the street. So in the haste to clean-up the aftermath someone left a note knowing that it might take days for the police to look up the car registration information and contact my husband.

It took us months to determine who is liable for the damage to our car. Obviously, we were parked legally and not at fault but the actual car that sandwiched ours was also parked (as were the cars who hit them). According to the police report, only 2 of the 6 cars actually had drivers behind the wheel. Throughout the liability squabbles, we became acclimated to the perks of not maintaining a car in NYC. So, when we received a generous insurance payment for our totaled car – it seemed odd to consider replacing it. Instead, we decided it was the perfect international honeymoon fund. We scrambled to arrange a wedding reception in NYC and a month-long itinerary of events in Egypt. Nearly five years and two kids later, we find ourselves aching for our own car.

To complete errands and momentarily taste a subway free life, we try to rent a car at least once a month. And even when we rent, my husband is willing to take LIRR to the closest Avis dealer in Long Island to avoid paying NYC or airport rates. This technique doesn’t usually bring us the newest or even cleanest models. However, today they gave my husband a 2010 Hyundai Genesis with less than 300 miles on it.

He called me on the way to pick me up just to say how great it drives and to ask if we have time to get it washed someplace nice before we go out. I reminded him that it is a rental and he retorts that this doesn’t absolve us of taking good care of it. I seriously don’t think I have ever heard him be this happily devoted and already know I have lost him to that V8 temptress. As he is already talking about extending the rental for a month, I know we are likely to head to the Hyundai dealership soon.

Let’s just hope he doesn’t expect me to learn to drive so I can park it.

Seriously, Another Mommy Blog !?!

Ok. Before you start yawning and fearing the onslaught of gratuitous baby photos… I vow to make this a critically minded and relevant forum for all visitors.

As a Columbia graduate student trying to complete my masters in Strategic Communications, I have been tasked with trying to find my place in the blogosphere for the next nine weeks. And as a mother of two, it seems nearly impossible not to take my toddler and infant with me.

I am full aware that a quick search for “mommy” on Technorati yields 1,903 related blogs out of 1,187,661. Normally, I don’t aim for being the 1,904th person to arrive at any scene. But as I talk to my family, friends, co-workers, and fellow students, I realize that beyond the selfish need to preserve my children’s milestones or capture my adventures in Manhattan – parenthood isn’t an individual’s journey. With each birth, a collective exchange begins where stories of wisdom (however loosely defined), mayhem, and mischief are traded, if for no other purpose than to have a lifeline back to sanity. Hopefully, with this blog I can continue being in love with New York City (and my children) while also avoiding having to be fit for my own straightjacket.

So please, join me on as I embark on this digital adventure. And who knows, maybe in a just few postings you will be begging me for those baby photos.