Hazel and I are both experiencing dramatic events in the lives of our teeth.  Her first few teeth are arriving, shiny and sharp, but only after an agonizingly long and painful descent.  Despite the occasional crying jags (hers and mine) and the restless nights, it’s amazing to witness the process.  Each new little tooth cutting through the gum is like a tiny symbol of the struggle of the human condition.  It’s the pain and joy of our existence and growth.  And Hazel suffers her teething with a good-natured grace that makes my heart sing.

During the same weeks, I am experiencing the dental opposite.  My teeth are breaking apart.  It’s like that recurring dream everyone has where you’re perfectly fine one minute then the next minute all of your teeth are falling out of your head.  Except this isn’t a dream, it’s a painful and shockingly expensive reality.

The great thing about dental work is that a dentist will try the least invasive option, charge you $1300, and hope that it will fix the problem.  When the problem persists, they can step up the treatment options in painfulness and expense and convince you that it’s for your own good.  They’ll give you Vicoden for a while, but only for the pain, not for the mental agony.  Luckily I found a guy who would give me Nitrous for the mental agony, which turned an emergency root canal into a really fun afternoon.  The dentist seemed to think my drug-induced jokes were hilarious too, so it was also an ego-booster.

But it does feel like each cracked tooth represents the decline of the human body, the futility of the human existence and the crushing, undeterred march of time.  And I am handling it with the whining and stubbornness that my loved ones have come to expect from me.

Hazel will smile up at me, drooling and laughing as her gums bulge, and I’ll stop pressing my hand against my jaw for a moment and smile back at her.  ”Ok,” I say about once a day “We’ll do it together.  And I hope you’re understanding when you turn 18 and your college fund has taken the form of Mommy’s shiny new crowns.”

I’ll make it up to her at Disney Land.

Hazel has recently entered (what I hope is) a stage where she likes her dad much better than me.  If she bumps her head she wants her dad, if the noise from the garbage disposal or blender scares her she wants her dad, and his jokes are by far the funniest jokes around.

I’m pretending not to be jealous – especially considering that I was the only person Hazel had eyes for the last six months.  Although, I’m pretty sure that being jealous is totally normal and probably healthy because evolutionarily isn’t in our best interest to care who the baby loves most?  Isn’t that why parents happily share our resources with our off spring and forgo sleep and late-night partying and trips to Greece and fitting into their old jeans? I’m sure even pioneer people who were having kids mainly because they didn’t have birth control needed the free labor wanted their kids to like them.  They probably cared about it a lot less, especially when it was time to chop down trees or churn butter or whatever, but at some point I know there was a pioneer mom who had to suppress her annoyance that the pioneer baby laughed so hard when the pioneer dad did the airplane game.  Or oxcart game (more accurately).

People don’t often talk about these dirty little secrets of parenting.  Everyone thinks they’re the only ones going through a petty personal struggle instead of vigilantly appreciating every single solitary moment of parenthood.  Occasionally you can corner some one at book club or the rare night out with friends and get some one else to talk about it in whispered, wine soaked breath.  These favorite-parent days are so important because as soon as you have a baby you realize that you are on Casey-Jones-style train ride to living with a teenager.  Eventually the moment arrives when you realize that from your body came the human being who will come to think that you are the biggest idiot on the planet.

You have created this person.  This person who will manipulate you and mock you and roll their eyes at you in a way that so reminds you of the way you roll your eyes at your own mother that you want to crawl into a hole.  This person will come home reeking like cigarettes (or whatever they’ll have when Hazel is 15) and say right to your face that she wasn’t smoking.  When you point out that she obviously was because she smells like she spent the afternoon in the visiting room at a V.A. home, she’ll roll her eyes at you.  Or she’ll lie so earnestly that you’ll look at her sweet little face, that beautiful combination of generations of people that you love, and you’ll let yourself believe her.  And she’ll think she got away with something.  Even the sweetest, most thoughtful, most loving teenager still doesn’t want to run errands with you, or laugh hysterically when you pretend to gnaw on their tummy.

