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You've got questions, she's got answers. Be among the first to read Elise Mac Adam's new etiquette guide.
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What Is IN a Name?
People have been asking what I plan to call my second son, whose name is Sebastian. I tend to reply that I will call him "Sebastian," which then opens up a conversation about nicknames, which is sort of interesting since I confess I've never really given much thought to them.
Nicknames seem to evolve in one of two ways: either they are obvious (in a "Jim" for "James" or "Liz" for "Elizabeth" way) or they are the product of family and friend influences that are self-generating. You can't replicate them or force them, they just happen.
I must be somewhat mistaken, though, because people seem quite convinced that I either have some secret plan for Sebastian or that I need to move quickly and impose a name before someone else does.
Of course, I know that hoping to beat the influence of future friends is something way beyond a losing battle, so I figure I'll just have it my way until something better comes along.
For a while I figured Felix would come up with something interesting to call his brother but he has apparently settled on "Sebastian".
So what is the operating theory on nicknames?
I know of some people who have selected names for their children EXPRESSLY so they could use a nickname they like (with no intentions of ever using the child's formal name, ever). Other people assert something in hopes of blocking the possibility of another nickname, but for my children, I put a lot of time into coming up with their names (Sebastian is actually somewhat named after someone) and really have no desire to throw out the product of all that work.
Am I missing a point when if comes to nicknames? Am I revealing a lack of imagination? If there is something I haven't been exploring, what is it? Do tell.
posted by Elise at 8:30 AM
4 Comments
No One's Buying? Good
It was with interest and some relief that I read this New York Times piece about how, while everyone loves to talk about the Stay At Home Mothers versus the Working Mothers books, very very few people are actually buying them.
My bleary eyes popped wide open when I saw that Caitlin Flanagan's incredibly annoying and reactionary sounding book To Hell With All That: Loving and Loathing Our Inner Housewife only sold 9,000 copies (hardcover). And apparently this new book by Leslie Bennetts, The Feminine Mistake (Rebecca Mead wrote a review that sums up my sense of this volume's problems)is also getting people all up in arms but not enough to actually buy the thing.
In some ways this is reassuring, because while it is natural for these issues to raise hackles and get people all upset because their fundamental life choices are being criticized (which they are certainly are plenty good at doing for themselves), but they just aren't interesting enough or are perhaps too depressing to shell out $25 and spend the time reading about why everything you're doing is wrong.
And who would have thought Wet Nurses would pop back in style. During this morning's news flip around, there was a piece about what is now apparently called "Cross Nursing". Personally, I can't imagine dedicating myself in this way to someone else's child, though apparently modern wet nurses can earn $1,000/week for their services (and by the way, in the 16th century in England at least, wet nurses really earned quite a lot of money and had all kinds of social and domestic advantages).
But I'm just now revisiting the breastfeeding life and I'm in the "hurts like the Dickens" stage of things, so I'm not perhaps in the best frame of mind.
posted by Elise at 3:57 AM
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Cougars & MILFs & Motrin, Oh My
I'm back, or back-ish with a second son, Sebastian in tow. All appears well. I'm pleased to note that most things are more or less working and my clumsy planning for the Inevitable worked out pretty well. So far so good.
I've done precious little catching up, but I did spot this little piece in New York Magazine's requisite sex issue (I don't know why it seems to be a requirement of Gotham's weekly magazines, but there it is) about the new trend of sexed-up mothers. I have many opinions, but the only one I am capable of expressing right now is that the first days after giving birth are perhaps the days in which I destined to be the least sexy I have ever ever ever been. I recall this vaguely, hazily from the last delivery but this morning, the article does two things to my addled mind: it makes me laugh at these media phenomena and wonder why I'm not able to get myself together. (Ad folks, out there, take note, now is the time women are vulnerable and if they can get out of the house, might BUY SOMETHING to make themselves feel better, if not sexy.)
Cheers, all. Everything is, really, very very good.
posted by Elise at 4:43 AM
5 Comments
Jumped, Not Pushed
In this moment, I feel I am looking down, down, down into what I hope are not super watery depths and blithely ignoring all cautionary signs-- such as the ones pictured.
I am unprepared for the future and am consoling myself with a few comforting thoughts.
I live in New York City, the city that never sleeps. If I come up hard upon something I need, it can be found at most hours.
Many, many people do what I am about to do and thrive.
The bad weather is breaking.
