Monday, June 25, 2007

No Sex in the City

I've been watching Sex in the City in syndicated re-runs on late night network television. Since I never watched as each episode premiered, its easy to get lost when one night the show's central star and narrator, Carrie, is dating Mr. Big, but then the next night she isn't, but wait no..... somehow they magically get back together again. Or when Charlotte (the cute, perky one) is married to tall, semi-handsome Scottish-skirt wearing guy, but then a week later she's married to short, fat, likes-to-run-around naked guy. (I don't seem to have any trouble following the plot line for ultra-sensual Samantha's one-man-after-another sexcipades.)

The worst part about watching the show in re-runs is not that the chronological order is out of sync, but that there's no sex! Turns out if I was watching the show when it was on the air, it would be a lot more fun. So, what's the point of living the single life vicariously for less than 30 minutes a night through four hip, smart, sexy New York women, if you don't get to live to the max?

I remember my single days -- especially those enjoying the late night scenes in Manhattan --fondly. Those memories forever bring a ridiculous chestshire cat smile to my face. In those days, I could do, eat, sleep, and drink whatever & whenever I wanted. I was completely carefree, willing to try everything and seeking fun. I only had to worry about myself and my friends.

Today, my life runs on a's clock. Everything revolves around baby's eating, playing, diaper changes, good moods and screaming tears. I can only leave the house Monday through Friday after the nanny arrives and have to race home daily by 4:29pm to release the nanny on time. In between, I have a handful of hours to work, visit the dentist, get a haircut, squeeze in lunches friends, work some more, run any impossible errands that you just can't handle with the baby and drive to every point in between on over-crowded Los Angeles freeways.

Most days hang in a delicate balance. As long as nothing serious goes out of whack, I can manage it all. But, then there's those days when the nanny can't make it....whack! The world stops. Instead of pushing through hundreds of emails, juggling conference calls, and being late for meetings, I'm off to the park. And, its on those days (after I cope with the fact that nothing will get done) that I realize its just like my single days. As Alex and I push his little red car through the neighborhood, practice swimming or climb on the play equipment in the mall with all the other mommies that we can do whatever we want, whenever we want. We are free -- to jump, and scream, and smile and laugh, and play!

This week, I took Alex to the pool and as he wavered between utter fear and complete enjoyment, with the cool water splashing around him, he clutched me tightly, gazed into my arms, and kissed me again and again. And, in that moment, I realize that I don't need to live my life through Sex in the City, because no man can beat those little baby boy kisses. I've got the whole world in my arms.

If someone forced me to pick my Sex in the City personality, I'd be a realitively easy match for the overworked, type-A, hyper yet methodical character Miranda on the show. (It doesn't help that we're both redheads, and she's the one who ends up having a kid by the end of the series.) But, by the end Miranda seems to get that life is more than work, more than just enjoying time with your friends, but allowing yourself to be who you are -- even when you least expected it.

On the rare occasion I get back to NYC, I long for those moments walking its streets, watching the people, absorbing the smells, the noise and even the silence of the late night. I miss the Broadway shows and the expensive dinners. I seek out old friends who remind me of those times and carry me back to those moments. And in those moments, I can imagine my old single life again.

But, I love that its a memory. And, I wouldn't trade this moment -- kissing Alex in the swimming pool -- for any memory.

Sippy Cup: Weapon of Mass Destruction

When Monica Emmerson sparked off the national media attention earlier this month at Reagan National Airport after TSA officials seized her child's sippy cup, it occurred to me that I could be that mom who "accidentally" spills the water and then is surrounded by seven security personnel.

Let's imagine the scene .... After a few hours of sleep, I've gotten myself and my son somehow packed meticulously into the car in the wee hours of the morning. We've got the car seat, the stroller, the pack'n'play, the big bag we're going to check, the diaper bag, my computer bag, and all of our liquids packaged carefully into one quart size clear bags. We've managed to get to the off airport parking, from the off airport parking to the airport, checked in our bag and we are heading through security. We've placed all of our items on the conveyer belt (as everyone who can carefully avoids getting behind us in line). We've got the car seat, the stroller, the diaper bag, my computer bag, my computer, our shoes (baby shoes too!), our jackets, the baby blanket and all of liquids strewn from one end to the other. I've carefully minded the 3.4 oz rule. (Being just a little neurotic, I've printed out and brought with me the posting from the TSA website.) And, then that last sip of water that is still left in the sippy cup clutched in my son's hand escapes my mind. It could be because its the only thing keeping him from having a complete meltdown and managing to stay semi-sweet before we board our endless hour flight.

That's when TSA catches me and I've been marked for the list of terrorists -- my weapon of choice? The ingenious sippy cup -- because you know, they will never look there for that secret potion I've mixed up and my son is chugging away at. When they go to seize the WMD, I've "accidentially" spilled its contents and now I'm on the national news.

The moral of this story? Moms of the world -- don't let them know you are human or you might end up with a video of yourself blasted on CNN. Just another way to be judged to see if you're a good mom.