I was a nice teenager, Tom was a nice teenager, so we’ve got high hopes.  Still, all the energy we currently expel on entertaining Hazel is well spent.  We’ll remember these days fondly when we’re fighting about body piercings and curfews. And if my own parents are any indication, our brains will kindly erase the memories of teenagerdom once Hazel is a nice normal 34 year old.

Everyday I walk past the Wrigley mansion and think “Goddamnit!  Why don’t I have a solarium with big flowering jungle trees and a few pairs of finches flying around who are specially trained to poop in a bird litter box?”  I would never read The Enquirer or People Magazine on the extra-wide tufted chairs or put a television against the thick rounded 19th century window glass.  I wouldn’t even say swear words so help preserve the balance of the room’s energy. Not the “F” word anyway.

Sometimes I see an advertisement for Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” and I think “Goddamnit!  Why didn’t I write a best selling novel about working in a restaurant and become the host of my own show where I travel around the world eating exotic dishes and maintaining my rail thin figure?”  I don’t like exotic food but I could just have the cameramen cut away right before I was to take a bite.  Figuring out how to overcome this hurdle proves that I deserve it.

In the mornings I listen to the This American Life and I think “Goddamnit!  Why didn’t I create an award winning radio program for NPR where I got to interview all kinds of personalities and authors and become sort of a quasi-celebrity and have all these cool author/artist friends”  I would channel my jealousy of the really interesting people into passionate interviews.  I would not use words like “meta” or “banal” unless I was being sarcastic.

At night, in the few minutes of quiet after Hazel has gone to bed but before she’s woken up wondering where the hell everybody is, I read a book.  I think “Godamnit. I could write a book.  Well maybe not a whole book but surely I could write a few short stories.  I could easily write an essay.”

But last night, I finally had an Idea.  At long last, this Idea is not a quasi-autobiographical trip through the follies of my young adulthood, or a thinly veiled memoir about my time at boarding school.  This is an actual IDEA.

So now what?  Now do I really have to just start writing?  Here’s a Hazel picture to look at while you think about what I should do….

One day last week, on one of those glorious, breezy summer days, I was getting ready to parallel park and spotted three urban outdoorsmen drinking tall boys and watching me.  I slowed down and watched them.  They watched me more.  I narrowed my eyes and put the car in reverse.

I admit that the suburbs have made me a little soft.  My inconsistently aggressive driving has given way to a casual-wave-at-stragers-oh-no-after-you-please attitude behind the wheel.  I’ve grown too used to long stretches of quaint brick paved streets and flaming hot cheeto bag-free lawns.  But I didn’t battle beach rats and slum lords throughout my twenties to be intimidated by a few home-challenged revelers watching me park my car.  I gently pressed the gas pedal.

Although, it was weird that they were there.  My office is in a very fancy neighborhood.  It’s full of DePaul students and yuppies, and it seems like the serious vagrants and misfits head downtown to mingle with tourists.  But these fellows were hanging out in front of a well kept Lincoln Park secret: a grayed out spot on the map, a glitch.  It’s this strange empty double lot on a quaint little street filled with romantic brownstones.  There’s also a House of Wings on the corner, which is a little out of place but according to the reviews Scotch-taped to the windows serves wings with “just-right crispness, heat”.  The lot is surrounded by a wrough iron fence and inside it’s like a enchanted little forest.  The ground is three feet think with pine needles.  Birds tweet cheerfully and flitter from one bough to the next.  If you stand and watch for a few minutes you feel like the birds might fly over and help you get dressed for a ball while a fairy godmother singes encouragingly.

I don’t know who owns this lot, or what it’s purpose is.  The heavy padlock around the gate entrance indicates it’s not for public use, but the set of migrating sprinkles reveals that a human being does meddle in some way.  Once I saw a human walking in and out of the opened gate with a bucket and a broom and I stopped and asked “What is this place?”

The human conveniently did not speak English.  The mystery remains.

