Washed Out

With all the hurricane fanfare, I decided I better at least go out and get a few things in case any of the weathermen in their slickers, yelling through gusts of wind in NC happen to be telling the truth. In the suburbs, hysteria travels faster than baby poop out of the diaper. At the local Stop and Shop, it appeared to be Armageddon. After fighting a middle aged housewife for one of the last few gallons of Poland Spring, I had had enough and returned home.

What does one really do to prepare for a hurricane when you don't live on the water, in a flood zone, or in a 100 year old building? A manicure and pedicure for sure, in case stores remain closed into next week. The baby sleeps through blaring fire alarms, uses all battery operated toys, and drinks 32 ounces of soy formula a day from pop-top, ready to feed bottles that don't require refrigeration. He's the household model of storm survival. Cabernet is best at room temperature anyway, and when that runs out, there's always the unused cases of Slimfast in the back of the pantry. I can read Elle and Harper's in the dark, and if we really need some light, we can always borrow a D battery from the Fisher Price swing and load up the old flash light.

Whatever you do to prepare, relax, have a drink, and dry your hair once last time for the weekend.

Bullseye

As colorful as a Fisher Price jungle gym, Missoni's pieces are fairly unmistakable (I own one such zigzag adorned tunic that I love to pull out each fall and pair with straight jeans, though I think I'll be waiting until solid food time to dare doing so this season). With a definite 70's vibe, the line's trademark patterns mesh a taste of the past with a nod toward the future (think head scarf meets cashmere).

What fabulous news to hear that on September 13th, Missoni's new wallet friendly line will be debuting at Target! I must admit, before Tucker, I had made only 2 visits ever to the world renowned giant (once to unsuccessfully score a piece from Zoc Posen's Target collection, the other in search of a beach chair during the peak of a summer season when every place under the sun was sold out). In my new life, however, Target has replaced the Loft in terms of quick impulse stops on the way home (yes, another tragedy of the suburbs). Now, in addition to cases upon cases of Similac Isomil formula, mom can stock up on a few other necessities on the next trip to the mega chain. Shopping for diapers just got a bit more fun!

The Good Fight

Its that time of year again, when stores announce friends and family deals to lure in shoppers who have grown tired of sleevless hot weather wear, and offer them a tantalizing taste of fall. On a now rare trip to Loft yesterday, I arrived armed with my coupon and spotted a jersey dress that fit all new motherhood criteria (machine washable, under $100, non-constricting yet fitted enough to show hard earned pre-pregnancy figure). As the sales girl rung the purchase, I happily turned over my coupon for an additional percentage off. As if I had just given her a task of manual labor, the girl took an exasperated breath and explained I could only receive the discount if I used my store credit card. (Store credit cards are devices designed to fool husbands, diffuse large Visa bills, and increase the already numerous amount of monthly bills, so I refrain from opening any). I doubted my ability to read fine print, and sheepishly took the paper back from the salesgirl and turned to leave with my tail between my legs.

I made it half way to the door when I began to think. Had motherhood made me soft? Since when was my willingness to fight for a deal suppressed? And since when was I ever wrong about a coupon code? I took one final glance at the size 4 print at the bottom of the coupon and strode back to the counter. I interrupted the cashier in her discussion about why salads made her bloated and stuck the coupon across the counter, informing her there was no mention of needing to use the store card to get the discount. Again appearing overly taxed, she began to explain the instructions she was given. I told her how little I cared about her instructions, and that my legal eye was perfectly capable of reading fine print. She appeared to weigh for a second the implication of being scolded by her manager against standing here and arguing with me another moment. Another exhausted sigh, and she scanned the coupon, gave me my 30% off and shoved the bag across the counter to me. I smiled and left as I'm sure the girl shared some expletives with her coworker. No worries, I'll be cleaning spit-up and washing bottles after an 8 hour day of work in style tomorrow.

Home Decor

After we spent so many hours (and so much of our wedding money) purchasing just the right black stained furniture and coordinating beige couch, with red and orange accent placed ever so carefully throughout the living space in 2009, all has gone to hell. The new centerpiece of the house is neither muted nor coordinated, subtle nor artistic. It is all shades of primary colors, all shapes under the stars, and lights up when activated.

The Fisher Price Bounce and Spin is hideous, obnoxious, and my favorite part of the living room. Our little prince (who is 10 weeks old, 14.5 pounds, and 25 inches) grins from ear to ear when his chubby thighs spring through the leg holes on the obtrusive device. Too short to really utilize all the jumping delights of the toy, he merely dangles and bobs his head with joy. Out the window with decor and design, in favor of anything that buys us such a smile. Perhaps one day an Hermes Birkin will evoke a similarly pleasant reaction.

The New Normal

Sleeping until 7am, using the gym first thing in the morning, and eating a meal are all a thing of the past. The day now begins at a variety of hours, all dictated by how long my precious 7 week old decides to sleep any given night. This morning for example, he awoke at 5:00 am, a very civilized time. Daycare begins at 8, so that leaves 3 hours to eat, play, dress, and leave the house. Sounds easy, no?

All outfits laid out the night before (he likes to wear collared Ralph Lauren one-sie's and always packs a coordinating bib for the day), and I must resort to things that are easily changed (should some last minute spit up find itself on my shoulder) and conducive to squatting and playing on the floor (in case the little one doesn't allow me 5 minutes to change when we get home).

The actual amount of time I will have to dress in said outfit all depends on how long the dangling owl on the activity mat (thank you Auntie Christine!) will entertain us. (This also is of course assuming that I was able to brush my teeth before hubby left for the day. If not, that eats into my precious 4-6 minutes of prep time). You never knew just how quickly you could get a dress on, brush your hair, and curl your eyelashes than when you begin to hear the first rumblings of what, if left unattended, will turn into a lung warming cry. Luckily, the owl was particularly fascinating this morning and I was even able to make a pony tail with my now shoulder length hair.

In the elevator going to the garage, an older woman remarked to her friend how early it was to be leaving the house this morning, at the ripe hour of 7:55. It felt like high noon to me.

Just as I was navigating my way through sleepless nights, tiring days, and endless clothing changes (myself and baby), along came a disaster to shake things up. Baby is home safely now, but there is nothing like 4 days in the pediatric ICU to give you a new perspective on things.

Dashing into the office intermittently (requiring some semblance of 'work' outfits within reach), sleeping in a chair at night, and spending hours comforting a baby (who cries less than than me) in a windowless room certainly teach one how to par down to the necessities of wardrobing and surviving.

The trusty Juicy sweatsuit, a staple since college finals, was once again called upon to come out strong. Hopefully the next time I pull it from the closet it will be for a happier occasion, a snow day this winter perhaps.

Shaken or Stirred

Despite finally being able to drink alcohol again, I have yet to really enjoy a glass of anything since arriving home from the hospital 2 weeks ago. The heat makes me long for a strong margarita in a plastic cup at the Murray Hill roof top favorite, Rio Grande, across the street from the old apartment. (Whats amazing in that one year and one week ago, we still lived in that Murray Hill studio. My how things change!) Perhaps its better off that I can't find a moment for a glass of wine, as on 3 hours of sleep a night, I'm not sure it would take very well.

Enjoy the abundant pre-summer festivities, whether you like yours in a plastic cup or with a side of Prada.