I may have finished a very large very important (to me) piece of work in the nick of time.
So while I've truly spectacularly fallen down on the planning part of things, it doesn't really matter. I jumped almost 40 weeks ago, so landing is inevitable.
posted by Elise at 7:24 AM
1 Comments
Head In the Sand, Not Looking Up
The countdown is on to this kid and I can honestly say that I haven't prepared at all. I am incredibly grateful that one of my sisters-in-law stopped by with a bunch of baby stuff and a neighbor has offered me a crib she no longer needs.
I was this way the first time around too, trundling along like an ostrich, pretending I either had all the time in the world or could just figure things out after the fact. This is not my typical style at all. But then again, elastic waists aren't my style either.
So instead of doing responsible preparing-for-the-baby type stuff yesterday, which was the NICE day of the weekend (the news is full of preliminary horror stories about the nightmare of rain and wind that is a nor'easter which will crush all enterprise today) we took Felix to climb on art* and procure cupcakes.
It isn't that I'm not excited about this new kid. I hope it isn't at least. I just find that the baby stuff is paralyzing, even if it is easy, even if all kinds of people have generously been helping.
Having said that, it would probably have been better if I had been able to totally complete all of my work that will be due in the next few months, but I blame that on having a week shaved off of the typical 40 that one gets in a pregnancy.
Still, work is a nice distraction. Always.
*My photo does no justice to the intrigue of the work. It is actually very dark, very strange and full of knots. If you're in Manhattan, it is worth a trip to Chelsea, certainly, to the Larissa Goldston Gallery, to catch Orly Genger's show.
posted by Elise at 7:58 AM
0 Comments
The End of Mystery
Maybe it is inevitable for a girl such as myself to think that there is ever any chance of just letting things happen. Falling in love excepted.
I'm fundamentally not a spontaneous type.
My first child was induced. I was too pregnant to go into labor, as it turns out (a situation I didn't know was possible at the time) and while I was disappointed that nature didn't happen, well "naturally" and instead needed some prodding, I have to admit that there was a lot of convenience about knowing the When of things. It still took over 17 hours, so it wasn't as if I got a huge break or anything.
Now I'm faced with significant intervention again, which, again, is a bit disappointing except from a scheduling perspective, which is actually more pressing now than it was before. (Someone needs to take care of Felix while I'm indisposed. The terrier needs to spend some time being spoiled in the care of my parents. That sort of thing.) This baby is breech, and while I’m happy to hear any and all turning stories, or turning suggestions, I can safely say I have done a lot of work to make things otherwise. Now I have run out of time in every sense. I now have too much to do to embark on any new turning projects. I have:
- Had acupuncture
- Rigorously performed my acupuncture "homework" by burning moxibustion on my toes
- Applied an ice pack to what I presume is the baby's head
- Spent time lying upside down on a board
- Hung out sideways in the bathtub
- Walked
- Prodded
So, nature failing me yet again, I have scheduled an external version, which should be interesting, if nothing else. Hope springs eternal of course that this kid will get it together and flip, but I'm not sanguine. I never am. As I said, it isn't in my nature to let nature take its course.
Comforting maternity fact of the week: As late as the 19th century in New York City, the maternal death rate was over 20%. It makes basking in the 21st century seem rather cushy.
posted by Elise at 3:57 AM
0 Comments
Still, Things Were Worse In the 16th Century
Perhaps the final surprise that shouldn't be at all surprising about second pregnancies is that the end of things is often fraught.
I say this shouldn't be a surprise because the end of many first pregnancies, mine certainly, are also full of angst and have the potential for being as depressing and frightening as they do for being exciting.
The end is hard, hard, hard. Even if you've ignored as much of being knocked up as it is possible to manage, the end is hard. But I realize I've been complaining too much lately, and I keep having these encounters with people where I flail about the physical complications of the end of pregnancy and I get told that things are much worse for everyone else. ("Oh that's nothing! My friend has a toddler and a broken elbow and she's pregnant and her ulcer is bad.") So chastened, I have once again been looking backward.
Reading a book about the wives of Henry VIII, I can safely say that things were much worse. First of all, people were pregnant pretty much constantly. It is hard to believe that people could stand to be pregnant so often. Of course, they didn't have much choice and the ides was to just keep having kids because infant and childhood mortality was no joke, but still. Catherine of Aragon was pregnant for what seems like decades and managed to have only one child who made it past infancy, let alone into adulthood (the contemporary explanation for this horrible problem is that she suffered from toxoplasmosis). And on top of that is the problem that everything was public and everyone knew about every fertility quirk or issue and was more than happy to tell you that God was punishing you for something.