I tried to ignore the crackheads and concentrate on precision parking.  But as I inched closer to the car behind me I heard a whistle.  ”Ay!  Ay!  You!”.  I slammed on the brakes.  Realizing that one of the carousers was going to try and help me parellel park and then guilt me into giving him a few bucks, I slammed on the gas in diafiance.  Then I mashed into the car behind me.  Embaressed, I put my car in drive and mashed into the car in front of me.

“It’s ok! I got it under control!” I shouted as I continued to molest the cars in front and behind me with my bumper.  I refuse to be the woman who has to have a trio of sots help her parallel park, even though it’s becoming increasingly clear that I need some help.  I also will not abandon a spot because I’m embarrassed that it’s taking me 67 tries to get in there.  I didn’t care that four cars are behind me now, and it felt like I have a stadium of people watching me compete in a one-person demolition derby.

I’m sweating now.  Tallboys abandoned on the sidewalk, the sidewalk residents walk towards my car.  I squish my lips out of the one-inch opening in the window.  ”I’m all good, no help needed!!”  Then I rammed my car twice more until it’s stuffed in a parking spot that’s 8 centimeters bigger than my car. I get out of the car and gather my purse, phone, and dog.  I pressed the lock button on the key FOB and for once decide not to wince at the obnoxious MEEP MEEP that signals to the ill-intentioned that my car is in fact locked. I can’t tell if I can hear them laughing or if that’s just the wind whistling in my ears as I drag my dog down the sidewalk in a half run.

Back at the office, safe from helpful crackheads, I decide to call 311- Chicago’s non-emergency police line.  I am indignant.  I should be able to badly park my car anywhere I want without being heckled by people- homeless or homed!  I dial 311.

I tell the woman who answers what happened.  There’s such a long pause that I think I’ve lost the connection, then I get transferred to someone else.  I repeat the story to another person, and I can hear their eyes rolling through the phone. “Hmmm mmmm, hold please.”  I’m transferred to a 911 operator.  ”Oh really?”  she said with obvious boredom “let me transfer you to our non-emergency line” she pressed the button before I could stop her.  Fifteen minutes later an operator said “Oh gosh, I will send a squad car right away.  Those people shouldn’t be trying to help people park!”  Her sarcastically helpful attitude and snickering should have embarrassed me more than it did.

I decided to be a good sport about being teased and a few minutes later the police operator and I were fast friends.  Eventually I admitted that I was a suburban transplant and we laughed and laughed about my new found delicate nature.  When I went out to my car at the end of the day and there were no signs of hobos or hobo debris, I wondered if it had all been a dream.  Then I saw a pile of old chicken bones, yelped, jumped into my car and sped off.

**Unimportant details have been changed for the sake of storytelling

I think it would be really sad if I had a family member or a friend who joined a cult.  But if a family member or a friend did join a cult, I would be able to empathize.

I’d prefer that they join one of the nicer cults, not a scary murderous one or a child-bride one or a suicide one.  But don’t they have cults where you just hang out and make homemade cheese and sing songs?  I bet that no one would be allowed to say “When it’s time to sing, why don’t you just pretend to mouth the words instead of actually singing” like my 8th grade music teacher said to me.  It’d probably be like a group of people who react like my daughter does when I sing: by gazing and smiling at me as if my voice was both soothing and movingly beautiful.

It’d be kind of comforting to not always have to come up with meal ideas.  Cult gruel might get old after a while but at least its predictable.  Besides, I’m sure it wouldn’t be my job to cook it up. There’d be very few opportunities to get stuck in traffic if my cult was in the woods somewhere.  I don’t like camping or being cold or going to the bathroom outside but if I was a well respected memeber maybe I could get everyone to build a latrine.  I mean if the Leader said it was ok.  I wonder if woods-cults have iPhones and iPads now, or if the members are too busy cultivating land and chanting to bother with new technology.  I really love my iPhone so I wouldn’t want to give it up.  But I would if it meant I never had to shop for clothes again or dye my hair or stop biting my cuticles.

Besides, I’d rather a relative or a friend be in a cult then become a really pushy gluten-free person.  I just couldn’t live with that bullshit.

I lost 300 pictures and videos on Friday when my iPhone crapped out.  I spent an hour and a half on the phone with Apple tech support restraining myself from telling the nice woman that I thought she was a complete idiot and that my dog would have a better shot at fixing my iPhone if I put liver sausage on the screen and let her lick it off.

Here’s something you should know.  When it comes to apartment fires, serious pet medical care and iPhone disasters- if a person has insurance or has backed up their phone recently, they’ll tell you that fairly early on in the conversation.  Like this:

“Hey how are you?”

“Oh I’m ok.  There was a fire in my apartment and we had to move.  It sucks but at least we had renter’s insurance”

or

“Hi, what’s new”

“Ugh I’ve been on the phone with Apple tech support all morning because my phone crapped out.  I thought I lost 300 pictures but thank god I had just backed everything up.”

or

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Taking my dog to Wisconsin for her second ACL surgery.  She busted one knee last year and then just tore the other one chasing bunnies in the back yard.  Thank god we got that dog health insurance!”

If the person doesn’t tell you within a sentence or two that they’ve got a back up plan, you don’t have to ask.  They don’t have one.  People who are smart enough to be covered usually want to be praised for it.  People who aren’t smart enough to be covered usually don’t want to be reminded that their disaster is a double disaster because they were too much of an asshole to insure themselves against it.

Remember: friends don’t ask friends if they have insurance. Or if they’ve recently synced their phone. Or how their diet is going.

I bought a bottle of wine at the supermarket on Sunday and the cashier didn’t ask for my I.D.  There’s a sign on the cash register that says “If you look under 35 we ask for ID!”

I’m 33.

I also didn’t have my ID with me, and had spent 10 minutes waiting in line worrying about what I would say when I was asked to produce it.  I thought I could prove my age with my knowledge of 90′s sit-coms and music, or point out my grey hairs that I can’t find the time to color anymore.  I was getting tense about having to prove my age.

Then I was offended when I didn’t need to prove my age. When I got home I put on half a bottle of face moisturizer and so much hand cream that I got trapped in the bathroom because I couldn’t grip the door handle.

While it’s true that I assumed I would go on looking like I’m in my 20′s well into my 40′s, I don’t actually mind getting older.  My age has taught me to keep a savings account- very useful to pay for the endless parade of dental work, dog ACL surgery, and medical bills.  I’m slowly learning how to keep my mouth shut when people don’t ask my opinion or advice, and I hope soon to learn how to stop talking about my problems to people who try and “cheer me up” or help me “look at the bright side”.  Growing up has taught me the importance of networking, and to have a couple of outfits on hand that I can wear to weddings and funerals.

I try not to feel inadequate for living with my parents, and I focus on being grateful that they are so generous and fun to be around.  I try not to compare what I have or what I’ve accomplished to my friends, because we are all on such different paths.  I try not to feel discouraged that many of the things I dreamed about as a teenager are almost hopelessly far away, because other, newer dreams have come true.

When all that trying doesn’t work, and I’m crabby and discouraged and bitter, I think about my daughter Hazel.  She is so beautiful and clever and funny.  She doesn’t even know how loved she is, and takes it for granted that someone will always be there to hug her and fawn over her and discuss her poops with enthusiasm.  Her arrival gave me a new life, and it’s one that I want her to be proud of.  So I’m going to commit to exercising regularly, and Weight Watchers, and creative writing, and keeping my room clean.

And if I skip a few days or have set backs, I’ll remind myself that Hazel is not sleeping through the night yet, and getting those 3 am snuggles give me enough energy and joy to try again the next day.

Happy Birthday Tommy Jr.  Thank you for making Dad and I parents.  You taught us so much in such a short time. Our hearts will always ache for you but we promise to be more happy than sad.  We think you must be very proud of your little sister, and you might be the reason she’s always laughing and smiling.

See you later little man. We adore you.