Oh wait, though. People still do that.
Well, anyway, here's looking forward to the Inevitable and hope that it is also uneventful.
And if you're looking for an amusing family story about a popular (though not with me, I'm afraid) New York brunch tradition, here's a little story about the invention of eggs Benedict, perfect for trotting out when your Easter dinner gets slow.
posted by Elise at 9:13 AM
1 Comments
Kick Her When She's Down
I know well enough that at my age and stature I have no business thinking in these terms. . .
But the Vogue annual "shape" issue arrived, full of Vogue-y examples of different body types. (For the record, these types are: Tall, Short, Curvy, Thin, Pregnant, and Athletic.) Now, I am not in the habit of comparing myself to fashion models who are considerably younger, considerably taller and considerably more considerable than I am, but for some reason, the pregnant woman Vogue decided to profile is pregnant marathon runner Paula Radcliffe. And there she is photographed trotting along in Monte Carlo, eight months gone, putting people like me to shame. This woman ran her runs every other day, aqua-jogged and would do one or two sessions on a stationary bicycle throughout her pregnancy. For my part I have done my best, but I am no marathoner.
I don't understand why now, with weeks to go I am feeling as if I should have been training harder or why the article inspired so much guilt in me, but there it is.
In some ways, I understand that I don't ease easily into pregnancy. I ignore it and fight it until it overwhelms me and then it's over and I can get back to the normal business of ignoring and fighting my body- a game I win more often. This time around, I've been especially aware of my stamina and limitations because there is a toddler who refuses to believe that my lap has new (one hopes temporary) limits and it is harder to hoist the stroller up the subway steps than usual. And yet there's Ms. Radcliffe, pounding the pavement, still wearing her pre-pregnancy jeans, showing me what a wimp I am.
Adding insult to all of this is, of course, the latest research on weight gain in pregnancy, which is completely annoying. It seems the pendulum is swinging back to the point where women aren't supposed to gain much weight at all when they get knocked up for fear their toddlers may end up plump.
Are these recommendations helpful or do they just make people crazy? I honestly can't tell. It seems to me that my body will pretty much do what it wants to do within reason (I, for instance, have to work on taming my ice cream and candy compulsions- especially in this: jelly bean season).
Between Vogue and the new study I feel rather beaten, though, as if there is no winning no amount of exertion or discipline that will be regarded as sufficient.
Happily, Vogue did allow me a bit of a respite. Jeffrey Steingarten, writing in one of may favorite of his styles, has a piece debunking the whole trans-fat fracas that we're living with in New York City. Maybe the American Journal of Obstetrics and Gynecology will swing back around too.
posted by Elise at 1:01 PM
1 Comments
A Little Credit, Please
Saturday saw us staggering around trying semi-fruitlessly to take care of errands. Felix was in his usual afternoon mood: jolly in his stroller after having removed his shoes and socks and covered with cookie. A couple walking toward us was clearly examining the situation and I assumed they were thinking the worst about us for letting our kid out barefoot. We had already been scolded several times by people who felt we might not know that Felix was not fully dressed.
My husband informed me that, in fact the conversation the approaching couple was having went something like this:
"No way he's theirs."
"If he had black hair I might buy it, but no way."
So first of all, do people really go around studying parents and kids to see if they are really blood relations or adopted? Is this sport or something like a grown up road trip license plate spotting game? Find the "natural" parents?
What were they saying anyway? That my husband and I just don't look enough like our son to be his birth parents? That my son is prettier than I am? That Mendle and his peas were totally wrong?
And second of all, I actually do look rather like my kid and we do have similar coloring. (My hair isn't black or even particularly dark- more dishwater blonde than anything and though his is quite light, it isn't really beyond everything that I could have produced him, at least in part...)
I mean no offense to anyone who has adopted (and having read a little piece about Alice Walker's daughter's idiotic comments about her adopted child versus her biological child I am sensitive to hamfisted blather), but I am a few short weeks from having a second kid and can confidently say that I am looking and feeling beyond lousy.
The least I could get is credit for the job pretty well done the first time around.
posted by Elise at 4:30 AM
5 Comments
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