Before I was a working mom, I took it for granted that it was a very easy, functional role-  I saw moms do it on TV, I know other working moms, I just figured it’s very manageable.

I was very lucky to get 12 weeks of maternity leave.  Those really hard weeks from 3-10 I could just concentrate on learning how to parent my child.  No need for showers or matching outfits, no reason to keep track of my wallet or book of stamps.  All I had to do was figure out what Hazel wanted, and provide it for her.  The easiest way to accomplish that was to get in the mindset of a baby.  We woke and slept on the same schedule, although she was able to pee and poop with much more luxury than I.

Now I’m back at work and the demands on me have drastically changed.  Now I’m expected to wear clean clothes, pay attention and reciprocate adult conversation.  I have to return phone calls and emails and participate on conference calls without sounding like a stoner.  This wouldn’t be as challenging except Hazel and I are still not sleeping through the night.  I tend to take a crying break while pumping breast milk at work, and I try and get a frustration cry in at least once during the weekend too.  For informational purposes only, I’ve compiled a typical daily schedule.  The gaps in the schedule are when I’m working or trying to take care of the needs of the non-Hazel people in my life.  Please enjoy a day in the life of a working mom…

2:00 AM Hazel declares her hunger and asks in coos and squeaks if  I want to get in her room and feed her or what?

5:00 AM Hazel awakens and wonders what I’m doing.  She decides to have an early morning snack, then wants to either snooze or play.  The crib is not an acceptable place to do either, according to Hazel.  So we either play in the living room or catnap together in the rocking chair or my bed.

6:15 AM Alarm goes off.  Dad and I pass Hazel back and forth while we shower and find clean clothes or spray Fabreeze on dirty ones.  We call to each other “Quick! You’ve got to see what she’s doing!” so many times that we’ve shortened out personal grooming time down to the bare minimum.  Dry hair is not at all as interesting as watching Hazel bat at her pig toy.

7:15 AM Go downstairs to feed Hazel rice cereal and a little baby food.  We’re just practicing eating solids but she’s getting the hang of it and being adorable in the process.  Hazel likes to spend this time observing her Grandparents and laughing between spoonfuls of green beans and loading her hair up with fistfuls of rice cereal.  It is now obvious why most babies aren’t born with a full head of hair.  You can probably just hose the hairless ones down after a meal.

7:50 AM My awesome darling wonderful cousin/nanny picks Hazel up.  We spend a few minutes chatting and I try not to stare at the car as they drive off and whimper.

8:00 AM Get Tom and Ramona in the car and drive the hour commute to work.  Ramona gets to come to work with me, which would ease the pain of leaving Hazel except Ramona spends almost the entire day laying on the plushest carpet in the other room.  She emerges at lunch to beg for scrapes and occasionally to whine for a walk.  When I call her in to let me pet her because I’m feeling lonely, she acts suspicious.

9:00 AM Start work.

9:10 AM Wonder what I’ll have for lunch.  Focus on work to distract my stomach, which is only hungry because my brain is trying to convince it that food will make me happy.  My stomach is very dumb and believes my brain, despite my body protesting that a huge lunch will wreck the work it does at the gym.  Brain and stomach roll their eyes at body.

10:30 AM * Pump.  Look longingly at pictures and videos of my daughter.  Wonder if she even cares that we’re not together.  Conclude that she probably doesn’t but that just proves what good cares she’s getting.  Ponder the possibility that I’ll spend my whole life wanting my daughter to like me best and hope that I’m able to learn some trick to feeling ok when she doesn’t.

11:00 AM Loudly announce that I want to eat lunch.

12:00 PM Ignore reservations about emotional eating until last bite of ham & brie sandwich.  Upon taking last bite, make equally loud announcement that tomorrow I will only eat salad.

1:00 PM Work

1:30 PM Wonder if I can convince co-workers to get cupcakes with me so I don’t feel so much shame.

2:30 PM * Pump again.  Text Awesome Nanny (A.N.) while pumping for pics and updates about Hazel.  Feel sad.

3:00 PM Introduce cupcake idea.  Test co-workers’ willingness to be enablers.  Be disappointed either way.  Announce that tomorrow will only eat celery for snacks.

3:05 PM Work

5:00 PM Run out the door, leap in car, peel out of parking spot.  Commute one hour to pick up Hazel from A.N.’s house.  Drive another 30 minutes to get home.

6:30 PM Arrive home.  Snuggle Hazel briefly then feed her rice cereal and veggies or fruit for dinner.  Laugh as she squeals her demands that I spoon the food in faster.  Sigh loudly that we can’t be together more.  Watch Ramona circle like a coyote to lick Hazel’s hands and face clean of rice cereal as soon as I look away.

6:55 PM Wipe down baby, chairs, table, floor, my own hands, arms and face.  Play with Hazel for 15 minutes, until she starts yawning.

7:10 PM Start baby bath.  Follow with clean jammies, bottle, story time, kisses and bed.  Look with wistfulness as she settles down to sleep.

8:00 PM Close Hazel’s door and pass the video baby monitor back and forth as we watch her sleep.  Talk in hushed tones about how awesome she is, what chores have to be done, what bills have to be paid, what our upcoming schedules will be.  Eat dinner. Try not to feel anxious that none of the chores or bill paying we talked about last week got done.  Think for the 200th time about all the thank you notes I have to write, and wonder where my stationary is.  Decide (again) that I’m too tired to look, but will surely do it tomorrow.  Wonder if my jeans are too filthy to wear again tomorrow.

9:30 PM I go to bed (Unless I go to the gym from 8:45-9:45 PM, shower, go to bed at 10:30).  Usually I read baby advice websites or baby blogs or look at pictures of my baby until about 10.

11:00 PM Tom gives Hazel another bottle, then he comes to bed

The trouble is that when I am with my daughter, I feel like I’m doing all the care taking and little bonding or playing.  I worry that I’ll be the non-fun parent, the tired parent, the sad parent.  I know it won’t always be like this, if nothing else she won’t always go to bed so early.  But for the time being, being a working mom is very very very hard.  It’s so hard that it’s forcing me to just live one day at a time and not think about the future.  I just have to get through today, and rely on the giant heart that my children gave me to keep smiling and laughing and hiding my tears.

*I started this post last week, when I was still pumping.  I have had to stop nursing this week because Hazel was on a nursing strike and I couldn’t keep my supply up through pumping.  Sad-sack post about that to follow

I could never tell if Tom was serious when we would have baby-name brainstorming sessions.  For a couple of weeks, he fixated on naming the baby the same name of past and present pets.  ”Not after them, just using the same name.”  I had to treat these suggestions seriously just in case.  ”I think Casey would be a good name for a baby”.  Casey is the name of the labrador I had growing up.  She was a really special dog, and certainly if I were going to be named after a dog, Casey would be the dog I’d want to be named after.

Still, it didn’t strike that naming chord you wait for as a parent.

“You know what is a really cute name?” Tom asked later.  ”Ramona.  I love that name!”

Ramona is the name of our current dog, a sweet orange mutt we adopted from Anti-Cruelty.  She is named after Ramona Quimby, a character from a series of children’s books I loved.  I didn’t know if Tom was inspired to suggest our dog’s name, or if he also wanted to name our daughter after the incorrigible Ramona Quimby.

I had to gently threaten that he might soon be kicked off the baby-naming committee.  I think the threat came at just the right time, because the next name he suggested was Hazel.

I put my hands on my belly and said “Hazel. That’s it.  That’s her name.”  We picked two others to have in our back pocket, because I was afraid she’d come out looking nothing like a Hazel and we’d be stuck naming her Ramona because we couldn’t think of anything else.

Hazel was Hazel and is more Hazel every day. Except when I’m really tired.  Then Hazel, while still retaining all of her Hazelness, gets called Ramona.  And Ramona, standing at the window and barking at the Fed Ex guy, gets called Hazel.